The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(52)

The pout on my lips slowly eased into a forgiving smile, and he once again placed his lips on mine. I didn't fight it.

His kiss was tender at first. It had to be. And he knew that. But he wasted no time bringing it back to the intensity it had been only half an hour ago. And I wasted no time reciprocating.

After all, I was tired. And ready to go to sleep. It had been a long night.

My performance from then on didn't matter. He believed me. He had no other choice.

Roger Ireland and his daughter would at least have a clear answer when I got back to L.A. Even if it was a heartbreaking one. Because when Parker crossed that point of no return, I knew for sure why he had failed. And it certainly wasn't because I had.

But this time, in this game, when I finally revealed these two hearts in my pocket, he didn't offer me any polite, "good hand"–type of gesture. I guess he wasn't in a very sportsmanlike mood anymore.

But I didn't mind.

That's just the nature of the game.





12

Letter Labels


AS I closed the hotel room door behind me, I knew it would only be a matter of time before Parker Colman found the black business card I had left on the dresser. A small reminder of the events that had come to pass. A souvenir, if you will.

No doubt he would see it from his place across the room, exactly where I had left him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his head hung low between his knees, his guilt palpable, and for the first time in his life... feeling vulnerable. He would lift his head momentarily and the shiny black surface of the card would catch his eye. He certainly hadn't remembered it being there before.

After a few moments his curiosity would get the better of him and he would muster the energy to pull himself off the bed and approach the mysterious foreign object.



He would frown with bewilderment as he looked down upon my little souvenir. Not quite sure what to make of it. On the topside of the card he would simply see the letter "A" printed in an ornate, crimson font. Almost calligraphic. He would then reach down and pick up the card, feeling the raised surface of the elegant lettering against his fingertips.

And it wouldn't be until he turned the card over, dialed the toll-free number printed on the back, and listened carefully to the recorded message that he would finally understand.

The remorse would wash over him again... this time, unbelievably, ten times stronger, causing him to stagger back toward the bed, slowly lowering his body onto the comforter, using his hand to steady his shaky form.

The black telephone receiver would hang lifelessly off the edge of the nightstand, the automated female voice playing on its continuous loop still faintly audible from his new position only a few feet away.

The 866 number is the fourth and final listing in my repertoire of phone numbers. Although this one never rang through to any home line or cell phone. This one never connected the caller to any type of voice-mail service. And this one was, by far, the most untraceable number I owned.

The female voice on the other line wasn't my own. It was a computer program that generated voices just human enough to make people feel comfortable, but at the same time, just digital enough to inform the caller that this message was not recorded by an actual person, and therefore there was no use in trying to match it with any voiceprint database in the world.

And until Parker Colman found the energy to stand up and physically hang up the receiver, the continuous loop would play on forever: "The card you've just received indicates your involvement in an undercover fidelity inspection."

I often wonder if any of them actually keep the card. Although, I somehow doubt it. It's not exactly the kind of souvenir you hang on to and store in your top drawer for memory's sake. But I've always been especially proud of my little black calling cards.

The procedure with the card all depends upon my mood. Sometimes I tell them exactly who I am and why I'm there, then



I hand them the card. Double whammy. And sometimes I just walk out and leave the card for them to find...on top of the TV, the nightstand, or slid underneath the door.

I considered the routine fairly lenient. After all, I could just sew the letter right onto the front of their shirts before I leave. But I think that ritual might be just a tad bit outdated.

With Parker I chose to tell him to his face. Mostly because tonight I wasn't given any convenient opportunities to sneak out the door. So I simply stopped his hand as it began to wander up my dress, pushed myself off the bed, stood in front of him, and while staring him straight in the eye, confessed the truth: that tonight was a setup. An inspection. And his results were "unfavorable."

Then I picked up my bag and walked out the door. I don't even think he noticed me place the card down on top of the dresser. But one thing's for sure: This was certainly the worst card he'd been dealt in a long while.

I walked down the hotel hallway, hypnotizing myself with the brightly colored carpeting that seemed to go on forever. I reached the elevator and pushed the call button. I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

Thank God, that's over, I thought to myself as I checked my watch. It was 2:15 in the morning. Early night for Vegas, I would imagine.

The doors opened and I stepped inside, quickly scanning the daunting selection of numbers until I found the one marked with the number 24. I pressed it and then leaned against the back of the elevator as the doors slowly closed. I thought about the suite on the twenty-fourth floor that was waiting for me. The white cotton sheets, the soft, fluffy pillows, the...