The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(83)
And it would all be over.
Tonight wouldn't exist anymore. Except in my mind. And then, even the memory of it would soon become jumbled up in the pollution of dishonesty and lies, where the lines between dark and light are blurred. The memories of good and bad slowly merge into one.
And the saddest part was, there was nothing I could do about it.
Except pray that Jamie never opens forwards.
19
Engaging the Enemy
THE NEXT morning I woke up feeling inspired.
My near perfect first date with Jamie had motivated me to do something about Raymond Jacobs.
Although it was probably less of an inspiration and more of a life-threatening fear that any minute now Jamie might be forwarded that doomsday Web site link, and I would become just a distant and rather unpleasant memory in his mind.
I found the address for Kelen Industries' headquarters on their Web site, and after e-mailing it to my Treo, I picked out the most respectable-looking outfit I could find in my closet. No cleavage-bearing tops this time, no eye-popping miniskirts, no cropped T-shirts – none of it. Today I would be the very epitome of refinement and class. Today I would play the role of the pissed-off entrepreneur who meant business.
After I picked up my Range Rover from the dealership, I entered the address into my navigation system and I vowed to stay focused on the situation at hand. No time would be wasted thinking or reminiscing about Jamie or our amazing kiss last night, because nothing beneficial ever comes from obsessing (unless you're dieting). And the more I kept my mind off of him the better.
But the more I tried not to think about it, the harder the task became. Plus, the unbearable stress of everything else that was haunting me was coming at me from all directions. And I wasn't sure how to prioritize the influx.
Was I supposed to worry about how I was going to keep my career a secret from Jamie? Or was I supposed to worry about keeping my career a secret period? Which seemed like the logical avenue, since without the secretive nature of my career, I would cease to have the career in the first place.
On top of that, this afternoon I had a meeting with another suspicious wife to discuss her husband's possible infidelity. The motivation for taking this meeting was, of course, the very reason I had my secretive career to begin with. Not to mention the fact that that so-called motivation was dimming in its intensity on a daily basis.
What had started out as a mission to save the world was feeling less and less like a noble quest and more and more like a noble pain in the ass.
Case in point: Next week's dreaded assignment with Eric, Sophie's fiancé, which I still wasn't sure I was ever going to find the nerve to go through with.
The whole situation was pretty much a huge mess, and the only thing I was certain about at this point was that I didn't feel like dealing with any of it. My life was quickly turning into a confusing roundabout of motivations, and I wasn't quite sure which exit to take. But the best thing about roundabouts: You can just circle around and around forever, until you figure out where you're supposed to get off.
And that's exactly what I intended to do.
As I drifted from lane to lane on the uncharacteristically empty 405 freeway, I couldn't help but agonize over the fact that I was about to go into battle completely unarmed. I still had no action plan as to how I would deal with Raymond Jacobs in just a few minutes except to march in there without any semblance of an appointment and simply demand that he take down that god-awful Web site.
Yeah, that plan sounded like a real winner.
I was kind of hoping that just my showing up would count for something, and he would magically reveal the hidden soft side that had been buried away for his entire life, and possibly cut me some slack. But the realism gauge in my brain was definitely pointing toward empty for that idea.
Would I be able to reason with him? Threaten him? With what, though? I had absolutely no leverage; he was already exposed. It wasn't like I could walk into his office and say, "Take down the ridiculous Web site or I'm telling your wife what you did to me."
The point was, I wasn't used to being so unprepared. I'd built my life around always being ready for anything. Always one step ahead of the prey. One level up in the game. But today I would certainly be the underdog. It was no secret who had the upper hand in this situation. And for the first time, it wasn't me.
I would have to do what I did best... fake it.
I stepped out of the elevator on the ninth floor of the Kelen Industries headquarters building in Long Beach. I pulled my dark purple suit jacket taut around me, and with my head held high, marched in the direction of the receptionist's desk. "I need to speak with Raymond Jacobs, please," I said in my sternest yet politest voice.
I half expected the receptionist to be a buxom twenty-something with red lipstick, bleached blond hair, and a low-cut sweater top – something out of the Playboy Bunny Casting Rejection File. But I was greeted curtly by a plump older woman in her early fifties who had probably worked there longer than Raymond himself and, judging by her less-than-bedside manner, was just as happy about being there as I was.
"Do you have an appointment?" The words were chewed out of her mouth as she sat flipping pages of a Redbook magazine and attending to a persistent series of high-pitched dings coming from her computer screen.
I stood up straighter. "No, but you can just tell Mr. Jacobs that Ashlyn is here to see him. I'm sure he'll know what this is regarding."