Fidelity Files (19 page)

I saw the valet approaching in my car and I bit my bottom lip. "No. No boyfriend."

"Damn. Had to be the disease. What is it? Cholera? Ebola? The plague?"

I laughed and shook my head. "No. It's just kind of complicated."

"Well, that's good to hear. Because I
love
complication. Give me something simple and I'll just fall asleep."

I smiled. He was sweet. Almost too sweet. So much of me wanted to just accept the date. A
real
date. With no distrusting girlfriends waiting outside to break down the door. No scarlet letters. No page-long list of things to say, movies to like, karaoke songs to sing. But the other part of me screamed,
No! Don't do it!
Because I felt this overwhelming sensation that I knew where it would go. How it would turn out. Why read the book when you already know how it ends?

"I'm sorry," I said, stepping off the curb and making my way to the awaiting valet. "It was really nice meeting you, though."

And then suddenly a profound sadness fell over me. The kind of sadness that comes from already knowing how the book ends. From knowing that you'll never have that same rush of adventure and excitement and suspense that normal people feel when they pick up the latest bestselling, happy-ending, till-death-do-us-part novel and can't wait to start devouring its pages.

"Well, if you ever change your mind, or just feel the need to call someone up and confess the
second
letter of your last name..." Jamie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. "I think it's my last one. I've been saving it for you." He flipped it over and examined the back. "Look, it's even got some of my random scribbles on the back from when I ran out of scratch paper."

He extended the card to me and I took it. I placed it in the back pocket of my jeans as I removed a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the valet. "Thanks," I said to both of them.

"Well, I guess we'll always have Palm Springs," Jamie said in a pathetic Humphrey Bogart imitation.

I rolled my eyes and said, "
Now
I understand why you got a D in drama."

He laughed, and then with a sincere voice and a smile that nearly made my heart melt, he said, "It was nice meeting you, Jennifer H."

But I wasn't quite sure if my heart was melting from adoration...or from fear.

The fear that I may have just made a mistake.

As I got into my car and drove away, my everyday world re-engulfed me like an old familiar blanket. The steering wheel, the radio, the navigation system. And most of all, Roger Ireland's client file just barely visible from the inside of my bag. Tomorrow morning I would tell him what had happened during my fateful trip to Vegas, then he would tell his daughter, and yet another wedding would be called off. Another happy, make-believe ending thwarted by the harsh reality of the real world.

Maybe I just wasn't meant to read books.

"MARTA!" I called from my bedroom. "Have you seen my off-white Dolce and Gabbana blouse?" I ventured into my closet for the third time on Monday morning and sifted, yet again, through the hanging shirts. As if by magic, in the time it had taken me to dump the entire contents of my hamper onto the floor, the missing article of clothing might have materialized out of thin air and hung itself up neatly in its proper place.

But it hadn't.

Marta, on the other hand,
had
managed to seemingly materialize out of thin air. She stood in the doorway of my bedroom, a clever smile painted across her lips and the freshly ironed shirt hanging daintily from her outstretched finger.

I let out a sigh of relief. "Oh! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You are the best!"

I took the shirt from her hand and pulled it on over my nude-color bra. I was running approximately ten minutes late for my ten o'clock follow-up meeting with Roger Ireland, and I had been very grateful when Marta showed up thirty minutes ago and started her normal cleaning routine. It always made me feel more at ease knowing she was there. And I still couldn't figure out if it was because of how clean I knew the place would look and feel when she was done, or if maybe it was just her.

"You're welcome, Miss Hunter.
Muy bonita
. Working today?"

I smiled and pulled my hair out from underneath the collar. "Always."

She smiled back and then quickly spun around to return to her work.

I checked my makeup in the bathroom mirror, did a quick touch-up on the loose waves in my hair, and emerged into the kitchen. Marta was busy scrubbing the inside of the oven. She was bent over at a ninety-degree angle with her entire upper body hidden inside of it. All I could see were her legs keeping her balanced on the wooden floor as her ample backside swayed back and forth in the air while she cleaned.

"I'm leaving your check here," I said to her as I ripped a page out of my checkbook and placed it on the counter. Then I proceeded to fill my Gucci tote with all the appropriate "tools" I would need for the day: wallet, two cell phones, breath mints, and sunglasses. I closed the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and snatched up my keys.

"Car people call while you in the shower!" Marta called from inside the oven.

I stopped and turned around. "What did they say?"

"They say you have recall."

I sighed. Just what I wanted right now. Another part of my life in need of repair. If only you could perform recalls on other aspects of your life. One quick trip to the mechanic and suddenly everything that seems to be malfunctioning in your life is magically repaired.

"A recall? On what?"

"I no know," her voice reverberated. "They give me appointment for eleven o'clock."

"Today?" I panicked, instinctively pulling out my Treo and checking my schedule.

"No." Her head reappeared from inside the oven and she brushed a sweaty hair from her forehead. "They say Wednesday."

I clicked to Wednesday. Thankfully the morning appeared empty; I typed in the appointment. "Okay. I'll take the car in. Thank you, Marta."

AS I quietly rode the empty elevator up to Roger Ireland's office, my mind was filled with all sorts of noise. I stared at myself in the mirrored elevator doors. Into my own tired, hardened eyes. Despite my best attempts to utilize the magic of makeup, my reflection was pale, worn out, visibly troubled. When did it all get to be so complicated? My best friend and I weren't on speaking terms, I had practically exploded at my naive, twelve-year-old niece, and Parker Colman had almost taken me down in an elevator.

I don't think Revlon makes a concealer for that.

And still, as hard as I tried, I couldn't find a way to erase the image of Jamie's face from my convoluted, highly compartmentalized mind. Something I had
always
managed to do before.

I couldn't wait for this meeting to be over so I could finally concentrate on sorting out my life. God knows it needed some serious sorting.

The doors opened and I straightened my posture, smoothed my hair and blouse, and pulled open one of the large, double-glass doors that led into Roger Ireland's law firm.

"Let's make this quick," I mumbled to myself.

I felt fairly certain that Roger Ireland was a reasonable man. Concise and to the point. And since he wasn't a wife or a girlfriend, this should probably be an easy "post."

The receptionist showed me in immediately.

"Good morning, Ashlyn," she began, leading me down the main hallway. "Mr. Ireland and Miss Ireland are waiting for you in his office."

"Thank you," I started to say, and then stopped suddenly in my tracks. "Wait, did you say
Miss
Ireland?"

The receptionist smiled naively. "Yes, his daughter. Lauren?"

Suddenly my feet felt as if they were trapped in mud. What the hell was
she
doing in there? Mr. Ireland said he was going to tell her himself. Much later. Meaning, after I had left the building and all surrounding areas. I had not mentally prepared myself to deal with a bridezilla two weeks before her wedding. Especially one who was about to find out that her fiancé isn't quite the guy she thought he was.

I tried to keep the look of pure dread from spreading across my face as I continued to follow the receptionist down the hallway and into Mr. Ireland's office, although I couldn't help but feel like I was walking to my own execution.

She swung the door open for me and I prepared myself for the worst.

"Ashlyn!" Roger greeted me pleasantly and stepped forward to shake my hand as I hesitantly entered the room. "Good to see you again."

I looked around the office and noticed an attractive brunette sitting at Mr. Ireland's desk typing frantically into a keyboard. "Dad, your directories are all messed up. That's why you can't find the source of this data stream."

Roger smiled at me. "This is my daughter, Lauren."

Lauren took one last hopeless look at her father's computer monitor and then stood up. She smiled brightly as she walked over and offered me her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ashlyn. Thanks for coming by. Won't you sit down?" She motioned to the couch and took a seat in the nearby armchair.

I eyed her strangely. She was certainly pretty upbeat about this whole process. Was she in denial? Well, she certainly wouldn't be the first bride I'd dealt with who was.

I studied Mr. Ireland's only daughter as I took the safer seat
across
from her. She was definitely prettier than I thought she'd be. Not that I'm normally one to stereotype, but after Roger Ireland's lengthy explanation of his daughter's extensive computer skills, I kind of pictured someone a little less, well, elegant.

She was tall and slender with long, dark hair that she had pulled back into a very businesslike ponytail. Her clothes were a bit on the boring side: brown pants with a matching jacket. And her beige turtleneck underneath left no skin showing.

I glanced down at my current outfit selection. A gray pencil skirt that was slightly on the tighter side and the off-white blouse that Marta had supplied me with earlier. The blouse was unbuttoned just enough to
suggest
the existence of cleavage. I suddenly wished that I could turn around and button up the last button. I wondered what she must have been thinking about
my
ensemble. Not that it mattered, but I assumed she had to be forming at least some kind of an opinion about a girl who seduces betrothed men as an occupation.

Roger looked extremely nervous. I could have sworn I even saw small beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. But Lauren was the exact opposite: calm, composed, and extremely pleasant. I was thoroughly impressed. Most women in her position were pacing the hallways, wringing their hands together, biting off their beautifully manicured fingernails. But not Lauren. I started to doubt Mr. Ireland's initial evaluation of his daughter. He was pretty confident that she was the jealous type, somewhat insecure about men. That was not who was being represented in this office today. I had pictured a girl not unlike Sophie: suspicious, uneasy, and above all else, distrusting.

I felt myself relax somewhat. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as I thought.

"So my dad told me I simply
had
to come down here today and see these floral centerpieces for myself." She then eyed my empty hands. "Did you bring pictures of them?"

My sudden comprehension of the situation hit me like a shock wave. I nearly doubled over in my seat.

Lauren looked questioningly from my unfamiliar face to her dad's, now fully aware that something was not adding up.

"Dad?"

Mr. Ireland slowly wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and came over to the couch to sit next to his daughter. He put his arm around her shoulders. "Lauren, honey, Ashlyn is not here to talk about flowers for the wedding."

She sat up straighter in her seat and turned her eyes toward me, suddenly a new sense of distrust forming in her eyes. "What
is
she here about, then?"

He cleared his throat and looked to me for help. I stood motionless. I had no idea what to say. Demure housewives, hopeful fiancées, bitchy businesswomen...I had confronted them all. But a bride-to-be tricked into attending a meeting of this nature? That was a first for me.

He looked me in the eye with an apologetic frown. "I thought it would be best if she heard the outcome directly from you. I wasn't sure if she would believe me."

Lauren's face filled with panic. "What outcome? What are you talking about?"

I tried to smile just as pleasantly as she had when I walked in the door. But I was surely unsuccessful.

And then something occurred to me. Roger Ireland was highly confident that Parker had failed this test. Otherwise he would have never decided to bring Lauren into the picture. Because if Parker
had
passed, he probably wouldn't want her to know anything about this whole thing. Despite the inflated fifty-fifty odds I had given him in our initial meeting, Mr. Ireland seemed to be betting on a much more certain outcome.

He shifted his body so that he could face his daughter, whose eyes were pleading for answers. She was uncomfortable, not only in being out of the loop, but also because of the growing suspicion that the loop had something to do with her.

"Sweetie, Ashlyn is a professional fidelity inspector."

She scrunched up her face in what I could only describe as horrified confusion. "A what?"

"She tests men... like Parker... for unfaithful tendencies."

Lauren shot right up from her seat.

"You hired this woman to test Parker?"

I was now the uncomfortable one. And the nauseating emphasis she placed on the words "this woman" definitely hadn't helped. Not only was I going to have to relay these disappointing results to Roger
and
his daughter, but I was apparently going to have to sit through her delayed acceptance of the process as well.

"I can't believe you would do that!" Lauren shouted at her father, stepping away from the couch and pacing in front of his desk.

Her body language was now starting to more resemble the typical behavior of a "fiancée in waiting."

I should have known she was in the dark. What fiancée greets an incoming fidelity inspector like a flower specialist coming to talk about wedding arrangements? I've always said women are harder to read than men.

"Lauren, I only did this because I love you and I care about you. And I was worried that Parker wasn't going to treat you the way you deserve to be treated."

"You never liked him, Dad!
Never!
Come to think of it, you've never liked
anyone
I've dated!"

And there I was, caught right in the middle of the father/daughter argument I would most likely never have.

"That's not true! Honey, please sit down and just listen to what she has to say."

"No! I won't sit down and listen to
her
."

And just like that I had gone from a welcomed guest to a
her.
It wasn't a title I was unfamiliar with. But it also wasn't a title I really wanted to deal with right now. Especially when I had come to this meeting fully expecting
not
to have to deal with it.

"Honey, please..."

Lauren continued to pace. "Where do you even
find
someone like that? What, does she advertise in the yellow pages under 'Slut Services'?"

"Lauren Marie Ireland! That was completely uncalled for!" Roger shouted in a stern, fatherly voice. "Ashlyn is a professional and I received her name from a close friend."

I started to stand up. "Maybe I should go and come back when you've had some more time to discuss this."

He lowered his tone and spoke gently to me. "No, wait. Please stay. She didn't mean that. She's angry at
me
not you." Then firmly to Lauren: "Honey, sit down right now. Ashlyn is going to tell us the outcome of this test, and then she's going to leave. After that you can hate me all you want."

Lauren glared at me and crossed her arms. "I'll stand, thanks."

I nodded sympathetically and sat back down. "However you're comfortable," I managed to get out in a half-cheerful tone.

Mr. Ireland took a deep breath and leaned forward in his seat, waiting for my next words with great anticipation.

I forced a smile as I started my usual spiel. "Okay, here's how this part of the process works: I will tell you the outcome of the inspection and then you can decide how much detail about the night you want to hear. I'm happy to recount as little or as much as you want. That part is entirely up to you."

Lauren groaned audibly and rolled her eyes. Her father shot her a warning glance as I tried to ignore both.

I looked to Roger. "As you requested during our initial meeting, I conducted a fidelity inspection on Parker Colman." I glanced at Lauren and spoke carefully. "Meaning that in order to fail he had to show a clear intention to engage in
...
sexual infidelity."

"Oh my God!" Lauren growled in disgust.

Roger ignored her and offered me a nod of encouragement.