Fidelity Files (17 page)

Somehow I knew it would.

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.

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...

Suddenly a hand reached between the closing doors, barely avoiding an amputation. I jolted to an upright position, somewhat irritated by the unexpected company on what had promised to be a very peaceful elevator ride. Most likely at this time of night it was a group of drunk twenty-somethings who could barely stand up and would probably start pressing all the buttons like a Ritalin-deprived ADD child...or worse yet, another bachelor party.

But when the doors opened there was only one person standing on the other side. And he was now sober as hell.

It was Parker.

And he definitely did not look happy.

I swallowed hard and eyed the doorway, wondering if I would be safer out there or in here. Spatial logic told me a wide-open hallway with an endless supply of doors to bang on was a much better bet than an eight-by-eight-foot elevator with an emergency stop button glowing in red.

"We need to talk," he said matter-of-factly, his hand still holding the door open.

I struggled to keep my composure, staring him straight in the eye, just as I had done only a few hours before at the poker table.
I'm not afraid of you,
my glare said. But the truth was probably far less heroic.

I said nothing, letting the silence speak for itself.

"I love Lauren. We're getting married in three weeks. And I'm not going to let you and your stupid little fidelity – whatever the fuck it is – get in the way of that."

"Probably should have thought of that before you attempted to put your hand in my crotch," I shot back, and then immediately regretted it. The best way to deal with an outraged husband or, in this case, fiancé, is to say nothing. Keep calm and add nothing to the conversation that might fuel his rage.

"It's my bachelor party!" he shouted back, as if this was supposed to convince me to walk away and forget the whole thing.

"Unfortunately, I don't think my client sees it the way that you do," I replied coolly and evenly.

Parker groaned. "Lauren would never do this. She would never hire someone to set me up. It had to be her father. He was the one who hired you, wasn't he?"

I didn't respond.

"Roger Ireland is a stuck-up old man who will never find anyone good enough for his precious daughter."

I stood strong in front of him, my stance confident, my eyes unyielding. "If you'll kindly remove your hand from the door, I'd like to leave now."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the number 24 still lit up like a beacon guiding everyone and anyone right to my hotel room. I prayed he wouldn't step into the elevator and notice the illuminated button. He couldn't know that I was staying in this hotel, or worse, what floor I was staying on. He had to think what all the men think, that I mysteriously disappear into the night like a figment of his imagination, never to be seen or heard from again.

Parker's once-reserved irritation suddenly erupted into full-blown rage. "Okay, this is ridiculous." His voice level rose at least three decibels. "I'm not going to just let you walk out of this hotel and run home to tell my fiancée and that freak of a father of hers that I 'almost' had sex with you." His mocking intonation on the word "almost" left no question of his sentiment regarding this procedure.

Thankfully during his mini-rampage he had thrown his arms violently in the air, releasing the doors in the process.

I took a step backward into the center of the elevator car and pressed down hard on the
Close Door
button. "With all due respect, Mr. Colman. You don't really have a choice."

The doors began to close on cue, and just when I thought I was in the clear, his hand came through the crack again and pushed them back open, stepping menacingly into the elevator with me, now even more pissed-off than before.

That's when my heart rate started to speed up. I had dealt with angry men in the past. It was an obvious part of the job. It's not like a husband who has just failed his inspection is going to say something like "Oh well, my bad. Thanks for helping me realize what's really wrong with my marriage." Most of the time they get angry, so it normally doesn't come as a surprise when they do.

But this guy was taking it too far. And I wasn't about to be in a confined space with him in this condition. Plus, he had been drinking all night. Excessive alcohol plus knowing your fiancée is probably going to call off your wedding in a matter of days, plus, well, let's face it, blue balls...is not a happy combination.

Parker stepped right next to me and clamped his large hand around the upper part of my left arm. His grasp was tight and filled with warning. It felt like I was getting my blood pressure taken at the doctor's office and the new nurse on staff had no idea when to stop pumping air into the armband.

"I don't think you understand what I'm saying." He spoke softly but ominously.

I knew my next move had to be fast in order to catch him off guard.

He turned his head slightly and I immediately sprung into action. I reached up with my right hand, grabbed the wrist he was using to hold on to my arm, and twisted it swiftly and forcefully opposite the way it was intended to bend. His grasp immediately loosened as his body fell forward. As soon as my other arm was free I rammed it upward, making full contact with his nose. He toppled over in pain and, most of all, shock.

"What the hell...?" he yelled, reaching for his bleeding nose and struggling to stand upright. But the impact with his nose was not helping his balance. He stumbled toward me. I knew that with him at six foot two and approximately two hundred pounds and me at five foot six, and barely passing the 110 mark, I was no match for him physically. So I had to use my present position to my advantage.

My knee popped up, hitting him squarely between the legs. He staggered backward out of the elevator from the blow and slammed into the wall behind him, doubled over in excruciating pain. I could see the cloud of rage and humiliation slowly begin to cast a shadow over his face. But by the time the room stopped spinning and he could even comprehend what had just happened to him, the elevator doors were closing again.

And this time his hand wasn't fast enough to stop them.

THE NEXT morning I awoke to the sound of my wake-up call. I was still wrapped in the Bellagio cotton robe I had put on after my twenty-minute cleansing shower the night before. A thorough attempt to remove Parker Colman from my mind and any part of my body. After all the standard post-assignment scrubbing, I doubted there were any skin cells left on my body that had come into contact with him; however, the washcloth hadn't seemed to do much to cleanse me of the memory. But then again, it never does.

I checked out of my room at the front desk, where I could pay my bill in cash. Most hotels require a credit card to secure the room, but a one-hundred-dollar-per-day cash deposit usually does the trick. This also allows me to check in under a different name. Credit cards can get you in trouble. Especially if someone like Parker Colman manages to find a male hotel employee with a sympathetic ear, and then suddenly my cover is blown.

Once seated in my American Airlines first-class window seat, I pulled my headphones out of my bag, slid them over my head, and closed my eyes. The Las Vegas assignments are always nice. It's just a short, forty-five-minute plane ride home. The New York assignments are the worst. Six torturous hours on a plane after a long night of dealing with corrupt businessmen (and I'm not talking about tax evasion).