Fidelity Files

  I shut off the phone and laid it across my stomach.

  "I don't have a choice," I repeated softly to myself. "I have to know the truth. I deserve to know the truth. Don't I?"

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like when I got into that car. And onto that plane. And into that hotel room. Suddenly, doubt clouded my mind. How was I ever going to get through this? I could barely even make it through a three-minute phone conversation. There was no way I was going to be able to keep up this unsuccessful charade for five days while gallivanting around Paris, remarking on Impressionist art and sipping overpriced café au laits. I was too hurt. Too affected. Too involved.

  This bandage may not have been brightly colored with images of Elmo and Big Bird, but it would certainly be hard to miss.

  There was really no other choice. If I wanted to get through these next few days without Jamie suspecting anything was wrong, I was going to have to bring in an expert. Someone who could get through this without becoming emotionally involved. Someone cold, detached, indifferent. Someone who could care less whether or not Jamie was married and failed to tell me about it. Because honestly, when has she cared about the marital status of any man before?

  As much as I never wanted this moment to come, it was really the only option I had.

  It was time for Jamie to finally meet Ashlyn.

  28

  From Bags to Baggage

  THE PACKING process for my trip to Paris turned out to be quite the emotional roller coaster. All the cute outfits and sexy underwear I had once mentally selected with excitement and giddiness, before the news of Jamie's marital status, were now being bitterly thrown into my bag even though I knew that they would be used not as fun props for our romantic Paris getaway but rather as pieces of a uniform for the challenging and nauseating assignment that awaited me in the city of love deceit.

  Now they were all just costumes in a play that I would be performing practically against my will. It was a part that I once took pleasure in playing, because I knew that each and every member of that audience would walk out of the theater a changed person. Most of them for the better. A play that would have an impact on people. But now it was as if I was being shoved onto the stage to bring to life a production that no longer felt meaningful.

  Because all I felt was pain.

  And that performance was starting now. Curtains up.

  JAMIE WAS right on time.

  I opened the door wide and smiled as if he were the only person in the world I wanted to see behind that door.

  "Well," he began, his face quickly lighting up. "Someone's excited."

  "It's Paris! Why wouldn't I be excited?"

  He laughed and leaned in to hug me. As he pulled away he started to go for the kiss. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was kissing Josh Duhamel, not some cheating scum of a husband standing in my living room about to take his girlfriend to Paris.

  But the moment his lips touched mine, I remembered again what it was like to kiss him. The smell, the taste, the softness of his lips, the heat that began to rise in the pit of my stomach.

  I quickly pulled away, disturbed by my involuntary reaction. "C'mon. We're going to be late!" I said, pulling my large suitcase behind me, and at the same time, using my free hand to push Jamie back out the front door.

  I turned and locked it behind me.

  There was a long, black limo parked outside my building, and as soon as we emerged from the front door, a chauffeur appeared and took my luggage. I climbed into the backseat, and Jamie followed quickly after me. A few moments later we were off.

  We drove in silence. I immediately wondered if I should start talking about something. Strike up a conversation. Kill the silence. That's what I would normally do if I were on any other assignment. Or at least that's what Ashlyn, the pro, would do. Never let the silence last for too long. Always keep the conversation light and flowing smoothly.

  I started to open my mouth to spew out some insignificant little-known fact about the history of our destination city when Jamie said, "Oh, I almost forgot."

  He opened the cabinet under the limo's bar and pulled out a small blue gift bag with red and white tissue paper sticking out of the top and handed it to me.

  "Pour toi," he said in a thick American accent.

  I looked at the bag with confusion. Of course I recognized the colors: blue, white, and red, the colors of the French flag. But I didn't have the slightest idea what might be inside of it.

  "What is it?"

  "It's your airplane bag," he replied with a knowing smile.

  The hand that was holding up the bag suddenly seemed to lose all of its strength, and it dropped heavily into my lap, bringing the bag down with it.

  "My what?"

  "Your airplane bag. You know, 'like a bag with lots of stuff in it... stuff for airplanes.' I think that was the official description."

  I stared at it quietly. Completely speechless. He had remembered the story about my airplane bags? That as a kid I used to make them for every trip I went on with my family? I had told him about that on our second date as we lay on the hood of his car and watched the planes land. And he had actually remembered.

  "I had to visit the official Web site to get the exact protocol for building a professional airplane bag," Jamie said, sitting back in his seat and resting his hand innocently on my leg.

  I looked down at his hand and forced out a weak laugh. He wasn't the only one who remembered that conversation. I remembered all of our conversations. Because they actually meant something to me. Because I thought one day I would look back at them and smile. Now I just looked back at them to try and figure out how on earth I could have been so blind to all the signs. That there was someone else in the picture. They had to be there... somewhere. I just hadn't found them yet. Like a Where's Waldo? picture. You know he's hidden in there somewhere. Behind the sailboat, next to the lion's den, under the traffic bridge. You just have to keep looking. So I would. For the sake of my own sanity.

  "Well, aren't you going to open it?" he asked.

  I wanted to shake my head determinedly. Like a child who refused to get into the bathtub. The truth was, I didn't want to open it. I was afraid of what might be inside, that the contents of the bag might actually be even more heartbreaking than the thought of the bag itself.

  But I couldn't not open it, because that's what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to be so touched by his thoughtfulness that I couldn't keep myself from eagerly tearing out the red and white tissue paper and rummaging inside.

  I slowly pulled out the tissue paper.

  "I hope the contents are to your liking," Jamie said. "I'm really just a novice at the fine art of airplane-bag making."

  The first thing I pulled out was a container of Silly Putty. I smiled and placed it on the seat next to me. "You even remembered the Silly Putty," I stated absently, my mind in a daze. "What did you do, tape-record our conversation?" I was only half joking.

  "For training purposes only," Jamie said as my hand reached into the bag again.

  Next out was a bag of Goldfish Crackers, followed by two packs of gum, one bubble and one spearmint.

  "I didn't know what type of gum you liked. I figured you can't go wrong with one bubble and one mint."

  "I like bubble," I said quietly as I placed the gum packs next to the growing collection of items on my seat.

  "Good, 'cause I like mint," Jamie said with a wink.

  I swallowed hard. "I guess it's perfect, then."

  "There's more, there's more," he urged me, motioning toward the bag.

  With every item that I removed, my hands grew shakier. Mad Libs, playing cards, candy bars, mini-bottles of alcohol.

  "Yeah, I figured those were probably not part of the bags you made when you were a kid," Jamie said, pointing to the bottles. "But I decided that the bag-making ritual needed to grow up a bit."

  Then I reached down into the bottom and pulled out a medium-sized, light blue, Tiffany jewelry
box. My heart somersaulted.

  "Well, that is not exactly for the plane. I mean, you could wear it on the plane, but I thought maybe it would be better suited for Paris itself."

  A weak smile appeared across my face as I lifted the lid and braced myself for what was inside. It was a silver-chained necklace with a tiny, circular rose pendant hanging from the center.

  A gasp escaped from my mouth when I saw it. I just couldn't help myself. Cheater or no, it was just so beautiful. It looked just like one of the rose windows in the Notre Dame Cathedral. And I had no doubt that he had selected it for that very reason.

  "I guess that means you like it," Jamie ventured.

  I couldn't speak. I tried, but nothing came out. I could barely even nod my head. My entire body was in shock. The airplane bag was the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given me.

  "Either that...or you already have two of them," he continued, after my period of silence had reached a few extra long seconds.

  My head became free from my spell and I nodded it profusely. My lips followed. "Yes."

  "Yes, you have two of them?" Jamie laughed.

  I shook my head numbly. "No, I like it. I mean...I love it."

  Jamie moved his hand from my leg and laced his fingers with mine. Then he brought my hand up to his lips and kissed it tenderly.

  "Good. I thought of you as soon as I saw it."

  His comment stung. My only consolation at that moment was the hope that maybe he had sent his assistant to pick something out. Or maybe Calloway Consultants had a special gift services department that they hired for this kind of stuff. I could only pray that he had placed a quick phone call saying, "I'm too busy balancing my wife, my new girlfriend, and my work so can you please put together a nice 'airplane bag' for my trip to Paris, which I still have to pack for." And then I assumed he had called the in-house packing service shortly after.

  But deep down I knew it wasn't true. I knew he had picked it out himself. Meaning, he took more time away from his wife than he already had, just to go shopping for a stupid airplane bag for me. It didn't seem fair. And it definitely didn't seem right that I loved it this much.

  It shouldn't have been this way. Why was he making it so hard? As much as I knew I should throw my arms around his neck, kiss him, and then thank him profusely for being such a sweetheart of a guy, I just couldn't do it. And the reason I couldn't do it was because I wanted to.

  My head was spinning like a broken compass. I didn't know which way was up and which way my true feelings were pointing. As I looked at his face, lit up with the anticipation of my approval, and then over at the contents of my custom-made airplane bag sprawled out on the seat next to me, I wanted to love him. I wanted it to all be a mistake. I wanted to take the goddamn blue pill and erase everything that had happened in the last week.

  But as the limo pulled up to the curbside check-in at LAX, I knew that I couldn't forget what had happened. I couldn't erase the fact that I was getting on a plane to Paris with another woman's husband.

  And if Jamie continued to throw these unhittable curveballs at me, I knew it was going to be a very long trip.

  As I stepped out of the limo onto the curb I wasn't sure what I was getting myself into. And we hadn't even gotten on the plane yet.

  I SOON discovered that working for a consulting company that allows you to charge all travel relating to your multimillion-dollar client was not a bad gig at all. Everything was first class. First-class baggage check-in, drinks in the international first-class lounge, first-class seats on a nonstop flight from Los Angeles to Paris, and reservations at the Hotel Ritz in the First Arrondissement of Paris.

  Even I, a frequent first-class traveler due to my former – or now current – job was impressed.

  I could tell Jamie was trying to impress me. Each time we entered the new and exciting next stage of our trip, he would watch my reaction. I could feel his eyes on my face as we walked into the international first-class lounge and I glanced around at all the plasma TV screens, the three open bars, and the buffets lined with various food choices. I let myself nod a small indication of approval and turned to smile at him.

  Then he watched me again as we stepped onto the plane and the flight attendant graciously guided us through the business class, up the stairs, and into the exclusive first-class cabin of the plane. Each seat was like its own little apartment, with a TV screen, a desk, a retractable table, a fully reclinable swivel seat, and even a small supplementary seating area across from the seat. Jamie and I sat side by side as he, like a child with a new toy he wanted to show off, demonstrated all the features of our airplane "apartments."

  "See, if you push this button, the seat swivels, and you can turn it around toward this little desk area and, you know, do important desk things."

  I laughed at him. "Like what?"

  "You know, save the world, start a war, pay off the national debt, whatever you want!"

  "Can I borrow your checkbook, then?"

  He smiled. "And then, if you push this button and hold it down, the entire seat reclines into a bed."

  I watched him demonstrate and again nodded my approval. "Yes, Mr. Richards, I have been in a first-class seat before."

  He frowned for a moment, as the thrill of being able to take my first-class virginity suddenly vanished into thin air. "Ah, yes, the elusive investment bank treats you well, I would imagine."

  I nodded as I remembered what really was happening on those international first-class trips.

  "Would you like something to drink?" the flight attendant asked.

  Did I ever?

  I nodded sweetly. "Yes, please. A vodka tonic would be great. Thanks."

  The flight attendant smiled and headed back toward the galley.

  As Jamie rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, I quietly reached down to my Dior handbag and lifted it into my lap. I opened the main compartment and slipped my finger into the small, zippered pocket that was sewn against the inside of the bag.

  My fingertips softly brushed against the cool, glossy surface of the black business card that lay inside. The one that represented the end of Jamie Richards's marriage. And the thought of that immediately brought mixed emotions.

  I could feel the raised surface of the ornate letter A that decorated the front. It seemed like such a stretch to even start to compare Jamie with all the shameful adulterers of my past.

  I looked over at him, his eyes still closed. A sudden wave of guilt washed over me like a tidal wave. He was different. He had to be. He was no Raymond Jacobs or Parker Colman, or even Andrew Thompson.

  I used to think they were all the same. Just "cheaters" in my mind, and nothing more. But the man sitting next to me wasn't the same.

  He was Jamie Richards, the first man to ever break through the iron gate around my heart, the one I'd barely even known was there until it came crashing down. And then I knew for sure that it had been there all along, keeping me safe. Keeping me sane. Keeping me alone.

  And I desperately feared that Jamie wasn't only the first man to break through it... but would also be the last.

  Because once your fortress is destroyed only a fool would rebuild it exactly the same way. The next time, you use concrete. You use steel. You use the most impenetrable substances known to man.

  To make sure that the chink in your armor is long gone.

  "ON BEHALF of Air France, we would like to be the first to welcome you to Paris," the flight attendant announced in a thick French accent after we landed at Charles de Gaulle International Airport.

  Jamie turned to me with tired eyes and smiled. "Welcome to Paris."

  I looked up at him from over the top of my magazine. "I'm sorry, I've already been welcomed. You're too late."

  He snapped his fingers. "Damn, and only by a few seconds, too."

  "You have to work on your timing."

  We made it through customs and immigration to find a tall French man, dressed all in black, waiting for us outside the ins
pection point.

  "Monsieur Richards," he announced as we approached.

  "Yes, that's me," Jamie replied.

  "What? No dorky sign with your name on it?" I asked as the driver began to wheel Jamie's suitcase outside.

  He shook his head. "They all know me here."

  "Impressive."

  The man came back inside the doors and bent down to grab the handle of my suitcase. "And you must be Mademoiselle Jennifer H.," he stated in all seriousness.

  I let out a loud laugh, causing a few people around me to turn and stare. The man looked at me as if I were crazy.

  Jamie waved his hand in the air. "Sorry. Stupid American joke."

  "Ah, oui." The driver nodded understandingly, as if this one simple explanation could clear up any and all misunderstandings in the history and foreseeable future of French/American relations.

  "And apparently they know you here, too," Jamie pointed out as we followed the man out the sliding doors to an awaiting car.

  "Yes, they know my first name and last initial. I feel so special," I said sarcastically.

  Jamie shrugged. "Well, until not so long ago, that's all I knew about you, too. You are quite the mysterious woman, Miss H."

  "More than you know," I replied smugly.

  WE DROVE for at least thirty minutes through miles of Parisian suburbs, and then slowly, in the distance, I could make out the impeccable white dome of the Sacre Coeur peeking out above a blanket of dark clouds. I immediately got a small twinge of excitement in my stomach. I couldn't believe I was actually in Paris again. It was truly one of my favorite cities in the world. And even after all I'd seen in the past two years, the sight of this city stretched out before me was still enough to make me feel giddy.

  The genuine excitement I felt certainly helped me keep up my innocence act. Just plain old Jennifer Hunter, happy to be in Paris with her boyfriend...or whatever Jamie was to me. I still hadn't mastered all the appropriate terminology. If I was his mistress, what did that make him? Besides a lying bastard?

  "So what do you want to do first?" I asked, turning from my perma-stare out the window toward Jamie.