Having assured herself that everything was in order, Vargas relieved Quinn of his overcoat and suit jacket, hanging them both in the mahogany closet. “We’ll be serving dinner after takeoff. If you need anything, just press ‘seven’ on your stylus,” she said while lifting an armrest, removing the cordless stylus, and handing it to Quinn. She explained how to access the onboard library of films, music, and financial market information, and then promised to return after takeoff.
As Quinn made himself comfortable in one of the lounge chairs, he found a leather folder with his name on it stuffed in a pocket below the window. It contained a personalized letter from Wayland Tate, welcoming him to the St. Moritz retreat. Accompanying the letter was a small brochure detailing the activities scheduled for the next three days. Quinn read with curiosity. Each morning from eight to eleven o’clock, well-known management and financial gurus were available for small group discussions and personal coaching on various issues and dilemmas facing today’s CEOs. Dinner would be served every night at eight o’clock. Between the morning sessions and evening dinner, leisure time had been scheduled for active or passive pleasures such as downhill or cross-country skiing, indoor and outdoor ice skating, winter golf on the frozen lake, international horse racing, steam and geothermal health baths, body massages, mud packs, or sightseeing in St. Moritz and the surrounding area.
Quinn was still perusing the lineup of activities when the plane reached its cruising altitude. Vargas returned with a dinner menu and handed it to Quinn. “I recommend the scallops. The veal reduction sauce is lovely.”
“When you have a minute, I have a few questions,” Quinn said.
Moving with effortless grace, Vargas lowered herself into the lounge chair across from him. “What’s on your mind, David?”
His eyes roamed over her as she crossed her legs and smoothed out her dress. She was easily one of the most beautiful women Quinn had ever seen.
Men were so pathetically predictable, Vargas thought. They were so easy to fuck with, especially for a woman who looked like Andrea Vargas.
Quinn chided himself for admiring her, restricting his attention to her eyes. “Can you tell me who else will be at St. Moritz this weekend?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said without hesitation. For the next few minutes she thoroughly reviewed the list of attendees by name, position, and company. There were twenty CEOs from major corporations, eight of whom were on the same flight with Quinn. Staff members, private bankers, various special guests, and personal assistants would be working behind the scenes to ensure that the St. Moritz retreat unfolded stress-free with as much enrichment and enjoyment as possible.
Quinn asked a few more questions about accommodations, departure schedule, Internet access, and dress code, all of which Vargas answered. When he finished, he took a few moments to look over the menu. “I’ll take your advice and have the scallops. You can choose the rest.”
During the next hour of their flight to St. Moritz, Vargas presented Quinn with plate after plate of gourmet fare?Kobe Beef Carpaccio, a mixed salad with Gorgonzola cheese, lobster bisque with chanterelles, North Atlantic sea scallops with veal reduction sauce and risotto, wine pairings from Napa and Sonoma, and Grand Marnier souffle for dessert. Although he thoroughly enjoyed the dinner, while listening to Mozart and watching a brief travelogue on St. Moritz, Quinn could never completely let go.
After dinner, he caught up on his latest pile of reading material from the office, interrupted only by Vargas’ occasional check-ins to make sure he was in need of nothing. With four hours left in the eight-hour flight, he told Vargas he was going to get some sleep.
“Can I get you something to help you relax? Ambien? Chamomile tea?” she asked.
Quinn knew he needed something to relieve the tension that had been building ever since he received news earlier in the day about next week’s board meeting. Kresge amp; Company had been invited to attend the board meeting, presumably to unveil its strategy for breaking up J. B. Musselman. “Sure,” he said, nodding. “Chamomile tea would be great.”
As Quinn changed into pajamas and a silk robe, he considered Wayland Tate and next week’s board meeting. Although Tate’s aggressiveness and manipulative style often made him anxious, Quinn was glad to have him on the board, especially now that control of the company’s future was in jeopardy. For David Quinn, J. B. Musselman was much more than a hodgepodge of distribution warehouses in the U.S., Canada, and Mexico, distributing everything from bulk packages of Fruit Loops to Adirondack furniture. It was the embodiment of everything he’d chosen to become. It was his seed, his immortality. And no board of directors or outside consulting firm was going to stop him from preserving what he’d built.
When Vargas arrived five minutes later, she placed a pot of Chamomile tea on the small coffee table and poured two cups. “Mind if I join you?” she asked.
“Not at all.” Quinn settled into one of the lounge chairs.
“You seem stressed,” Vargas said as she sat down across from him.
“It’s a troublesome time for my company,” Quinn said.
“So what worries you most when you lie down to sleep?” Vargas asked with disarming sincerity.
“Musselman’s stock price,” Quinn said, matter-of-factly. “Ultimately, market value is what every CEO frets about, and right now we’re not doing very well.”
“Based on what I’ve heard about you,” Vargas said with admiration in her voice, “you won’t have much trouble turning things around.”
Quinn was tempted to ask her exactly what she’d heard about him, but he didn’t. “That’s assuming I can keep my company from being dismantled,” he said. “Your boss is a member of our board and he has a crucial role to play over the next couple of weeks.”
“A man in your position could do anything he wanted at this stage in his life. Why do you still keep your nose to the grindstone?” she asked, anxious to get beneath Quinn’s thick exterior. She already knew his net worth exceeded a billion dollars and that his annual compensation with stock options ranged from five to over a hundred million dollars, depending on performance, but she wanted to know what was driving him at a deeper level.
“I suppose it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive,” Quinn said, realizing that she’d made him think beyond the platitudes of his life.
“Hmmm,” she said, smiling while crossing her legs.
“Okay, Andrea. I have a question for you,” Quinn said, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “What exactly does Wayland Tate expect you to do for his clients?”
“He expects me to take care of them,” she said, taking pleasure in the fact that she’d aroused him. Time to increase the sexual tension, she thought to herself. “What I do on my own time is my business.”
“Don’t tell me you’re here sipping tea on your own time,” he said sarcastically.
“Of course I am,” she said with conviction. And she wasn’t lying. Everything Vargas did was on her own time. She was an independent contractor, with enough accumulated wealth to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Contracting her services to Tate Waterhouse was something she did because she loved it-and she was good at it.
“Let’s be honest here. I’m overweight, I can’t remember the last time I worked out, and I haven’t had a full head of hair since you were in diapers. So tell me what Tate really wants you to do for me.”
“He told me to make sure you were comfortable and that you enjoyed yourself. Nothing more,” she said, nonchalantly. “Any attraction I have to you has nothing to do with Wayland Tate.”
“Give me a break. A woman like you is rarely attracted to a man like me unless…”
She finished the sentence for him, “…unless she’s paid to be? Is that what you think? Sorry, David. I have no such arrangement with Wayland Tate.” She stood up and began walking away. Before reaching the door, she looked back at him. “Sometimes, women like me are only attracted to men like you.”
“Why?” Quinn said. He was certain she was lying, but still curious about how she might respond.
“Because you’re fascinating,” Vargas said, taking a step toward him and then another. “You’re a man who can have anything he wants. You could walk away from Musselman today and enjoy a life of indulgence and pleasure, but you won’t because the challenge of taking your company to new heights makes you feel alive. Men like you are not common, David. Besides, young and handsome is overrated and much too predictable.”
“You’re almost believable,” Quinn said, smiling at her. “And you’re right, I won’t throw away my life for a passing indulgence.”
“I don’t want you to throw anything away, David,” she said, taking another step toward him. “I know what kind of reputation you’ve spent your life creating. I’d just like to get to know you better.”
