Galit had Fran, Andreas, and the Dalai Lama enraptured and hanging on her every word like lovesick lap dogs. Meanwhile, Andreas’s wife and the Dalai Lama’s acolyte sat slumped in their seats at the far end of the table, both yawning. Christy wondered if she should call him Dalai, Mr. Lama, or Your Highness if they were introduced. She wasn’t certain of the etiquette required in speaking to the Enlightened Being.
Christy gently put her hand on Fran’s shoulder to let him know she was there. He ignored her touch, and Galit subtly turned her body about twenty degrees to shut Christy out. Christy rolled her eyes, wishing that Davos were more about business and less about reliving adolescence.
Galit finally stopped pontificating. Instead of introducing her, Fran took Christy by the arm and led her to the side of the room. “Listen,” he said, “last night was fun, but I’m a married man with a reputation to protect. I think it would be better if we weren’t seen together this evening. But if you want to come to my room later…”
“Wait,” Christy whispered. “You said you were separated.”
“No, the Post reported I was separated, but it wasn’t true. Don’t believe everything you read in the paper.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were still with your wife?” Christy could barely breathe, she was so angry. “Is it because…”
“I wanted to fuck you?” he said with an amused smile. “What do you think? Admit it. You came here looking to get it on…”
“What? In your dreams, buddy.” Jesus frickin’ Christ, Christy thought. I came to Davos and did this! She wanted to kill Fran. But all she had was her glass. She flung the rest of her red wine in his face.
Since this was a public event, shots of Fran covered in red wine, and Christy turning on her heel, were captured on tape and replayed repeatedly back in the States on CNN and CNBC. Even the Post got in on the action, running a front-page photo of Fran, looking wet, shocked, and confused. The headline read: BABY, GET LOST!
Hoping to avoid everyone, Christy fled to the empty hotel bar. She grabbed a seat and ordered a gin and tonic in a tall glass with extra lime. Give it up, Christy, just give it up, she thought. You did exactly what you said you’d never do again. You’re the CEO of a public company. Love just isn’t in the cards for you, sister. Get over it. Move on.
“Bartender, I’ll have another,” she said. She pulled a pen out of her evening bag and started sketching out a new PR campaign on a cocktail napkin. She had had enough of the world’s movers and shakers. It was time to get back to work.
Hiding Out Is Hard to Do
As Christy diagrammed her ideas, the BlackBerry in her borrowed Judith Leiber bag went off. She pulled it out and checked the message. I’D LIKE TO BUY YOU A DRINK IF YOU WON’T THROW IT IN MY FACE. MICHAEL DRUMMOND.
Christy glanced at Michael, who was standing at the other end of the bar. He was a fit-looking man with a solid build that suggested strength. His eyes were dark, his hair was black with gray speckles, and the smile he was giving her was irresistibly lopsided. She’d read articles about him in Forbes and the Wall Street Journal. Michael was the contrarian who, after graduating from Harvard Business School, didn’t want one of those investment-banking jobs his peers coveted. Instead, he took over the movie his roommate shot but couldn’t afford to edit. Relying on his Visa-card line of credit for capital, he turned his friend’s film into a critical failure but a box-office success. With the proceeds from that project, he bought and revived a flailing magazine venture. This led to the purchase of a book-publishing company, then a production operation, then cable stations. Twenty-five years later, Michael owned the largest privately held multimedia group in the country. And he’d accomplished all this without ever having to get a job. The man had a reputation for being clever, frank, and startlingly outspoken. Some found his directness refreshing; others called him rude. Attractive guy. Tough. Cute butt, too, she thought, sneaking another peek his way. Speaking of asses, don’t make one of yourself again. Be polite, but no more.
“Is it safe to join you?” Michael asked as he took the bar stool next to Christy.
“Yeah, sure. My aggressions have been sated for the moment.”
“I won’t even ask why you did it. Knowing him, he deserved it.”
She decided not to go there. “Why aren’t you at the party?”
“I followed you out. I’ve wanted to meet you since that session on Teleportation.”
“…And Other Ways Quantum Physics Can Improve Your Life, right,” Christy said, flattered in
