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approaching him gracefully on long, shapely legs.
    “That’s me,” Quinn said, pushing himself up from his chair.
    “I’m Andrea Vargas,” she introduced herself, her large brown eyes glistening with charm. She extended her hand. “I’ll be your personal assistant during the retreat.”
    Quinn shook her hand while considering the possible implications of her greeting. In what ways has she been asked to assist me? He chided himself for abandoning his latest attempt to lose thirty pounds, his usual response when faced with beautiful people.
    “Someone will be here to get your luggage in just a moment,” she said, looking out the door toward the tarmac. “Is this your first visit to St. Moritz, Mr. Quinn?”
    “No, but it’s been a few years. And please, call me David,” he said.
    In heels, she was only slightly taller than Quinn’s six feet, but everything else clashed like Waterford crystal goblets and Melmac dinnerware—his roundness, her sleekness; his balding head of mousy brown hair, her tumble of loose, shoulder-length, auburn blonde waves; his bunchy gray rain coat over a stressed navy wool suit, her stylish black trench atop a short, powder blue jersey wrap dress.
    After arranging for Quinn’s luggage to be loaded, Vargas escorted him across the tarmac toward the Boeing 767. Two other executives and their personal assistants were boarding ahead of them. The airplane looked like any other Boeing 767, except for the small gold letters on the fuselage near the tail wing. Executive Class was in the business of leasing aircraft and selling fractional ownership on larger jets to corporations. They were also one of Wayland Tate’s clients. Quinn followed Vargas up the stairs at the rear of the aircraft to a lavishly designed interior, reminiscent of an exclusive European hotel. She showed him to a cozy private cabin where his luggage had already been secured at the foot of a queen size bed. A seating area across from the bed comprised a round mahogany table flanked by matching leather lounge chairs. Beyond the lounge chairs was a short hallway lined with shelves holding magazines and books that led to a private bathroom with steam and shower.
    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