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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 soufflé 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 & 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