Christopher Reich - The First Billion

“How would you like it, sir?”

“Rocks, no twist,” answered a playful feminine voice behind him. “And pour it heavy.”

Gavallan felt a hand brush his shoulder and turned to face a tall dark-haired woman with glossy bangs that fell shy of amused green eyes.

“That’s my line,” he said.

“And my drink. You stole it.”

She had chosen white for the evening, a simple cotton shift that fell to her knees. Her luxuriant hair had been cut short and barely brushed her shoulders. She wore only a trace of makeup—a dash of eyeliner and a shadow of rouge. She’d never liked coming to these fancy dos. She refused to wear high heels and was shy about her shoulders, complaining they were better suited to a lumberjack than a society maiden. She was his tomboy in waiting. His eyes passed over the swell of her breasts, the planes of her belly, the curve of her hips, remembering.

“Hello, Cate,” he said. “You look wonderful.”

“I wish I could say the same. You look tired. What happened? Some of your clients beating you up over that last IPO? Trivium, wasn’t it?”

“Trillium,” he corrected her. “And don’t be snippy.” Trillium Systems was a maker of enhanced circuit boards whose shares had traded down 50 percent the first week of trading. No one batted a thousand. “Just the usual really. Trying to keep the boat afloat. I’ll have to have a word with the shaman to help me out.”

“You and your shaman.” Cate Magnus’s hand went to his cheeks. She leaned closer and checked his eyes. “You okay?”

Suddenly he remembered how overwrought she could become. He used to tease her that she’d been programmed with an extra sensitivity chip. “I’m fine. Nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

Cate patted his chest lightly, a sign she’d checked him over and he was in fine fettle. “So is the twenty-million-dollar man ready to entertain the troops? How’s the speech? Did you actually write something down or did you plan on winging it?”

Gavallan hadn’t given the hospital twenty million dollars outright, but pledged it in annual increments of one million dollars. The third installment was thirty days past due. Not a word had been spoken about the tardy donation.

“You’re the writer,” he said, sipping at his cocktail. “Me, I just have a couple of drinks and let my silver tongue carry me where it may.”

“Silly of me to ask. But be careful, Jett. Too much booze loosens the tongue. You might let a few words slip about all the fires you’ve been putting out.”

“What fires are those?”

“You tell me.”

Gavallan registered confusion. “I thought you were a columnist,” he complained. “Sounds to me like you’re looking for a way to get back on the front page. That why you’re here?”

“No,” she said. “I slipped by the guards to pay my respects to a pretty neat guy I used to go out with. I think it’s great what you’ve done for the hospital.”

“Least I could do, really,” he said, searching out her gaze, wanting to stare headlong into her vivid eyes, hoping to find that the connection was still there. But Cate was careful to keep her eyes aloof and darting across the crowd, only briefly engaging his.

“I’ve been reading that stuff on the web about the deal you’ve got coming to market,” she said. “I hope you’re being careful, Jett. I always told you to steer clear of Mercury.”

“Come on, let’s not start that again.”

Cate began to say something, then bit her lip. Offering a noncommittal shrug, she ordered a Stolichnaya straight up, no ice, no chaser. Her drink.

Catherine Elizabeth Magnus was a handsome woman, more striking than beautiful. With her angled features, pale complexion, and high cheekbones, she called to mind an exotic strain of royalty. A princess from Liechtenstein, a Gräfin from Pomerania, an Italian contessa. Her posture was immaculate, her step light, yet directed. When she walked it was for the audience she’d grown used to long ago. And it was the coupling of patrician bearing with her commoner’s unpretentious personality that he found so attractive. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Cate Magnus was the class Jett Gavallan never had.

She’d worked as a reporter at the Financial Journal for as long as he’d known her, writing a weekly piece for the paper she called “Gold Rush.” Every Friday, she filled twelve column inches on the front page of the Journal’s second section with offbeat, funny, and often poignant stories about the ins and outs of surviving in the capitals of the new economy: Silicon Valley, Seattle, Austin, and the few city blocks in Manhattan someone had baptized “Silicon Alley.” Her subjects ranged from how the skyrocketing price of real estate was making millionaires out of middle-class home owners to the social etiquette of pink-slip parties to the personal peccadilloes of the new and obscenely rich. The rise and fall of Black Jet Securities would make perfect fodder for her column.

“Speaking of fires, I had an interesting call this afternoon,” he said, allowing himself to move a few inches closer to her. “Between you and me, everything the Private Eye-PO has said is bullshit. Complete and utter garbage.” He went on to explain about the receipts, his conversation that morning with Jean-Jacques Pillonel, and Konstantin Kirov’s personal guarantee that everything was “up and running” in Moscow.

“Kirov himself told you? Well then, I guess you don’t have to worry at all.”

“Don’t start about Kirov. Please, Cate. Not tonight.”

“All I said was that you shouldn’t trust him. He’s an oligarch, for Christ’s sake. How do you think he got where he is?”

“He is a businessman, and a damned good one. Neither of us has any idea of the conditions he has to work under over there. I’m not saying he’s a saint, but Mercury speaks for itself. It’s a gem.”

“It sure does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s ruthless and conniving, and maybe even a little more than that. He’s a good businessman all right. If that’s what you call it.”

“Cate!”

Her eyes flashed, and he could feel her straining to rein in her temper. “Okay,” she conceded. “You win. Just be careful. Word is you’re risking a lot on this deal.”

“Whose word is that?”

“Everyone’s. No one’s. You know how it is. The street’s got wind you’re putting a lot on the Mercury deal. I just was curious if the rumors are true.”

It was Gavallan’s turn to shrug. But looking at her, at her lustrous black hair, her keen eyes, her pale, pillowed lips, he had a sudden desire to tell her everything. A need even. Whether she knew it or not, he valued her counsel more than that of any of his colleagues at Black Jet. She was smart. She was well-informed. She was discreet. They’d been together over two years, and though privy to his every insider secret, she’d never once abused his trust.

Cate who was trustworthy.

Cate who was loyal.

Cate who was the most sensuous lover he’d known.

Unable to restrain himself, he ran a hand across her cheek and let it glide through her hair. “I miss you.”

“Jett, no,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering. It was a plea, a denial, a memory.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s dance.” And before she could answer, he grabbed her hand and led her to the parquet floor. Continuing its tribute to “Old Blue Eyes,” the orchestra launched into “A Foggy Day.” Gavallan drew her closer. In seconds, their hands had found familiar places, their bodies secret havens.

“So what do you want to know?” he asked.

Cate looked taken aback. “You’re serious?”

“Have I ever kept anything from you?”