“Mr. Birch has asked for you down stairs,” he said warmly, his smiling eyes reflecting the last dying rays of sun light as he held up his arm. “May I escort you there?”
“I suppose,” Christina said with a sigh. “But first–” She pointed her little finger to the sky and drained the last of her champagne before dropping the crystal flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “Okay, let’s go,” she commanded, her green eyes tracing over him. She took his arm and squeezed it casually, feeling the toned muscles beneath his jacket. They walked past the evening’s entertainment – a four-piece band playing 80’s tunes. Christina recognized the song that was playing and began swaying her hips seductively. Had the circumstances of the evening been different, she was sure the man now leading her would have made a deliciously nimble partner for both dancing and more private activities below deck. As if reading her mind, the man tensed his arm as they descended the grand stairway of inlayed marble toward the staterooms below.
“Beautiful night, wouldn’t you agree Miss Lynch?” he asked as they entered a long corridor that ran through the center of the ship.
“Yeah, sure,” she mumbled, silently wishing a waiter with a fresh tray of champagne was within sight. Her little pharmaceutical friends had taken their full euphoric effect, and she was craving more of the sweet swirling bubbles of carbonation that tickled her throat with every savory sip. Unfortunately they were alone in this area of the ship. She glanced at her escort with a cynical smile. “Just like every other night I’ve seen since I arrived here.”
“Of course, Miss Lynch.”
“Oh Christ, don’t call me Miss Lynch,” she replied flirtatiously, squeezing his arm roughly. “My name is Christina.”
“Okay. So I take it you’re not a fan of Puerto La Cruz, Christina?”
Christina winced at the sound of her own name and gave her escort a surprised, questioning look. Even in her chemically-altered state, she couldn’t miss the venomous tone he had managed to inject into the pronunciation, as if her name were a choice curse word. “Haven’t seen enough of it to say, really,” she replied flatly. “Other than the resort and this ship, I wouldn’t know what this god-forsaken place even looks like.”
“Well, if you get a chance, I would highly recommend a day trip to the small town of Santa Fe. It’s a beautiful little town, nestled in the foothills of the Turimiquire Mountains. And the view–” he exclaimed, suddenly raising his arm in front of him, “is truly breath-taking.”
Christina’s arm, wrapped around his, was swept up in the motion, ripping her purse from her hand and sending it sliding across the floor.
“Fucking hell,” she muttered as she bent down to pick it up.
“Please… allow me.” Without breaking stride, her escort deftly reached down and grabbed the small clutch, holding it for her as they walked the last few steps.
Arriving at the last stateroom in the corridor, the man unwrapped his arm from her grip and tapped lightly on the door. Inside, Christina could hear the muted shuffling of someone moving clumsily towards the door. Her escort then gave her a heart-stopping smile as he gently opened her hand and placed the small purse in her palm.
“Thank you,” she said, leaning seductively towards him. “What was your name again?”
“Call me Thomas.”
“Thank you, Thomas. And thanks for the advice. I’ll do my best to visit Santa Fe if I ever get off this damn boat.”
“I hope you do. Good night, Christina,” he said quietly as he bowed, holding her with his stare. He turned and disappeared into the narrow servant’s corridor next to her as the click of the stateroom door lock sounded.
“Good night, Thomas… you tall, handsome bastard,” Christina whispered, staring vacantly into the dark corridor as the door to the stateroom suddenly flew open. A half-dressed man with brown, thinning hair and a round cleft chin stood in the doorway.
“Oh, well… there you fucking are,” her boyfriend Derrick said, glancing nervously down the corridor before grabbing her arm and quickly pulling her into the room. He slammed the door and spun around to face her. “What the fuck took you so long?” he asked, pushing her aside as he made his way to the wet bar behind her.
Christina glared back at him, her large, oval-shaped brown eyes cold and hard.
At thirty-six years old, Derrick Birch was already a well-known and highly respected entrepreneur in the world of alternative energy development. After getting his degree in Chemical Engineering at MIT, Birch immediately landed a coveted research position with Reich-Walston Labratories, a key research firm for the world’s largest energy companies, where he quickly proved his genius by developing a hydrogen fuel cell design that was three times more efficient than anything before it. Armed with the rare gift of having people-skills that matched his engineering genius, Birch skillfully ascended the politically fortified ranks at Reich-Walston until, at age 30, he decided he could start his own energy research firm and avoid the bureaucratic bullshit altogether. Eighteen months and thirty-million in angel investment dollars later, Birch and a hand-picked team of researchers and lawyers were a tour-de-force firm specializing in energy-innovation research, development and patenting. With each major new innovation, almost always the result of Birch’s own inspiration, the company spun-off a new corporation. Covering a wide spectrum of technologies that ranged from cutting-edge fuel-cell development to fossil fuel refinement, the nascent companies were almost always caught in a bidding-war between the world’s largest energy companies and conglomerates, all of them salivating for technologies that promised new market opportunities and competitive advantage. Along the way, Birch had found himself a very rich man.