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forehead, and the creases of his face, especially around the eyes, did not belie his age. His eyes, more gray than blue, burned with the determination of a college graduate who, with diploma fresh in hand, sprints eagerly toward The Challenge. He was forty-two.

Tensions began to surface just six months after that cover shot appeared on newsstands, when after its introduction, the Joey personal interactive assistant met with only mild commercial success. Though the device won accolades from the industry for Peter and his team of engineers for its breakthrough technology, buyers were skeptical. The dream that Peter shared with Matthew in their first meeting was to make the Joey the hottest-selling portable computer device in the world, displacing market share completely dominated by Wallaby’s biggest competitor, International Computer Products.

The dream was never realized. Though users of ICP’s own best-selling portable computer admitted that the Joey was technically more innovative and expertly designed, there were few key software applications available for it at the time of its introduction. At the root of the delay was a frustrating paradox: While the Joey was by far the easiest to use portable interactive assistant, it was also the most difficult computer to develop software programs for. The Joey employed a radical new method of operation and many of the software developers had trouble learning the new system. As sales of the Joey dropped off, the pressure on Peter’s team grew more intense. Enhancements that would make the Joey easier to develop programs for were behind schedule, and Matthew held Peter responsible for the delays.

During this precarious period, Peter ran for cover. Embarrassed by his own shortsightedness, he left Matthew to contend with Wallaby’s share-sensitive executives and board members. It wasn’t unnatural for the president of a company to contend with its board of directors, but it was radically different from the way things had worked at Wallaby in the past. Peter Jones held a dual role as chairman of the board and vice president of the Joey division. Until the development dilemma, Peter had always been the primary voice in front of the board. So while Peter recovered from his temporary loss of balance, Matthew soothed board members’ nerves by committing all of his energies to building a strategy that would move Wallaby back into a secure, high-sales position. He assured them that Peter was on track and would come through with the necessary improvements. He produced impressive development trend studies that described how it often took two years for a new product to gain market acceptance. His methodical East Coast style had an interesting effect on the anxious principals: They believed him. In the past, Peter has wowed them with his enthusiasm and technological prowess. There had never been cause to question the young man’s business acumen; the company was less than ten years old and had been profitable for just as long. But suddenly, Peter’s passionate efforts seemed empty; the numbers were declining. Those numbers needed turning around, and Matthew was the board’s man. Now that he had their confidence, it was time to give them an ultimatum.

It was really quite simple. Matthew would propose that Peter be removed as the leader of both Wallaby and the Joey group. Matthew would personally oversee the accelerated development of the new Joey Plus, enforcing a strict schedule to complete its design and production in just three months. Matthew knew Peter that would be utterly shocked by his proposal at tomorrow’s meeting. Though Peter would be stripped of all his power, Matthew hoped that after his feelings healed, the executive staff and board of directors would be able to persuade him to concentrate his visionary skills in a research capacity, which Matthew could draw upon when the core Joey technology began showing signs of obsolescence.

To fulfill his promise to fix the company’s stalled position, Matthew intended to unify the engineering groups, ending the elitist conditions Peter had created when he began developing the Joey more than three years ago. Peter had chosen only the brightest, most proven people and moved his new team to a private building, which he had surrounded with tight security. Only the Joey team had been allowed to enter the building, a first in Wallaby history. Before the Joey project, employees had been free to enter every building. Most employees had no reason to enter buildings other than those in which they worked, but the freedom of being allowed to do so represented the company’s trust in its people. Matthew, of course, was free to roam wherever he pleased, and he instantly understood the reason for Peter’s rule the first time he entered the off-limits building. Peter had created a project-team paradise. The Joey engineers were supplied with exotic and luxurious amenities that Peter felt nurtured their creativity and rewarded them for their intense work.

Matthew intended to put an end to the Joey team’s Club Med work environment by integrating it with the company’s other engineering divisions. A newly consolidated engineering division would focus its energies on expediting completion of the Joey Plus.

In the quiet of his own car, the plan seemed logical and simple. But as he thought about tomorrow’s meeting and about the confrontation that would ensue, he became aware of the dampness under his arms and his flush face.

He changed lanes as he passed the Woodside exit. High golden hills, peppered every ten or so acres with colossal mansions, passed on either side as sidled to the right lane. Passing the auto repair shop, he thought of Laurence Maupin. She had been hired into the newly created position as his personal public relations assistant one month ago. The timing was perfect for positioning her loyalties in his favor. He had revealed to her his plan for tomorrow’s meeting, and asked her to secretly prepare his press statement under the assumption that everything would go perfectly. There was no guarantee that tomorrow’s board decision would favor him over Peter, yet he was betting his career on his plan. He reminded himself of his discussion with Laurence a few minutes earlier, about the over-and-done-with tone of her voice as she read Matthew his statement on the other end of the line, speaking in a nearly conspiratorial tone as she sat in his office, holding his telephone in her hand. He felt his spirits lift.

He felt something else lift, too. His mind’s eye fixed on an image of the young and beautiful Laurence sitting at his desk, her hand clasped around his handset, her lips close to the mouthpiece, her words forging a new alliance between them. He focused on his memory of her hands. Was there enough time? He pressed his palm to his groin and considered opening his trousers and taking care of himself, as he sometimes did on his way home from work. Usually the act required about as much time as it took to reach the Palo Alto exit, but he had passed that turnoff miles ago and was nearly home. No, he would have to let his desire go unsatisfied…though instead of letting go, he indulged his imagination anyway, a little longer, fantasizing. Had she touched his computer while she sat there talking to him? Had she rested her soft, pretty hand on his mouse and slipped its pointer across the screen to his private folders, opened his files? The only other hands as lovely as hers were those of his wife…

Were.

And with that recollection, his daydream terminated. He had arrived at the beginning of the road that wound its way up to his home. The car’s transmission automatically down-shifted as it climbed. And so did his mood. As if commiserating with the machinery that had helped him reach this point, Matthew let out an exhausted sigh.

On either side he passed huge concrete gates that fronted the estates of some of the most powerful entrepreneurs and business people in Silicon Valley, including Peter, whose home was only a half-mile from his own. It had been more than six months since he had been to Peter’s home. And ever since Matthew’s wife Greta had told him more than a year ago that she did not want Peter in her house again, Matthew and Peter spent less and less time together. Recently they had only seen each other in formal meetings. Looking back now, Matthew was actually appreciative for his wife’s restriction. After all, had it not been for her, he might never have distanced himself far enough from Peter to get where he could realize his own power.

He made a mental note. When all of this was settled, he would do something nice for her.

 

*

 

Reaching for the door handle of the dark blue 500SL convertible, the parking attendant was momentarily struck with a small surprise: A rather gaudy but finely tailored purple gloved hand, wildly flapping at him like some exotic bird. Before he had a chance to open the door, the woman to whom the gloved hand belonged was climbing out of the car. She was dressed in black designer sweats and lavender sport sneakers. Purple sunglasses shielded her eyes, and a madras scarf protected her hair from the wind. As she turned and reached inside the car for her purse, the attendant understood at once, from this angle, that she was not wearing this outfit to pursue an athletic regimen. Still in his first two weeks of summer employment, he had begun to regard the ladies who shopped here with amusement and fascination. He paid special attention to mannerisms and hair color. The intended overall look sought by women like this one was, he had come to believe, that of carefree, understated elegance. Most of them pulled it off beautifully. But this one? Not quite. The gloves were definitely a first, and a definite give away. She wasn’t the type, he was certain of it. Too unrefined.

Or so he thought, until she removed her scarf. He observed the loose chestnut ringlets of hair, which appeared to be her natural color. Pausing for a moment, she casually shook down the curls, which were surprisingly long and appeared soft to the touch. At the same time she pointed her face directly up into the shaft of sunlight cutting through the rows of large buildings on either side of the street, and with obvious pleasure basked in the warmth for an instant. The effect was striking, as though the rays somehow transformed her into something more attractive, which imposed a temporary snag in his analysis. Until she spoke.

“I’ll be just a few secs,” she said, gesturing at the store with her Chanel wallet. “I have to pick something up.”

“Of course, madam,” the attendant said, touching his hat. Indeed, the woman’s tone was all wrong, too rough, as was her accent, or lack thereof. Yes, his initial estimation was correct. Her wealth was definitely nouveau. The worst wealth of all.

A second attendant smiled as he opened the large glass door that announced Gump’s, in gold leaf lettering. Removing her sunglasses, she headed straight for the elevator. As she waited for its arrival, she lifted an antique hand mirror from a display. Taking in her own reflection, she shook her hair and checked her teeth. Her brown, Bette Davis eyes grew even more expansive at the discovery of a pinpoint blemish just above her eyebrow. She touched it and clucked. Swearing under her breath, she returned the mirror to the glass counter and replaced her sunglasses. She had to get out of these bright lights.

A bell chimed, signaling the arrival of the elevator. Turning from the counter, she noticed a small, smiling elderly woman.

“Madam, can I show you some of our other fine silver mirrors?”

Greta Locke spun to hold the elevator door open. Wearing an expression intended to come off as playful, she turned back to the saleswoman. But when she noticed