She dragged out the shopping as long as she could and dawdled over coffee in the lobby café until close to twelve-thirty. Just to be on the safe side, she called Herr Hauptmann’s office to confirm the meeting was still on for two o’clock before searching out a house phone. Her client answered on the second ring.
“Logan.”
“I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ll need to leave soon.”
“No problem. I’ve been crunching numbers.”
“I have your shirt.”
“Great, bring it up.”
As the elevator whisked upward with noiseless efficiency, Devon’s thoughts whirled. She’d ordered the limo for one. Hopefully the roads would be sanded and relatively clear. She’d better arrange backup transportation to Berlin tomorrow, too, just in case the airport was still shut down. She’d check the high-speed train schedules, she decided as she rapped on her room door, and…
When the door opened, her thoughts skittered to a dead stop. Cal Logan in cashmere and worsted wool could make any woman whip around for another look. Shirtless and bare-chested, he’d give a post-menopausal nun heart palpitations.
Two
As their limo crossed the centuries-old stone bridge leading into Dresden’s Old City, Devon was still trying to recover. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten up close and personal with that much naked chest.
“What’s going on?”
Logan’s question banished her mental image of taut, contoured pecs and a dusting of black hair that arrowed downward. Blinking, she saw him lean forward to survey the town square just across the bridge.
It was one of the most beautiful in all Europe. Although almost eighty percent of Dresden had been destroyed during two days of intense bombing in World War Two, decades of meticulous restoration had resurrected much of the city’s glorious architecture. The monumental Baroque cathedral with its openwork dome tower dominated a three-block area that included a royal palace, a magnificent state opera house and the world-famous Zwinger, a collection of incredibly ornate buildings surrounding a massive courtyard once used to stage tournaments and festivals.
It wasn’t the architecture that had captured Cal Logan’s attention, though, but the outdoor market in full swing despite the miserable weather. Shoppers bundled in down jackets, ski masks, stocking caps and earmuffs roamed rows of wooden stalls crammed with handicrafts.
“It’s a Christkindlmarkt,” Devon told him. “A Christmas market. Most towns and cities in Germany have one. The tradition dates back to the early 1400s, when regular seasonal markets took place throughout the year. The Christmas market evolved into the major event, where locals would gather to sell homemade toys, ornaments and foodstuffs.”
Thus initiating the commercialization process that had expanded over the years to its present mania. As a historian, Devon admired the medieval atmosphere of this lively town square. The self-proclaimed Grinchette in her had to work to see past the throngs of eager shoppers.
“Dresden’s market is one of the oldest in Germany. And that—” her nod indicated the wooden structure dominating the square “—is the tallest Christmas pyramid in the world.”
Most traditional, multitiered wooden Christmas pyramids were tabletop size. Carved figures depicting the Nativity decorated each of the tiers. Candles sat in holders at the pyramid’s base. When the candles were lit, warm air rose and turned the propeller-style fan at the top, causing the various tiers to rotate.
What had begun as traditional folk art designed to delight children with the dancing shadows cast by the rotating figures was now a multimillion-dollar industry. Wooden Christmas pyramids were sold all over the world, and less expensive versions were machine cut instead of hand carved. Dresden, however, had taken the traditional concept to new and ridiculous heights.
Okay, maybe not so ridiculous. As the limo inched along the jam-packed street leading past the market, Devon had to concede the fifty-foot pyramid with its life-size figures was a pretty awesome sight.
Cal Logan evidently thought so, too. He twisted around for another glimpse of the busy square.
“I’d like to hit some of those stalls after the meeting with Herr Hauptmann.” He settled back in his seat and caught her surprised expression. “I have nine nieces and nephews,” he explained.
Nine? Devon made a mental adjustment to reconcile Cal Logan’s public image as a jet-setting playboy with that of a doting uncle.
“How old are they?”
“Beats me. The littlest one is…little. The oldest just started high school. I think.”
So much for the doting uncle!
“You’ll need a better fix on their ages if you plan to shop for Christmas gifts.”
“My executive assistant usually takes care of that,” Logan admitted. “She’ll have names, ages and personal preferences in her computer.”
Devon got the hint. A quick glance at her watch confirmed it was still early back at Logan Aerospace corporate headquarters in eastern Connecticut. She’d bet the boss’s executive assistant would be one of the first ones in, though. Luckily, Devon had added the woman’s phone number and e-mail to her personal-contacts list.
“I’ll e-mail her,” she said, digging in her purse for her iPhone. “By the time we get out of the meeting with Herr Hauptmann, she should be at work and have access to the information.”
With something less than enthusiasm, Devon worked the iPhone’s tiny keyboard. She’d counted on this trip to provide an escape from the shopping frenzy back home. Now she’d have to brave the nasty weather and wade into a mob of shoppers to help her client find gifts for a whole pack of nieces and nephews. Thank goodness she’d had enough experience with German and Austrian winters to have worn her warmest coat.
Hauptmann Metal Works was located southeast of the Old City, in a section of Dresden that had been reconstructed along depressingly modern lines.
Remnants of East Germany’s long domination by the Soviet Union showed in seemingly endless rows of concrete-block buildings. Some attempts had been made to soften their stark utilitarianism with newly planted parks and pastel color schemes, but the area held none of the old-world charm of other parts of the city.
Herr Hauptmann was awaiting their arrival. Big and beefy and ruddy cheeked, the German industrialist came out of his office to greet them. Devon had confirmed that he spoke fluent English, so she wasn’t required to translate as he shook hands with his visitor.
“Welcome, Herr Logan. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Thank you, sir. This is Ms. Devon McShay. She’s assisting me during my visit to Germany.”
“Ms. McShay.”
Devon had intended to make sure her client had everything he needed before fading into the woodwork with the other underlings, but Logan ushered her to a seat beside his at the long conference table.
Ten minutes of chitchat and a welcoming toast of schnapps later, she had plunged feet first into the world of high finance. The numbers Logan and Hauptmann lobbed back and forth like tennis balls left her breathless. They weren’t talking millions, but billions.
The main issue centered on the massive, joint-European venture to build the Airbus, touted as the world’s biggest passenger jet. A number of American companies were involved in it as well, including Logan Aerospace. Devon had to struggle to follow the discussion of the incredibly complex global aerospace industry. She grasped the bottom line, though, when Logan leaned forward an hour later and summed it up with surgical precision.
“We can argue the numbers all day, Herr Hauptmann, but we both agree your company is dangerously overleveraged.