Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(29)

“I’m familiar with that problem myself.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

“Now who are we homing in on, here?” he asks quietly.

I glance at the group of men against the windows. Unfortunately, one of my own executives has joined the group. “The guy in the green tie is Trent Trainor. He runs this event, and I have some feedback that will be unwelcome.”

“Oh, brother. Will I need hazard pay for this?”

I pat his arm. “Nope. This time I get to do all the talking. The shorter man standing next to him is Peter Whitbread. He works for me.” He’s the general counsel and an old contemporary of my dad’s. Unfortunately, Peter is still pissed off that I’m CEO and he’s not.

“But you don’t like him,” Eric guesses.

“Is it that obvious? The feeling is mutual, too. Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I make my approach. “Evening, gentlemen.”

Four executives—all in their fifties—turn to me with polite smiles, each one a multi-millionaire, but each one slightly over the hill. These are the people who run tech conferences—the aging B team. Because the very sharpest minds in tech don’t have the time.

And now I’ve interrupted whatever boys’ club conversation they were enjoying—favorite golf courses or favorite titty bars. Take your pick.

“Good evening, Alexandra,” Trainor says. “We can’t wait to hear your speech on Friday night.”

“She’s going to knock your socks off, Trent,” Peter Whitbread says. “Such a smart girl.”

Girl! He couldn’t be more condescending even if he pinched me on the cheek. Even worse—it’s all intentional. He hates me, and never misses a chance to demean me.

At least once a week I fantasize about pushing him off the board of my company. But I never follow through because he is, unfortunately, useful. He’s been at Engels Cable Media for so long that he knows where all the bodies are buried.

“The speech is shipshape,” I say, holding my smile. I make eye contact with all the stuffed shirts in the circle. “I do have one question, however.”

“What’s that?” Trainor takes a deep drink of his scotch.

I pass my own glass to Eric, who takes it without comment, and I pull a sheet of paper out of my bag. “I was just looking over the program you put together. Sixteen panels, with fifty experts in total.”

“All the greatest minds in tech,” another man says.

“Don’t worry, I won’t miss your panel,” I say brightly. “But I do wonder how you’ve managed this.”

“Many calls, much begging,” Trainor says with a jowly grin.

“So, I guess all the women turned you down, then?” I pretend to scan the sheet. “All but two. Your panels are four percent women and six percent people of color. Lots of white guys made themselves available, though.”

Eric snorts beside me, but he doesn’t say a word.

Once again, heads are starting to turn. I guess it’s the night for making scenes. “Mr. Trainor, I’ve been coming to this conference for five years. But my firm won’t commit a single sponsorship dollar next year until I’ve read the panel lineup. Peter here won’t be available for your golf foursome unless at least twenty percent of the speakers are women.”

“Twenty percent?” Whitbread gasps.

“Now, Alex,” Trainor chuckles. “That’s a big number.”

“No, it isn’t.” Even though I’ve rehearsed this speech, my heart still races. “Twenty percent is laughably low. Once you realize that not all experts look exactly like you, I promise you’ll start spotting them everywhere.”

“But, Alex,” he sputters. “What about you? Your picture is on the front of the pamphlet!”

“I saw that. And I’m sure you remembered that I complained last year. You swore you were listening. So you invited me to give one of the keynotes. I get it. That’s a nice job of coopting your loudest critic. But it isn’t enough.”

People are staring now, but I keep my chin high. “Until you actually change the things that need changing, this will be my last visit to Hawaii. And Peter’s, by the way. I’ll stay home next year and celebrate your event by writing an Op Ed about your conference in the Wall Street Journal. You gentleman have a fun night.”

My pulse pounds in my ears as I turn. Eric pivots at exactly the same time I do, taking my arm and stepping casually away. I suppose professional athletes all have excellent timing. You’d have to.

It isn’t until we’re several paces away that I see he’s trying not to laugh.

“Shh,” I coach. “It’s not funny.”

“But you are quite funny.” He chuckles. “Kicking ass and taking names.” He puts both our empty glasses down on a high table and leads me a little further away from the men I just savaged.

“They had it coming.”

“I have no doubt.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you, but—”

“You were too busy swinging.” Eric halts, and I realize we’re right in the middle of the dance floor. Couples move slowly around us to the band’s Hawaiian-tinged jazz.