Each morning, in the strip mall food court with tired beige tables, a Lunchland sales representative arrived. Adrian would have found it unremarkable but for the timing: moments before the lunch rush, so the saleswoman stood preened and ready. The food court filled with din, and the saleswoman skimmed well-dressed men off from the crowds. This was a cunning marketing strategy.

Turn a blind eye to that, Celeste would have said, since it was shameless poaching not worth rewarding with attention. Adrian tried; she refocused on her limp VeggieTable salads and her crisply pencilled schedules. She needed to refocus, again and again, away from the curves glimpsed through the crowds. She wasn't as good at it as Celeste.

Adrian found an acceptable substitute -- thoughtful gazes into the apparent distance -- and she watched pink boxes disperse. The saleswoman didn't move, but glide. She glowed warm when she smiled, and the men hung on her every frill-edged movement. She conducted. She controlled. She was beautiful.

It didn't seem like enough, one day, pretending not to watch. Ridiculous. Adrian glared blankly at the photo shoot conflict, chewed a leather-dry carrot slice, and dismissed the thought. She looked back up to find the saleswoman approaching, swaying-smooth, crowd melting out of her way.

Excuse me, the saleswoman lilted, but she couldn't help but notice that hungry gaze. She lifted a coy-curled hand, and smiled that someone as discerning as her would enjoy the Ocean Delight lunch.

Celeste would have been strong.

No, Adrian said. She was not interested in a lunch box. She did not recall staring at the woman, and apologized for the misunderstanding. Cold words, and a hard glance back to her notebook.

She listened to her heart hammer, she watched her pencil point hover useless. The saleswoman hadn't left, she knew that with every iota because the saleswoman was stronger, all steel and ivory. Adrian shook as she looked back up to that knife-glittering gaze. It grew quiet inside the food court noise.

The saleswoman smiled, sun through clouds. She swished past Adrian, away, and her low words sank through an instant later:

Follow me.

A command, a blessed command and Adrian must have stood from that miserable table, must have followed white fringe through the crowds but her thoughts had numbed away. Dingy hallway, a sharp-turned corner and the lights clicked away, there was only rich darkness and presence pinning Adrian to a wall.

She had a reputation to keep, the saleslady said, her voice hard as sugar. No one could know; it could never happen again.

Yes, was all Adrian could choke, please.

Hair brushing her cheek, a half-breath of sandalwood and there the saleswoman was, mouth taking hers, touch slipping up her bare arms. A high sound fled Adrian's throat and the touch spread, fingers curling over her shoulders to claim them, another order pressing her hard to the wall. No thinking here either, just matching with lips and tongue, pressing lush with another woman and finding that she was hungry after all.

Your name, Adrian asked because she needed to know. Her voice quavered, thin, far above the rushing bodies. Her arms wrapped those curves and held, begged.

Angel, was the reply, breathed against her throat.

All Adrian could think was of course.

Composure crept back, and Adrian couldn't have said when: only that she glowed, only that her shaking hands straightened her clothes to match Angel's brisk-brushing sounds.

She was familiar with discretion, she said, small and cool. Angel need not be concerned about her reputation.

Touch, suddenly, a hand forming to her face. It waited there, soft, and Adrian froze. She'd never been good at this.

Men were simple creatures, Angel said, kind as venom. Adrian could do it, too, if she wanted.

She was gone, then, brief-blinding light and a rapid click of heels.

She waited one calculated moment, and returned to her food court table, alone. Or, rather, Adrian was alone with the pink lunchbox perched on her abandoned schedule book. Ocean Delight lunches contained rice, seaweed salad and a single gold-fried trout. Definitely a gift. Adrian frowned at the chopsticks -- more to control -- and pried off a bite.