While he watched the lit numbers drop, he became aware of an aroma… a mouthwatering, drool-inducing aroma in the elevator. Fried chicken. His nostrils twitched and his stomach let loose a ferocious growl.

He turned his head and noted the woman leaning against the back wall. Her eyes were closed and she looked about ready to drop. His gaze traveled over her, noting her disheveled reddish-brown hair, wrinkled white man-tailored blouse, short black skirt, and… one shoe? She stood lopsided, but she had great legs. Really great legs, even though her bare toes stuck out of a hole in her hose. The words PAMPERED PALATE were embroidered on the pocket of her shirt and printed in red block letters on the sides of the large box that sat at her feet. He'd obviously found the source of the tantalizing aroma.

Pampered Palate. Now why did that sound so familiar? He'd probably ordered an eat-it-at-your-desk lunch from them. A frown scrunched his brow. No, it was something else. He searched his mind, but his exhausted brain cells refused to function. It would come to him-eventually.

The elevator pinged and the door slid open. Almost groaning with relief, Chris hastily crossed the marble-tiled lobby.

"Thank God it's Friday," he muttered with a weary nod to the security guard. A whole weekend to rest. Sleep late. Read the paper. Do the crossword puzzle. Fifteen minutes. He'd be home in fifteen minutes. His car was right out in front-he'd left it there when he ran back up to his office to pick up some forgotten papers. He pushed his way through the revolving doors, debating whether he wanted to watch the Braves game or a Titanic documentary. The thought had no more than entered his head when he stopped dead.