She glanced at her watch, then squared her shoulders as she prepared to begin work.

“Show time,” she said softly, not that anyone was listening.

Three men from the insurance office at the end of the hall walked past her without even giving her a nod. Francesca continued to push her pile of packages slowly against the flow of foot traffic. Two women in suits gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. A man and a woman, both carrying expensive-looking briefcases, followed. The woman looked, the man didn’t.

Another corridor branched to the left. Francesca shifted her cart to make the turn. Several boxes went tumbling. A single man walked by without breaking his stride. A college-age girl stopped long enough to help Francesca pick up the boxes, then hurried toward the elevator with a call to “Wait for me!”

Five minutes later Francesca reached her destination-an office she’d scouted out the previous week, chosen because the company had recently shut down. There she was, pregnant, lost, overloaded with more than a dozen boxes to be delivered, and no one to accept them. Had she been any sort of an actress, she might have been able to force out a tear or two.

The rules stipulated she was not allowed to directly ask for help. It had to be offered. She would wait for the required thirty minutes, mentally tallying who ignored her, who smiled, and who, if anyone, stopped to actually offer assistance.

This was a high-powered crowd with expensive tastes and busy lives. She didn’t hold out much hope for rescue. In her experience-

“You look lost.”

Francesca whirled around to see a tall man standing beside her cart. A tall, good-looking man in a dark blue power suit.

“Hi,” she said before preparing to launch into her canned speech about needing to deliver packages to a nonexistent firm. Except she couldn’t remember anything she was supposed to say.