It was February. The man waited—five minutes, then ten. It was all a part of the game: the wait, the delicious anticipation stretched out as long as they both could stand. Nevertheless, he checked his watch repeatedly. Thirteen. Fourteen. Was she going to stand him up, this time? This time, would he be forced to turn away, to move back onto the crowded city streets, to go home unsatisfied?

      He saw her. She never walked, but rather glided, a slow, haughty gait that said she didn’t much care if you waited for her or not.

      He knew her only as Imogen. Whether that was her real name or not, he didn’t know; but, for what they were there for, it didn’t much matter, either.

      She was dressed all in black, as was usual. A sheer black sweater hugged her breasts tightly, which was lucky for her, since she was clearly not wearing a bra. A flimsy, lacy excuse for a skirt flirted with the tops of her thighs, and her heeled leather boots rose above her knees.

In contrast to the unrelieved black, her hair was a shade of blonde so pale it was almost white. It spiraled around her shoulders in loose, tumbling curls—curls that would look angelic on another woman.