The man took their menus and limped off as if every step aggravated his arthritis.

  Cyn dipped a tortilla chip into the salsa and raised it in a toast. “Over the teeth and past the gums. Look out, buttocks, here it comes.”

  Jenny crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you do that?”

  “What?” Cyn put the salsa-laden chip in her mouth and chewed.

  “Why do you make fun of yourself like that?”

  Cyn swallowed. “You think it’s not going to my buttocks?”

  “Your buttocks are gorgeous.”

  “You’re the best, Jenny,” Cyn said. “But you need to have your eyes checked.”

  “You’re in fabulous shape, Cyn. I bet you were at the gym bright and early today.”

  “Of course,” Cyn said.

  “You’re strong. You have great muscle tone.”

  “I guess.” Sometimes, sweaty guys using the exercise machines after her had to lower the intensity setting.

  Of course, Jenny did not have that problem. Although she carried a few extra pounds herself, she never let them spoil her fun, and she was a lot slimmer than Cyn anyway.

  “Your skin glows,” Jenny went on. “You radiate health.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I glow and radiate. I’m a regular x-ray machine.”

  The waiter brought a bowl of guacamole and more chips.

  Cyn dug into the creamy pile of green, savoring the soft texture on her tongue. “Here goes weeks of dieting.”

  “No one can live on carrot sticks and low-fat salad dressing,” Jenny said.

  “I could.” She could if the world would cooperate.

  “You could exist on that,” Jenny said. “Not live.”

  “Okay, then, I exist.”

  “That low-fat dressing is vile.” Jenny huffed. “It isn’t working, anyway. It isn’t making you thin: it’s making you miserable.” She leant back. “So, will you tell me why I had to meet you here on no notice?”

  “I didn’t get the promotion.”

  Jenny's head snapped up. “Has Stewart lost his mind?”

  “If he ever possessed a mind. He hired someone from the outside. A size six.”

  “Hire someone who doesn't know the company? Even Stew the Poo can't be such an idiot.”

  “Don’t underestimate him. He gives idiots a bad name.”

  The waiter bore a huge platter of beans and steaming rice, an enchilada and a taco, a chile relleno, more creamy guacamole, sour cream and cheese – gooey, melting, fattening cheese - with a cloud of spices floating over the whole thing.

  Cyn dug into the beans. They oozed calories. Was it possible to smell lard? “Eat your lunch. It’s delicious.”

  Jenny finally helped herself to spoonful of guacamole. “He used you, didn't he? He wanted someone to do the manager's job without a manager's pay. He lured you with the promise of the promotion, and you fell for it. What's his excuse?”

  “He wants someone who projects the right image on the company website. A slim image.” Cyn finished her chile relleno and moved on to her rice, savouring the firm yet melting texture on her tongue. “And he wants to pork this woman. It's probably an unwritten part of her job description.”

  Jenny grimaced. “Would you want a job where you have to pork Stewart?”

  “Ewww.”

  The two of them ate in silence for a while, savoring the colors, flavors and scents of the Mexican cuisine. At last, Jenny asked, “So, what are you going to do?”

  “About Stewart, I can do nothing. And I doubt I could get a better job.”

  “Why not?” Jenny said. “You have the qualifications, you have the skill. You understand how customers tick and how to get them to buy. And now you have management experience, too. You’re so well qualified. You just have to find the right company.”

  “What company would that be? They all want stick women to adorn their offices.” Cyn wiped her mouth with the starched linen napkin. “I have another idea.”

  She reached into the pocket of her jacket for the brochure from the clinic and slid it across the table to Jenny.

  Jenny's lips narrowed. “No, honey. Surgery is not the answer.”

  “I called them this morning. I can have it done in a couple of weeks.”

  Her friend crumpled the brochure into a wad and set it on the table. She clasped Cyn's pudgy wrists. “Don’t you dare even think of such a thing. Just an anesthetic mistake can kill you.”

  “Lots of people have had it done.”

  “People who need it,” Jenny said. “You don’t.”

  “Nothing else is working.” Cyn rested her palms on the table and leaned toward her friend. “To be thin, I'd sell my soul.”

  The room changed. The walls leaned inward, and the floor shook.

  Cyn clasped the table edge.

  “Are you all right?” her friend’s voice sounded as if played in slow motion.

  Everything started to spin, and Cyn pressed her hands to her eyes. When she removed them again, everything had gone black.

  *

  When Cyn’s vision returned, she found herself in some kind of anteroom with bare vinyl floors and rows of straight-backed chairs lining the walls. An empty metal desk stood in front of an unadorned door. Without windows or pictures, the décor went way past minimalist to bleak. If she’d sold her soul to the devil, the Prince of Darkness ought to be able to do better than this place.

  She was in hell, right? She wasn’t in Kansas anymore, for sure. Nor Romero’s Cocina Mexicana. She’d just vowed to sell her soul in exchange for a svelte figure, so the devil must have taken her.

  Had the trade yielded an improved figure? But a glance down her body showed the same bulging belly and fat thighs. Beelzebub hadn’t kept his part of the bargain – every surplus pound on her body had followed her here.

  “Well, Satan, or whoever brought me here, I don’t have to endure any lakes of fire if you haven’t made me thin.”

  “Come in, Cynthia.” The deep male voice seemed to come right out of the walls.

  She looked around. “Huh?”

  “The door, Cynthia. There only is one.”

  She did a complete three-sixty. The voice was right. Only one door – the one behind the desk. She must have materialized inside the anteroom. Either that, or she’d had a wicked reaction to MSG, if they used that at Romero’s.

  “I’m waiting,” the deep voice called again.

  Oh, what the hell? Oops, now that she was in hell, maybe she’d better stop using it as a curse word. The landlord might take exception. She walked to the door and tried the knob. It opened easily.

  The room was even sparser than the anteroom, with the same vinyl floor, the same metal desk. A man sat behind this desk, though, on the only chair in the place. He hunched over a keyboard, his face obscured behind a huge computer terminal. As if unaware she’d come in, he typed and stared at the screen while she fidgeted.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Cynthia Redmon?” he asked, still studying the screen.

  “You were expecting, maybe, Britney Spears?”

  “What would I want with her?”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Have a seat,” he said. “I’m almost finished here.”

  She glanced around. “The floor looks comfortable.”

  “Sorry.” A hand appeared from behind the terminal, masculine with long fingers. It pointed at a spot beside her, and a high-backed armchair appeared. Oh-kaaay. Definitely not Kansas. Cyn lowered herself into it and put her hands in her lap.

  He tapped his keyboard for a minute. Then he pushed his swivel chair from behind the screen and looked at her. Cyn’s breath caught on an audible gasp before she got control of herself. He was easily the most unusual looking man she’d ever seen, as well as the most handsome. His skin had a dark glow, in contrast to the ice blue of his eyes. High cheekbones and bushy eyebrows made his face look harsh, almost animalistic. Yet the whole package worked in an otherworldly sort of way. Could this be the face of Satan himself?

  One of his bushy eyebrows went up. “Looking for something?”

  Horns, maybe. His hair was long enough to hide stubs of horns. It came to a prominent widow’s peak in the front, which also made him look devilish. Oh, those eyes…

  He glanced back at his screen. “Cynthia Abigail Redmon. Born 25 years ago. Single. Assistant accounts manager for a mid-sized publishing company. Height, five-seven. Weight…”

  “Hey, wait a minute, pal.” Cyn raised a hand to stop him. “I don’t discuss my weight with anyone.”

  “Aren't you? Weren't you doing exactly that right before you called to me?”

  “I called to you?”

  He looked back at the screen. “Your exact words were ‘I’d sell my soul to be thin.’ You said it twice.”

  “I didn’t sign anything, so you don’t have a contract.” She looked at her watch. Rather, tried to. Her wrist was bare. “Okay, I don’t know what you’ve done, but it must be time for me to get back to work.”

  “Your last physical was excellent. Blood pressure 110 over 80.” He smiled at her. “Very nice.”

  “I didn’t know men cared about women’s vital signs.” The only vitals men cared about, in her experience, were 36-26-36. Or 40-18-22 these days.

  “You live alone in a nice apartment and make a good salary.”

  “Not enough to buy a house in California,” she said. The way her life had gone so far, she wouldn’t get a husband’s help with the down-payment any time soon.

  “That’s why you were so upset to lose that promotion,” he said.

  “How much do you know about me?”

  The fire in his blue eyes flared briefly, making him look truly dangerous. “As much as I need to know.”

  She got up from the chair, strode to his desk, and rested her fists on the top. From this close, his ice-blue eyes and the glow of his skin could hypnotize a woman off lesser determination. In fact, a more susceptible female might lean toward him, hoping for a kiss from… those lips were as luscious as the rest of him. Full and curved. She shook herself.

  “I said something in haste,” she said over the hammering of her heart. “But I made promises, and I signed nothing.”

  His smug smile told her he knew his effect on women. In another time and place, she might entertain fantasies of giving him a tumble. But he was Satan, and this was Hades, and she had to get the hell out.

  “You called out for help,” he said.

  “An offer to sell my soul is a cry for help?”

  He gave her a cat-and-canary grin. “So you did you offer your soul”

  “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back,” she said. “I offered my soul in exchange for something. You didn’t hold up your part of the bargain, so you get nothing from me.”

  “What if I want to give you something, instead?”

  When had Satan gone into the psychotherapy business? Maybe this was a con. She’d offered her soul, and he’d blown the deal. So, now he thought he could seduce her into turning over the goods, anyway. He looked seductive enough, but if he wanted her to surrender, she wouldn’t.

  “If you want to give me something, give me my freedom,” she said. “Send me back to Romero’s.”

  “To that orgy of self-loathing? I think not.”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “A soul is a precious, not to be bargained away for something as trivial as body size.”

  Easy for him to say: he didn’t have an extra ounce of fat on him. He could probably eat three Romero’s number three specials without putting on a pound.

  “Because of my body size, I lost my dream job, and with it my chance of owning a house.”

  “There are other jobs. Better ones.”

  “Like I’d get one of those in my size twenty-two muumuus.” She threw her hands into the air. “For pity’s sake, I don’t even have a sex life.”

  “Ahhhh…”

  He gave her that smug smile again. Did she dare try smacking Beelzebub?

  “That, at least, is something worth sacrificing for,” he said. “But, I can help you with that.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly how do you think you’re going to do that?”

  “Really, Cynthia, that should be obvious.”

  She stood and stared at him for a while.

  “I’m a man,” he said finally. “If you want sex, I’ll give it to you.”

  “Whoa, now there’s a smooth line if I ever heard one. Very romantic. I may swoon.”

  “Forgive me. You were so frank about sex, I thought you’d appreciate frankness from me.”

  He waved his hand around the room. The plain walls disappeared to be replaced by drapes of red velvet. A fireplace stood on one wall, and several logs blazed in the hearth. This looked more and more like hell. Except, maybe, for all the plush furniture around the room. A recliner and ottoman in one corner, a conversation pit against the wall, a chaise in the same red velvet, a low table with a bowl of succulent fruit and two crystal wine flutes. A tripod held a wine bucket with a bottle of champagne.

  “Is this more agreeable?” He stood next to the fireplace, lounging with one elbow on the mantle. He wore formal attire – a cutaway jacket and tails, which made him look even more devilish. And more delicious. “More romantic?”

  “In an early bordello sort of way.”

  “One more thing.” He made another gesture, and the light in the room dimmed until the fire filled the room with a warm glow. It cast his form into shadow and him look even taller and more imposing than he had before.

  Just a moment ago, he’d offered to fix her sex life. Her knees wobbled.

  “You look ravishing.” With widening eyes, he studied her, from the top of her head to her feet and back to her – ohmigod – breasts. They responded as if he were stroking them with his fingers. They felt achy and heavy, and the nipples hardened against the flimsy material.

  Flimsy material?

  She glanced down at herself. Somehow he’d replaced her business suit with a long, flowing negligee of sheer black gauze. It revealed every bit of her flab and cellulite.

  She ran behind the chaise and crouched low to hide herself. This was truly hell. She’d come here to a den of iniquity with a man who looked good enough to eat, but she had to expose herself to his ridicule. She’d spend the rest of eternity horny beyond human endurance, and he’d keep telling her she turned him off.

  “Why are you hiding, Cynthia?”

  “If you have any mercy in your soul, don’t do this.” She really ought to laugh at that one. Mercy from the devil.

  “Do what?” He strode the chaise.

  She crouched lower. “Make fun of me.”

  He stopped where he was, with a look of puzzlement on his face. “Telling you you look ravishing is making fun of you?”

  “It is if you don’t mean it.”

  “You think I’m not attracted to you,” he said.

  She glared at him from her safe spot behind the chaise. “Well, duh. Bingo.”

  He held out his hand toward her. “Show yourself.”

  “I don’t get naked on the first date. I’m old-fashioned that way.”

  “I’m going to give you one more chance. Come out from behind that chaise.”

  Her heart pounded again. This was the devil. If she refused his direct order, what would happen? The torture of the damned? Pillars of fire? Locusts? But he hadn’t kept up his part of the bargain, so how could he say he owned her soul?

  That fire came back to his eyes. “Three. Two. One.”

  Pffft. The chaise vanished. Without the support, Cyn collapsed onto the floor.

  “I was thinking more of the couch,” he said. “But if you prefer the carpet…”

  She scrambled to her feet and raced to the side of the room to hide behind a drape. But no matter how hard she tugged on it, the drape refused to budge. So, there she stood in a black gauze negligee, yanking on velvet.

  She heard his steps, a slow, firm swish on the carpet. She spun and saw him walking toward her, slowly, with a determined gleam in his eyes. She flattened herself against the wall.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Cynthia,” he said softly as if coaxing a frightened animal to trust him.

  “Isn’t that your job, tormenting people?”

  “Why would you think a thing like that?” He stopped right in front of her, so close, the fabric of his suit almost rubbed against her breasts. They started aching again. Traitors.

  His smell reminded her of moss and musk.

  He placed his hands on either side of her face and leaned toward her. Heat radiated off him like from a furnace. In the dim light, his eyes glowed like blue glaciers. He was sin incarnate, but then, he was the devil, built for sin... and oh, was he built.

  “Don’t be afraid of me, Cynthia.” His voice sounded like warm chocolate. His breath was as sweet as honey. The man was a walking, talking, breathing dessert. Yum.

  “I’m not,” she said. Or croaked, rather. She cleared her throat to try again. “It’s just…”

  He stroked the side of her face. His fingers were hot, too. “Just what?”

  “This has all been a little hard to understand. A few minutes ago I was in a Mexican restaurant having lunch with a friend. And now, I’m here, wherever here is.”

  He sighed, a deep, reluctant sigh. “I see. You have been through quite a bit today.”

  “So, if you could just send me back,” she said. But did she want that, really? “Give me my regular clothes first, of course.”

  “I’m sorry. You have to stay here a while.” He didn’t look the least bit sorry.

  “How long?”

  “Until…” His voice trailed off, and he continued to look into her eyes. His lips were so close that the tiniest movement toward them would get her a kiss.

  He backed away, finally. Not far. He still had her pinned up against the wall, but she had some breathing room now. Some.

  “I tell you what,” he said. “Let me give you a little sample of what I’ve offered you. I think after that, you’ll want to stick around for a while.”

  “Okay.” She took a few deep breaths. “I guess.”

  He smiled, a very sweet smile, considering he was the devil himself. Then, he took her hand and led her to the couch. When they sat on it, it expanded under them until it was the size of a bed. She patted the mattress beneath her: what if it was cursed?