His hand made contact with the cool metal of the door handle; he hesitated. This had seemed a thoroughly brilliant idea thirty minutes ago in the cozy comfort of his studio apartment, and had still seemed a good idea twelve blocks ago. Though it had tarnished a bit some four blocks ago, it had nonetheless seemed workable; now, here at ground zero, suddenly he was less convinced.

It was not his first visit to the nondescript shop, though he'd never actually purchased anything from their copious collection of salacious books and periodicals. It had been the coffee bar in the back that had been his destination- a port of last resort. A celibate lifestyle allowed him to maintain focus on his work—until it didn't and he'd discovered there were women there, discrete women, sipping cappuccino, who were willing to help with his problem, for a price. Women who would not expect a phone call the next day, or a dozen roses, or a cottage with a white picket fence.

But this was different. He wasn't in need of sexual release; he was in need of a dinner date. Why had he agreed to this preposterous waste of an evening? Of course, 'agreed' was not the correct term; it disingenuously implied he'd had any choice in the matter. Seven days ago, the old gentleman had instructed him he would be joining them at tonight's black-tie fundraiser then handed him the envelope inscribed "Mr. Illya Kuryakin and Guest" in flowery script. His brief attempt to negotiate a pass fell on deaf ears, and now, with barely three hours until the pre-dinner cocktails, he was desperately looking for a "guest."

It wasn't as if there weren't throngs of young lovelies among his colleagues who would have jumped at his invitation; though he feigned indifference to their advances he was not unaware of their interest. He simply was not interested in establishing any sort of relationship at this point in his life, and the thought of having to spent the next six months fending of the affections of some well-meaning young woman in exchange for an evening of companionship seemed a poor bargain. However did Napoleon manage it?

There was a sharp rapping on the glass of the door.

"So are ya in or out, boy-o?" an obviously annoyed woman on the other side of the glass called out to him. "Some of us have places to be."

"Sorry," he responded, stepping back and indicating with a nod that she should come through. She was a petite woman, perhaps five four, with titian hair and green eyes—her accent was decidedly Irish.

"First timer?" she asked with a dazzling smile. "No need to be anxious, no one's going to bite you—unless, of course, that's what you're looking for."

"I've been here before, and I have no interest in being bitten. Sorry to have detained you."

"No problem," she responded with another smile. "Have we met before—you seem...familiar?"

"I don't believe so," he responded. "Perhaps I just have a common face?"

"Don't sell yourself short, boy-o," she responded with a melodic laugh. Regarding him for a few more moments she finally shook her head, then waved as she spun around and made her way up the street.

He found himself watching her as she walked down the block, a small irrational part of him half hoping she might turn back around. Instead, a stocky man came from the alleyway and grabbed her roughly by her forearm.

"For the last time, you little bitch, stay away from here!" he shouted throwing her to the ground.

Kuryakin sprinted the half block and pulled the man off of her. The thug took a wild swing at Illya then took off running back down the alleyway.

"Are you alright?" he asked holding out a hand to help her up.

"Occupational hazard," she responded waving off the proffered hand.

"Should we call the authorities?" he asked.

"Why?" she responded brushing off her jeans. "I guess I could file police report- a pimp who calls himself Miroslav pushed me-not much they can do with that, and I can't afford to tie up half a day at the police precinct. But I appreciate you chasing him off, thanks."

"My pleasure. Would you like me to walk you to your car in case he comes back?"

"I'll be fine," she responded with another flash of that amazing smile. "Grand meeting, ya." With a crisp wave she spun around and continued down the street.

"Excuse me, miss?"

She turned back to face him.

"I…have a proposition…that is… a business proposition I'd like to discuss."

She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowed and the smile faded. "Do ya now, boy-o?"

"Yes, I would like to…engage your services… more precisely your company for the evening. I am in desperate need of a dinner companion tonight—that was the purpose of my excursion here. Nothing untoward…it would just be dinner. I would pay twice your usual rate…see, I have the tickets right here." He reached into his pocket and fished out the parchment envelope and handed it to her.

She removed the invitation and studied it for a moment then put it back into the envelope. "So, you would be this 'Illya Kuryakin' person, then?"

"Yes, and you would be?"

"Well, I guess I'd be 'guest', but you can call me Moira. The Guggenheim's pretty posh—you don't really strike me as a posh sort of guy."

"I'm not. It's a charity fundraiser. My boss commandeered a number of my colleagues as well as myself to attend."

"So, you'd be looking for the 'girlfriend experience', then?"

"I'm not sure what that is, but I am looking for a woman to eat dinner and make small talk with my work mates."

"Much as I hate to lose the work, why don't you just ask one of your mates from work—aren't there any girls there who eat and make small talk?"

"It's…complicated. Suffice to say I would prefer not to involve any of the women I work with."

"So, what kind of work is it you do, Illya Kuryakin?"

"I work for an importing company."

"It sounds fascinating," she responded leaning closer, her eyes wide, her voice breathy.

"It's not, actually."

"Of course it's not, boy-o," she replied punching him lightly on the arm. "It's sounds dead dreadful boring as all get out. I was demonstrating my small talk abilities."

"I see."

"So, seven until eleven—travel time, I'm thinking three-hundred dollars—plus carfare."

"Three-hundred dollars?"

"Plus carfare."

He checked his watch. He was running out of time. "Fine," he said opening his wallet and taking out three one-hundred-dollar bills.

"So, then I'll need something to wear."

"Something to wear?"

"Did you want me dressed in jeans for your big posh party?"

He sighed. "No, I don't suppose that would work." He recalled a dress shop he'd passed seven or eight blocks back. "Come along," he said taking her hand.