"Jesus, look at him pacing like a moron." Jackson strode over to where Gage sat, ankle crossed over his knee and flopped down on the arm of the couch, the same steely grey as his expensive suit, his tie three shades lighter. "You'd swear he hadn't seen his damn fiancée in three years rather than three days."

"Shut up." Samuel barked but the tone held no bite. He stopped his pacing where, to Gage's mind, he'd almost worried a path in the slick poured concrete floors of Tristan's illustrious penthouse suite. "You single and unattached boys don't understand. Hell, I wouldn't've either. But when it's the one...when it's right, being apart for even an hour feels like torture."

Smiling in both humor and empathy, Roarke slapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Pity these poor fools, Sam, for they know not what they are missing."

At that, Sam smiled, Jackson laughed, Tristan rolled his eyes.

And Gage sat in quiet, brooding speculation.

A delicate knock at the door turned heads before it swung open and a bevy of beauty flowed in. First was Shayne, her dark wildly curly hair swung around her shoulders, framing a face that any man would be a fool not to linger over and admire. Behind her was Darcy, dressed in killer black as her length of wavy mane and lips of dangerous red, a stunning woman of arresting beauty Gage loved as the sister he never had.

She had her arm looped around who he presumed to be Niobe's waist. Hard to tell as all he could see was a bright jolt of a hot body in a pink dress and a curtain of jet-black hair, so smooth, so perfectly pin-straight, he was sure there wasn't a woman alive who didn't stop to admire and scowl. Before she could turn around, and give him a clear view of her face, which he was sure would be as stunning as the rest of her; Samuel snatched her into his arms for a laughing spin and a lingering kiss.

Brow to brow they stood, murmuring to each other in a way that people in love tended to do, then over the curve of Samuel's shoulder, he finally got his first glimpse of her in the flesh, and felt the jab of recognition swing low to hit him in the gut.

Last night, he placed her face instantly, surrounded by a tangle of women he hadn't bothered to pick through in the dark, dim lighting and in the thick, swirling crowd of people, but now realized that one had been Shayne, the other suited the proportions of Paige, and this one, braced in Samuel's arms, had been flaunting her hand.

Christ, he thought, if he'd taken more than a quick glance at that moment, he would have seen then what he saw now.

Whoever his mysterious vixen was, she was a friend of Niobe Pierce.

"Gage." She strolled over to him, arms wide and smile bright, to kiss him on either cheek. "It's been ages since I last saw you. How have you been?"

"Wonderful." Holding her hands, he sent Samuel a look and a smile. "She's too beautiful for you." He brought his eyes back to Niobe, lifting her hand for a playful kiss. "Leave him, darling, and run away with me. He will never appreciate you the way I do."

"Back off." Sam leapt in, claiming his woman with a laugh. "She's all mine," then added, nose to nose, "and I don't intend to share."

More than a little off put by the open display of pre-marital affection, Tristan clapped his hands together like a general rounding up his troops. "Looks like we're all here," he ascertained with a nod. "Finally. I guess that means we can get going." His gilded green eyes slid over towards Gage, took him in with a raised brow. "Do you need to catch a ride somewhere?"

"Actually," Gage slid his hands into denim pockets, "I've had a change of heart and will be joining you all at Soleil."

"Hold on," Jackson angled his head, slapped the side with the heel of his hand as if to dislodge water from his ear. "My hearing's screwing with me."

"And it's not just you." Arm looped around Shayne's waist, Roarke blinked, long and slow. "Did you just say that you're coming with us? To a place with cameras...and people?"

"Yes." He shrugged, a little annoyed by everyone's sudden shock and awe at the thought that he—gasp—would actually attend a party. "What's the big deal?"

Looks were exchanged, ranging through various degrees of bemused and baffled.

"Oh, well, yes." Niobe said, being the first to recover and used to dealing with last minute panics when she'd been Samuel's assistant, phone already free from her clutch, and finger poised to dial. "I'll just call Vee, and let her know to add another seat to our table of—"

"Not necessary." Hands still in his pockets, he grazed the pad of his thumb over the curved corner of Soleil's card. "I RSVP'd yesterday."

Arm slung around Shayne's shoulders, Roarke assessed his brother in a moment of quiet consideration. "Why the sudden interest? Something happened in the last forty-eight hours that we should know about?"

And here it was, he thought. The shovels were out and prepared to dig. He could lie, continue to deflect and dance around the subject, but eventually his brother would pierce him with x-ray vision powerful enough to rival Superman, and see the truth.

"C'mon, Gage." Jackson beamed. "Find your balls, get it over with."

"If you must know, I met the single most incredible woman last night. She'll be attending the party."

"What's her name?"

Gage smiled in fond memory. "Little heart breaker wouldn't tell me."

"Give us the spread. How does she rate?" Jackson wiggled his brows. "Cause if she's anything near a ten, I might have to step in and save the poor girl from dating down." Disgusted, Darcy gave his shoulder a whack with her beaded clutch.

"Seriously? You're asking him to rate her out of ten?"

"Hey, we're dudes." Tristan laughed, leaping to his friend's defense against his younger sister's wrath. "Don't like it," lifting his hands, he gave a dismissive wave, "head down and hail a cab while the men talk important numbers."

"You make me sick."

"Oh, look at the time." Niobe ever so astute, steered Darcy away from Tristan before she could whack him, too. "We should get going. Come, ladies, I don't know about you, but I am not waiting another minute for food and champagne. Baby," perched on her toes, she planted a lingering kiss on Samuel's lips. "You'll be our escort, won't you?"

He smiled, a dreamy love-struck sort of grin that to Tristan's mind said 'whipped'.

"You," Shayne tapped a finger to Roarke's nose, grabbing his attention and sparking his interest when he caught the gleam of warning in her simmering grey eyes, "don't be late, or I'll see to it you're sorry."

Darcy, sparing her brother a disapproving sigh, followed Shayne and Niobe from the room; Samuel shut the door behind them.

"Don't know if I can give a number high enough to do her justice." Gage scrapped a hand along his jaw, roughened with a shade of stubble as three pairs of expectant eyes snapped back at him. "Dark. Exotic. Kinda smoky, with the sort of legs you just want wrapped around you." And Christ he was turned on just thinking about it.

"What about her voice?" Jackson almost panted. "Come on, bro, don't be such a tease. What does she sound like?"

"Yeah, voice is crucial. I knew this one chick," Tristan cut in, "total smoke show, killer between the sheets, but with a voice like a hyena. Had to bang her with earplugs. Or with extremely loud music."

Head tipped back, Gage laughed. "I remember her, Linda. No, Lindsey."

"Back on subject." Jackson pressed. "I wanna hear about Ms. Legs."

"Her voice is sexy, dark and smooth-as-velvet-lounge-singer type. Gave me chills." He exhaled a steady breath shoveling a hand through his length of golden hair.

"No shit?" Now Tristan's smirk bloomed into a full, appreciative male grin and gave Jackson a playful jab with his elbow. "Hell with you both, I want her."

Jackson jabbed back. "Sounds like too much woman for you to handle, Mercer."

"I saw her first," Gage warned, his tone playful but not entirely kidding, "And I swear, if she had a southern drawl and called me 'sugar', I might have proposed."

"Whoa, easy there, Gambit." Roarke laughed than cocked a wrist to check the time. "Alright, boys, we're running behind, Matthias is already there and the ladies are on route with Sam. I suggest we get going ourselves since I know my wife is already set to punish me with lingerie and heels."

Tristan scowled. "How exactly is that a punishment?"

Roarke's eyes deepened as his smile slid towards devious. "I married a wicked, wicked woman, boys, who knows how to make it hurt oh so good."

"Fucker." Green with envy, Jackson shook his head. "You make me sick."

#

The moments leading up to an event were always the most vibrant, full of buzz and energy, Isabel thought as she scanned the room, working through her mental checklist. A veritable hum of people and chaos. This time, standing in the thick of it, the energy and excitement was so palpable it almost shocked her skin.

Perhaps because this wasn't just for a client, she thought in pensively reflection, but for a woman who had, rather unexpectedly, become a very close and personal friend.

Making this moment a special one. Important.

A dream was soon to come true. A life was going to change. And she was responsible for capturing that magical prospect in a moment full of splendor and ambience.

Man, Isabel thought with a secret smile, I love my job.

"Bel!" Victory waved, and scurried over, high heels in her hands so she could move with quick and speedy strides.

"Oh Bel, it's gorgeous. Look at this place! And the flowers," she paused to smell the arrangement designed to skim the length of the bar. A garden of the whitest hydrangeas and large, full blooms Victory couldn't name.

"Everything is coming through, as scheduled." Isabel beamed, and then glanced at her blackberry for the time. She had an hour left, only one more on site before she needed to get going. Dress in the car, heels in the trunk, makeup can be touched up once parked in the lot. Hair...Isabel's features slid into as close to a frown as she dared allow, leaving the faintest crease between brows a few shades darker than her glorious silver mane. Well, she'd just have to make do with it long and hopelessly straight.

And while Isabel continued to brood over her itinerary, Spencer skipped over, dressed in a tailored blazor of coral pink with fuchsia piping along the seams. Tapered dark jeans hugged slender legs where shoes, yellow as daisies, popped, matching his brilliant shirt, buttoned down against candy apple suspenders and black belt.

The man, Victory thought as he flashed a brilliant and endearing smile, was in direct violation of colour theory. As always, his style choices were bold, an exaggerated palette that somehow managed to be loud yet balanced, and incredibly suited to his equally vibrant personality.

Spencer Wynn, diva extraordinaire, was anything but discreet.

"Ooooh," he whistled, gave a twirl of his finger. "Don't you look utterly gorge, Ms. Clarke. Love that blue against your skin, brings out the natural gold in your complexion and your eyes become translucent amber."

"Thank you," she beamed with a gracious little curtsy. "And you, too, love the outfit."

"Fabulous, right?" He did a quick strut and runway spin, revealing a black metallic hand painted chandelier on the back of his blazer, swinging on a bias and accented with touches of black crystal for texture and visual interest.

"A Menagerie custom original," he said, whipping his head around with a dramatic pout that spread into a flashing grin. "Darcy Mercer is a goddess who manages to translate my rambling visions into works of wearable art. If I wasn't hopelessly attracted to tall, buff, dangerous men I'd marry her and we'd have fierce and fabulously gorgeous babies, spend our days designing chic clothes and playing dress up."

"That so?" Smirking, Isabel tapped the toe of her sky-high metallic purple Louboutin pump with mock jealousy. "And here I thought I was the only woman who stood a chance at your affections."

"Sorry, lover, but the way to my heart is my wardrobe." Spencer set an apologetic hand on her shoulder. "You'll just have to make do with cheap sex."

"Bitch." She giggled, then glanced down at her phone. "Ok, we're cutting it close," all business, Isabel snapped deep blue eyes to Victory. "I'm going to take care of a few things before I leave you in Spencer's talented and capable hands. Any questions? Concerns?"

"No," Victory shrugged, "I'm good everything is—"

"Excellent, oh Chef Daniels!" And she was gone, like a shot, speed walking in shoes that Victory would have broken both ankles if not her neck, and roped a man in chef's white for a quick greeting kiss.

He looked younger in person, she mused, his ginger hair more orange than red against his freckled face, not unhandsome, with welcoming kind eyes and a quick smile.

"Chef Daniels, I'd like to introduce you to Soleil's owner and Executive Chef, Victory Clarke. I'll leave you both to get acquainted," Isabel said, then angled her head as she spoke into her headset and was off towards the kitchens.

"Hello," Victory thrust out a hand, which he captured with both of his and held, the gold of his wedding band glinting. "Thank you so much for agreeing to be here tonight."

"It's my pleasure." Chef Daniels smiled, revealing the slight center gap in his narrow row of teeth. "Mark has always sung your praises. I've already had a chance to admire your restaurant and kitchen. You've done a fantastic job and are sure to be a huge success." Releasing her, he linked his hands in front of his softening waistline.

The plight of all chefs, she thought, and a fate she worked hard in the gym to avoid.

Spencer, wearing his headset and the iPad he was never without hugged to his chest, was engrossed in a heated conversation in a controlled and hushed voice.

"Got it." Lifting his dazzling blue eyes, much like Isabel, the air of frivolity replaced with a look that read all business. "We need you two in the kitchen to plate the appetizers. Follow me."

As Spencer swept off with a speedy, powerful stride that sent narrow hips to swinging, Victory held back a moment, released a long, shaky breath. Seeing her hesitation, sensing her nerves, Chef Daniels lingered with a helpful smile.

"And so it begins."

s-