They swarmed everywhere, a hive come to life, surging and swelling like bees drawn to the sickly sweet nectar of the rich and famous. Stepping from the town car, Gage braced himself, the seconds ticking away madly once a stray head turned—a surprised voice shouted out his name before they descended upon him.

Even with Roarke and the rest of the gang trying to head them off, somehow they'd latched on to his scent and refused to let go, peppering him with a barrage of questions.

Do you foresee a return to Hollywood?

Is it true you're set to star in a movie alongside Roarke?

Are the rumors surrounding you and Countess Francesca true?

Ryder! Ryder! Ryder

He made it a few steps from the front doors before the walls of press folded in around him, like mounds of earth in a gaping pit, threatening to swallow him alive.

Enough, he thought, and turned to address the seething mob. When they realized he intended to speak, a hush fell—so sudden that the absence of sound was almost as jarring as a scream.

"I just want to make something clear," he said, shifting his eyes face to expectant face. "Tonight isn't about me. This is Victory Clarke's moment. Let's give Soleil and Ms. Clarke, the attention and respect she deserves."

"Well done," Roarke commended, clapping a hand down on his shoulder once they were through the restaurant doors. "Looks like you haven't lost your touch with the vultures."

Adjusting the lapels of his blazer, Gage followed his brother into the heart of a milling crowd that filled the plush lounge, conversation bloomed and hummed as leggy servers carted around trays laden with delicate samples arranged with flair and finesse, appealing to the eye as well as the palette.

When one passed by him, Gage nipped a couple and surveyed the room, forming his first real impressions of the venue as it now pulsed with life. Smart, he thought, and trendy without being too cliché and boring, or predictable. She'd made some bold and admirable design choices, mainly the hostess desk, honed from a single slab of wood, left rough and natural.

Scanning faces, his eyes peeled through the crowd, searching among the servers when he heard a laugh, all steamy sex that caught him low in the belly, and he turned, just in time to catch sight of her as she threw her arms around Niobe for an embrace.

She was a vision in electric blue, hair scooped up and away from her face. And what a face! Standing with Matthias, no less, and a tangle of journalists...

"Oh, look." Roarke slapped his shoulder, jolting him back to present. "Put the hunt for your mystery gal on hold for a sec, there's someone I need to introduce you to." Gage opened his mouth to warn his brother to buzz off, but then followed Roarke's line of sight and realized they were staring at the same woman.

"Sure." He said, thrusting his hands into his pockets, intrigued by the play of events. "By all means, let's go over and say hello."

"Victory," emerging at her side, Roarke swooped in for a greeting kiss, "I hope if you don't mind if I steal you away for a moment?"

"Oh, absolutely—yes, sorry, thank you." Smiling, and a little breathless, Victory turned from the gaggle of journalists, excusing herself with pardons, smiles, turned—and froze. There he was, every bit as enthralling as she remembered, standing with Roarke, dressed in a charcoal blazer and light knit sweater of deepest blue...again with that subtle vee that teased her into wanting to see more, his eyes glinting on the tail end of laughter. When they shifted to her, the blue deepened. The grey sharpened.

Roarke spoke, making casual introductions—Tristan, Jackson, Samuel—but his voice slid right over her, faint as a whisper until his handclapped down on Gage's shoulder. "And this is Ryder, my slightly younger and less attractive brother."

If Matthias hadn't of been holding her arm, her knees might have buckled.

"Ryder." She managed, tempted to slap a hand to her head to clear out the water that must have been lodged in there somewhere, affecting her hearing. "As in Ryder Donovan? The Sphinx's senior architect and project manager who I've been corresponding with for months? That Ryder Donovan?"

"One and the same." Gage held out hand, eyes sparkling bright with amusement and surprise. "So you're Victory." He said, giving her hand a lingering squeeze before letting go, more than aware of the knowing smirks exchanged amongst his friends for her eyes hadn't left his face once. "Fancy that."

Head swimming, legs weakening, Victory struggled to claw her way back through the fog of astounded disbelief as Matthias, Roarke and the rest of them, interrupted by paparazzi and media representatives, left her alone in his company.

God, how had she not noticed the resemblance before? Sure he'd filled out, no longer the waifish model from his youth, Gage had packed on at least forty pounds of solid muscle, but beneath the scrape of beard she could see his angular chin, the flash of his smile that brightened his face.

And the eyes, the eyes should have given him straight away.

Added to the fact that he'd likely known, and shared a good laugh over it with Roarke and his buddies, galled her down to her toes. A flash of embarrassed heat speared down the back of her neck, spilled into her cheeks.

"You told me your name was Gage."

"Socially, I prefer Gage—my middle name." The glimmer in his eyes didn't waver, and he shrugged an unapologetic shoulder, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans where they were safe from reaching out to hold her hand again. "I find it helps with creating distance from groupies and gold diggers." That softened her, he noted, soothing the stiffness from her shoulders and taking the edge out of her glare.

"I see." Victory said evenly, then—unexpectedly—laughed, shaking her head. "Well, it's lovely to finally meet you Ry—Gage," she amended quickly. "I guess since you mentioned you prefer the latter than that's what I should call you. If you'll excuse me, I have a lot of guests to see to and a speech to make."

Before she could escape into the crowd again, Gage scooped an arm around her waist, casually and expertly steered around so he could whisper in her ear. "Perhaps when the party is over, you wouldn't mind indulging me in some wine and light conversation?" He eased back and stared down at her and got a whiff of her alluring scent. She smelled as vibrant as summer and soft as a breeze with a hint of edge that was all smoke.

He wanted to sink his teeth in. And bite...

Victory struggled to think. His hand sat at the lower curve of her back and instantly she was engulfed in heat, all thoughts of embarrassed annoyance forgotten.

"Sure." She breathed, attempted a smile. "Ah—sure. Why not? Later." Peeling herself away from him, Victory slipped away to rejoin Shayne and Niobe, conversing with prestigious chefs Paulette Francis and Ivan Vanko, the single two guests who had been cause for many nights of waking up in a cold and panicked sweat.

Smoothly, and in an enviably seamless fashion, Shayne caught Victory's arm and steered her into the conversation with introductions, which, come the morning, she'd never remembered with any clarity other than star-struck awe.

And spent the rest of the evening marveling at the intriguing twist of fate and her wry sense of humour.

#

Victory shut the doors, turned the locks. Sighed.

She'd kept the guest list small, intimate rather than packing the venue to the gills, thus creating an ambience of warmth and familiarity. The food had been exceptional, well-received by the critics and journalists and guests. The evening had flowed, brilliant and effortless, a smashing success.

They started the dinner in the lounge, with servers weaving through the crowd and serving out bite size portions of her entire menu's list of appetizers, plus a few more she'd kept in reserve for rotations later in the year.

By the time they moved to the dining room for the main course, she'd fell into her rhythm, found her stride, forgetting her nerves, doubts and apprehensions. Working her way from kitchen to tableside as the plates were served, almost tapas fashion, allowing everything to be sampled, savoured and photographed.

And when it came time to ring her glass and give her speech, somehow Victory ploughed through it with all the flare and the panache of a seasoned public speaker. She'd exuded natural charisma, drawing out a few giggles with her humor and whit, and ending to a roar of applause. On Monday, there would be a glowing review in the Toronto Star, with her face on the front page beneath big, bold letters.

Soleil lights up King Street and heralds the dawn of a new culinary age!

Tray in one arm, she started to clear away the empty glasses, some still floating with wine. Others with champagne, but there wasn't a plate in the house that hadn't been cleared of every speck and crumb. They'd devoured everything, all but licked the porcelain.

And begged for more.

Was there anything sexier than a woman in a knock-em-dead dress, killer heels and pearls? Gage took a moment to enjoy the pretty picture she painted, fussing over the empty glasses and discarded plates before sweeping in to intervene.

"Don't worry about those right now. Come, sit. This bottle has had plenty of time to breathe." Gage plucked the tray from her hands before she even felt his touch, and had her around full circle and into a seat by the bar before she found the voice to protest.

"Oh, gosh, I don't know if I can handle more booze."

"This vintage is worth the hangover."

Hands to temples she laughed, lifted the glass he'd poured then sipped. Holy hell he was right. Bright and rich, heady and aromatic with a hint of earthy notes, the flavour built, slow and dramatic before hitting her palate with a right hook she never saw coming.

"Wow," Victory sipped again, then rolled her eyes with dramatic flair, "oh god this is exquisite. To die for. Truly."

"I'm glad you like it." He sat next to her, poured one for himself. "It's one of my favourites. Smooth, buttery and won't overpower the palate. Samuel brought it up from his family vineyard in Naples. In fact, his mother is the one who taught me to appreciate good wine since I expressed more interest in the family business than Sam. Speaking of, small world, isn't it?"

Victory smiled with a nod. "Certainly is. Why didn't you tell me you were acquainted with Niobe?"

"Because I was too busy checking out a hottie in a little black dress to notice?"

Snickering, she swatted his arm. "Or perhaps you were worried she'd blow your elaborate cover and expose you for sneaky Ryder instead of charming Gage?"

His smile winked bright and he arched a devious brow. "You find me charming?"

She swatted him again.

"Ok." Gage laughed. "But in truth, I didn't recognize her. Saw a photograph once, might have met her in person twice, back when she first started working for Sam. But, with Jackson and Roarke living in LA, Matthias always bouncing around to his hotels, and Sam on set with another film or project, it's hard to keep in touch and up-to-date."

Nodding absently, Victory frowned into her wine. She knew the feeling all too well. Watching as friends and families moved up and onward in life, leaving you behind while your world fell apart around you. Not that she blamed Niobe for packing her bags and heading out to sunny LA once they'd graduated from UofT. Or her parents for cashing in on their investments to retire in Aruba shortly thereafter.

She had planned to do more with her life, also. Great things. Wonderful things. See the world, travel and explore.

But then she'd met Derek Cole. And plans changed. Dreams were set aside. Eventually lost. Now she was fighting to get them back, and today was the first day of the rest of her life.

Her life.

"Why the name Soleil?" Gage asked, sampling a canapé from a tray he'd been careful to squirrel away for later, once he got her off her feet and the two of them were alone in the dim and empty restaurant.

Setting aside memories of her murky past, Victory angled her head in thought, layers of dark hair, now loose and free, slanting against the curve of her cheek, grazing her neck. "The sun is about light, and for many, light is hope. A beacon of vitality. Warmth and security. Rebirth and renewal." She shrugged a delicate shoulder, fingers skimming the length of her glass stem. "Seemed appropriate, at the time."

"I would have to agree." Standing over her, Gage set down his glass, then hers. He knew intent glimmered in his eyes and watched as she sobered with recognition, but he'd give Victory points for nerve as she boldly held his gaze, even challenged it with a grin.

Easing her back against the counter, his mouth descended, slow and patient, savoured the ripple of her startled breath before his mouth possessed. Took. A gentle kiss, without rush or hurry.

Soft as a breeze, but with all the demand of hurricane.

Hands stretched out on either side of her, Victory braced granite and held on for dear life. He tasted of wine and something richly male. And as he slid against her, body to body, as his tongue dipped a little deeper, Victory's bones melted, turning her legs weak as water.

Thank god for the barstool, else she'd have slid into a boneless, simmering puddle at his feet and dragged him down with her.

"What was that?" She breathed when their mouths parted a fraction, her head spinning atop her shoulders.

"Something to think about." For both of us. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, nipped, just a degree shy of pain.

Christ, she tasted good, and already his body was humming for a second helping, but tonight wasn't the moment for the quick and rash. So, Gage dug deep and found the last thread of his self-control and latched on while he still could.

"Good night, Victory. See you around."

"Ah—yes—hm." One kiss and she'd dropped at least fifty points in her IQ. Brain foggy, she struggled to make sense of his words. "Night."

He left her against the bar, eyes still closed, legs weak and breath uneasy as he slipped out the front door and flagged down a cab. Only when he was in the back seat, pulling away from the curb did he release his own uneasy breath. And smile.

She may have taken the first round the night they'd met at Everleigh.

But the second belonged to him.