Someone better be dead or dying, he thought miserably, otherwise a head was about to roll.

Snarling a particularly foul curse, Gage slapped his hand out for his phone, and because he was too lazy to yank it to his ear, he activated the speakerphone and growled, "You're calling me at five forty-five on a Sunday, asshole. What the fuck do you want?"

The line held for a moment, the hiss of wind creating a stream of white noise that cackled and set his teeth on edge.

"Ryder," a polished voice carrying the hint of an apologetic smile wafted through. The tone clipped, cultured and rolling with the rounded notes of Britain blended with the Middle East. "I am so sorry to disturb you at such an inconvenient time. Do you have a moment?"

Gage shot up in the bed, suddenly wide-awake. "Mr. Naseer? Christ, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you—"

"I don't usually make the effort or trouble of a personal call," he sliced through, smooth as a soldering iron in steel. "When my time is worth a considerable amount of money, if I elect to devote a fraction of it to you, I hope you'll see the gesture as the most sincere of compliments."

"Yes." Coffee, he thought swiping a hand over his cheeks, gritty with stubble. I need coffee.

"My assistant reached out to you several times this month with a sizeable and generous offer. Why have you failed to reply?"

"I—uh, well," fumbling from the bed, Gage ploughed a hand through his hair. "Honestly, Mr. Naseer, the offer was one I almost jumped on. The chance to work with your team on the restoration of the Al Nahyan is an opportunity I've waited a long time to come my way."

"Good." Naseer's voice brightened with the confidence of a man about to conclude a successful business transaction. "I trust you've received the contract my assistant emailed? The terms are more than fair, but feel free to have a lawyer look them over. All points are open to negotiation and compromise. We can arrange for my private jet to pick you up Monday so we can discuss particulars in person."

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, Gage closed his eyes. "Yes, I'll send them to my lawyer this afternoon, but...well, I think I should make it clear that I might not be in the best position to accept."

"Oh?" The single word reverberated with measured calm. Mr. Naseer was not a man accustomed to being denied. "Might I inquire as to why?"

"This project is complicated, and will draw me away for at least a year."

"Likely twice that." Naseer agreed.

"Yes, well, I have...obligations. Here. In Toronto." A woman I love...A woman I don't want to give up... "Obligations that make being away for that length of time...problematic."

"I see." No, he didn't, but Gage knew Naseer wasn't a man who'd achieved his level of wealth and success without knowing how to play hard ball. And right now, Gage heard the shift in his tone as Naseer prepared to throw his curve.

"I cannot deny that I am disappointed. I'll give you three more days to reconsider, Mr. Donovan. Only three. At which point if I do not hear from you by noon of Tuesday afternoon—your time, then I shall extend my rather generous offer elsewhere."

"Yeah." Gage sighed. "Noon, Tuesday. You'll have your answer."

No longer sleepy, Gage swiped a hand over his face, and tried to compose his unsteady heartbeat. He'd just told one of the most powerful billionaires in the Arab Emirates I'll think about it. Brushed aside a seven-figure contract without as much as a hitch in his voice.

Christ, he thought, am I going mad?

He heard the slide of a glass door and Gage glanced up to see Victory haloed in the early morning light, wrapped in a robe with a cup of coffee in her hand. The sight of her, beautiful and softened with relaxation, warmed his heart. "You're still here."

"Just enjoying a quick breakfast," she gave the half-eaten muffin and cup of coffee a wiggle. "I have a change of clothes down at my office to save me time. Trouble?" she asked, feigning a puzzled look. She saw the guilty shift of his eyes towards the phone, and watched, with a bit of resentment as he tucked it away under his pillow with a shrug.

"No. Nothing major. Just some...delays. Stuff. Nothing." Crap.

"Hm." She sipped from her coffee, then set down the cup and tossed out what was left of her muffin in the trash. "Right, well, I should get dressed and head down." When she bent over to pick up her bag, Gage swooped in, dragging her to the bed and, pinned her beneath him, his blue eyes sleepy and playful and...something she could almost peg as anxious. "Say it again."

"Gage—"

"Say it again."

She scowled at him with a laugh, then shook her head, linking her hands behind his neck. "I love you." Kissing his nose, she left him.

Once she'd showered and changed, alone, Gage sat at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, twirling round and round as his thoughts spun, working over the angles of Naseer and the promise of Victory, weighing the pros and cons as he fiddled with the small leather box. He had planned to propose last night, with the mood and moonlight, but when she had spoken of love...the pressing urgency to rush had eased. Not to say that he had changed his mind.

His heart wanted her. His soul needed her. His hopes, dreams and happiness were all wrapped in the appealing little package that was Victory Clarke. For the first time in his life, he was madly, beyond reason and sanity, in love with a woman he didn't want to picture a moment without. And last night she'd said she loved him. So whatever he felt, she felt it, too...but was it fair to propose now only to leave her in a week? Could he walk away and risk it all for potentially two years?

A lot could happen in that time. A lot could change. And he could come back only to find she wasn't waiting for him but had moved on with someone else. Decide to marry someone else. Have kids.

Fuck.

"Three days." He muttered, threading anxious fingers through sleep tousled gold. "Three days to make up your damn mind."

#

For the next three days, all Victory could think about, aside from glorious kitchen chaos, was Gage.

Tonight the buzz was steady, the bar was full and the lounge hopping to contrast the quiet and romantic whisper in the dining room. Back in the kitchen she carefully concealed a diamond ring, a large three carat white Russian, worth enough to pay off the remaining debt on her restaurant for the next three years, on a plate with assorted macaroons she set under a covered silver dome before passing it off to Becky, the server.

"Take that straight to table twenty four. But don't present it until Mr. Carlson gives you the signal." She held up her thumb and forefinger, formed the 'ok', and waited for Becky's compliant nod. A proposal was about to take place in her restaurant, a woman's life was about to change. A real defining moment where two people decided that this was it and life was a journey they would face together.

For the final hour, Victory helped shut down the kitchen. Loading the last of the leftovers in the cooler, Victory dusted her hands and made a note to see them donated to the local homeless shelter, and to take a few trays over to Crossroads to help tide Momma over for the remainder of the week.

Closing the freezer doors, she smiled at Belinda and Matthew, busy cellophane wrapping and stacking containers.

"Get going home, you guys. I'll finish up here. See you in the morning." It didn't take much more than a smile and a wave to send Belinda and Matthew out the door. Enjoying the peace and quiet, Victory hummed to herself as she wrapped and stored what was left, then—checking the time and since she was buzzing with energy—switched upstairs to her office to sort through receipts and track profits from another successful evening. They'd turned over tables twice for a complete booking, the lounge had seen a lot of action, as well. Not bad for a day's work.

Finished with bills and paperwork, she flipped over to some of her vendor websites.

They were running low on Pellegrino, she recalled, and could use another order of dinner plates to replace the two dozen that Jenny broke because she'd been too busy flirting with Paul to pay attention. Victory added receipt rolls, credit slips, booklets for dinner tickets and when she was done with that, she shifted towards a few purchases for the kitchen, from a line of brass cookware to a few molds and a set of knives.

With the items in the cart, she had a moment of doubt as she stewed over the price, then gave in to impulse and finalized the order. They were necessary. And, with the surge of business the opening of Sphinx's doors was soon to create, it was an expense she could easily afford.

Enjoying herself and seeing no particular rush to hurry home, streaming music from her iPod, glass in hand and bottle not far from reach, she sat down on the smooth slate floor.

The time had come, she knew, to do some clear thinking, and to figure out where exactly she planned to go with Gage.

She'd only been involved with him for—just over a month? Barely two?—yet they'd become much more involved than had with anyone else who'd entered her life. Prior and post Derek. And while she found that she was enjoying his company, sinking in to this intimate degree of involvement wasn't what she'd originally planned or prepared for.

And while a part of her wanted to rebel against her desires to plan, plot and ponder circumstances, she knew that whatever her feelings, being protective was the only course of action to keep herself safe. Maintaining a cool head and logical approach would prevent impulse and desire from clouding facts, or skewing with logic and her ability to tell a spade from a spade.

Victory had made enough mistakes in her short twenty-eight years where men were concerned and she wasn't about to fall victim to any more. She'd taken huge, monumental risks with Derek, and after falling flat on her face, she'd made a solemn vow never to be so reckless again.

Not that there was anything wrong with impulse so long as it was applied to spending sprees, and perhaps a spontaneous weekend getaway to anywhere. But survival and ensuring she never faced such debilitating vulnerability as what she'd experienced after Derek become so paramount, that she buried that reckless bent of her heart.

Now, she thought, it was that same open and trusting heart that had led her straight into the arms of Gage and his violently blue storm ridden eyes. His firm mouth that seduced her with an easy grin or a bone-melting kiss. His body, forged for the perfect female fantasy, a canvas of muscle and rough, masterful hands.

Naturally, she'd been attracted to the physical, and undone by the intellectual. But it was his open and generous heart, his easy and comfortable manner that was changes everything. So much depth that she hadn't expected, and the more she uncovered, the more she saw was in him to give.

Everything about him had taken over her, drawn into a fast, hard tumble. One moment, she felt attraction, interest, enjoyment. Then—in a blink—she was spiralling headlong into...what? Uneasy, Victory pressed the heel of her hand against the weight sitting above her heart.

She'd planned for an affair, but not for...this. A sort of passion so deep, so arresting that she knew it was going to cost her deeply once it was over...

But her emotions were her own responsibility, she decided. This couldn't—wouldn't—last. All good things much come to a close, that was a lesson she had learned the hard way.

And when the time came, she would handle her emotions, and she would survive them when he was gone. It was the right thing to do. Necessary. Vital. Better than standing in the way of his dreams, his very life, and rob him of everything he'd worked for.

With a firmer understanding of where she needed to draw the line, she shut down her computer and headed home. Her thoughts lingering in that hazy fog of senseless grey.

Weary with sleep and churning emotions, Victory turned the key in her lock.

And walked straight into a warzone.

A strangled cry caught in her throat, her eyes landing on every shattered surface of her home to find not a single inch had been spared.

Don't go inside, a warning voice echoed from a place of reason that held strong within the bright storm of shock. Call for help.

Backing out into the hall, feeling oddly detached from the rest of her body, Victory slipped out her phone and dialled down to the front desk. Because her legs were weak and her breathing uneven, back to wall, she slid down and waited until Harry's cheery voice answered the line.

"Harry, hi, yes—Victory. Listen. My place...I need help."