Gage made good on his vow to give her space and time to breathe, pushing through the weekend and employing a considerable amount of will power to give her a wide berth.

But seeing that it was now Monday, Gage calculated he'd stayed out of her way long enough, and called. Twice.

Both times, he went straight through to voice mail. Hanging up, annoyed and determined not to feel defeated, he decided to switch to email. Email was how they'd usually corresponded, after all, how he'd broken the water and eased into a friendly relationship before they'd had a chance to meet face to face.

So, staring at the computer screen, he began to type:

Hey, thought I'd try and reach you, see if you were up for a late dinner tonight? We could keep it simple, grab a pizza and open some wine.

I miss you...he added, then sat back, lips pursed, drumming his thumb against the edge of his desk. Was it too much? Not enough?

And while he puzzled over the last three small words, a new email popped through, catching his eye. Opening it, he skimmed the first few lines and stopped breathing. A job offer sent from the offices of Muhammad Ibrahim Naseer, one of the single wealthiest development billionaires in the whole of the Arab Emirates...Gage bulleted through the rest of the email, his eyes widening with growing disbelief.

Mr. Naseer has admired your work for years... extends his wishes that you lead the restoration of the renowned ruins of the Al Nahyan Mosque...generous salary and compensation of...

Stunned, Gage almost choked at the proposed seven figured amount. Excitement, ground in more than just the thought of money, was a cool, vibrant rush in his belly. This was sort of the thing he'd been aching to get his hands on. A perfect marriage of old world history and contemporary art. The chance to not just build, but create something that would be revered. Respected. Remembered.

And then that excitement shot down into the base of his stomach, settling somewhere in the void of brooding doubt. A project like this wouldn't be something he could manage or facilitate on this side of the ocean. He'd have to relocate. The demand and hours alone would tie him up for at least the first six months... minimum.

So? A voice sniped in the back of his mind. Wasn't like he had any responsibilities, or obligations. Things are well under control with the Sphinx...nothing to stop him from jumping on a plane at the end of the month. Tomorrow. Or even right now...

Or was there? Victory...

"Hell with it," Gage muttered, closing his laptop. He'd been patient long enough. It was time they cleared the air.

To give himself time to think, Gage elected to walk from Tristan's condo, where he'd bunked the last couple of days; nothing like the company of a friend to help pass the time. Some beers, late nights of poker, and the weight in his chest was almost bearable.

On the way over, he stopped outside of a little shop.

Suitable Elegance the sign read, the window display full of bright and vibrant flowers. Some said summer, and others geared towards the whimsical or the romantic, but each assortment was clean, thoughtful and brilliantly done.

"Hell," he muttered again and reaching for the handle, swung inside. More than just a flower shop, he realized, but a full scale little venue for décor. He saw centerpiece displays, for either weddings or large and elegant parties, atop tables dressed in linens, plating, candles and cutlery. To create the full effect, he mused, for the fussy client who lacked imagination.

A young woman beamed at his entry, tidy and trim in grey slacks and powder pink silk blouse, and strode over with a friendly, 'I'm the owner' smile in place.

"My name is Rachael, can I help you?" she asked, pressing a hand to mink brown hair pulled away in an elegant chignon.

"Yes," Gage replied, hands in his pockets, his thumb toyed with the curved edge of Soleil's business card he'd carried with him always. "Do you assemble bouquets for walk-ins?"

"Of course." Expertly, Rachael steered him to the left of the shop where a cooler boasted an array of vibrant blooms, displayed for colour and interest. People, she noted, were often more eager to purchase flowers, if they were able to see them, touch them, smell them. "See anything that grabs your eye?"

"Um..." He skimmed over vibrant pinks, jolting reds, scorching oranges over to the cool and sophisticated whites and creams, the palest purples...how the hell was a guy supposed to know what to get?

And because Rachael knew men were often as befuddled with flowers as they were by jewelry, she leapt in for guidance and support. "What sort of woman is she?"

"Irritating," was his immediate response, but then he added with an endearing sigh, "She's strong. Capable. Determined. Headstrong to the point of sheer frustration, bold and beautiful and..."

Oh dear, Rachael thought, here was a man blindly in love and didn't have the faintest clue. "Sounds like one hell of a woman."

"She is. She is." His eyes slid to the right, his smile spread. "Those." He jabbed a finger against the glass. "Those right there."

"Excellent choice," Rachael agreed. "And certainly the sort of bloom I think would best compliment a woman of such complexity. Bright and cheery, bold yet comfortable, they are a symbol of loyalty and constancy, evoking feelings of warmth and happiness, adoration and longevity."

"I'll take three."

#

The kitchen smelled of heavenly short ribs she'd braised long and slow for the better part of the day. Music streamed, sultry and sensual Spanish melodies she'd downloaded after that night at the Harbourfront...and tried not to think about Gage.

Should she call him? And say what...exactly? Hi, sorry I was a brat, can we have dinner so I can apologize like a mature, reasonable grownup? And what if he didn't pick up? Her conscience niggled. Or worse...what if he did only to tell her that they were done? He'd certainly be well within his rights. After the way she'd behaved, a bit of prostration and groveling was no more than she deserved.

Rolling up the sleeves of her University of Toronto sweatshirt, stained and splattered, ripped and torn from years of use, Victory sampled the sherry and veal stock reduction.

"Delicious," she sighed, smacking her lips, and added a generous knob of butter. That would be exquisite with tomorrow's entrée of blood orange and honey glazed duck, beautifully complimented by the sinfully smooth puree of potatoes and parsnips and topped with a couple of crispy thick-cut strips of smoked bacon.

Maybe she could invite him to the restaurant for dinner tonight. She could book the private room...and they could enjoy a quiet, intimate meal. An 'I'm sorry and there's lots I need to tell you' kind of date?

Humming along with the music, Victory jotted down notes to reflect revisions to the menu for tomorrow night. Scooting over to the ovens, she eased out the crème brûlée's, careful to keep the steaming hot water bath steady, lowering it to counter in gradual, descending increments. Peeling back the foil, she breathed in the decadence of creamy vanilla and maple syrup.

"Perfect." She beamed happily. "Absolutely perfect."

Gage stood back a moment, and just absorbed the sight of Victory in her element. She'd tied her hair back, the few escaping tendrils curled in the scintillating steam from the pots working on the large industrial range.

Her little bare feet, shuffled with a giddy little step that made him smile, dressed in a sweater two sizes too big and coral pink gym shorts that said 'kiss the cook' across the tantalizing curve of her bottom.

As the song changed, Victory started to sing along with the crooning ballad that pinched an unfamiliarly tender place in his heart. Christ, he'd missed her, almost to the point of pain.

Remembering himself, Gage cleared his throat.

Victory spun around, lost her breath. He stood leaning against the jamb with an easy sort of manner that said, 'I belong here'. Long silken locks of burnt gold pulled away from his sculpted features, roughened with a haze of subtle he'd ignored for at least a day, allowing her to be struck, full on, with the sulky mouth and deviously wicked eyes that always glimmered with equal measures of laughter and mystery.

"Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you." His easy smile said he wasn't sorry in the least.

"How did you get in?" Absently she brushed a hand over her hair and hoped she didn't look as awful as she suspected.

"Jacqueline heard the doorbell. Told me you were back here."

"Right." Victory nodded, only now recalling she'd asked Jacqueline to come in to sort through the receipts and check on the week's inventory. "So, what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to give you these." From behind his back, Gage swept out a trio of sunflowers, bright and happy yellow petals surrounding a lustrous chocolate center, bound together with a robin's egg blue ribbon. And watched as her eyes went wide and misty.

"Oh." She could barely find her voice. He'd brought her flowers. And not the kitschy, typical mixed sort that men usually picked up from a corner store when trying to score a few extra points, or a dozen long stem roses—when trying to score, period—but sunflowers.

Sunflowers for Soleil.

"They're beautiful." She said when he brought them to her, then held her breath when his lips skimmed the curve of her cheek.

"I've been thinking about you," he nuzzled the delicate slope of her neck. There, standing in her kitchen, surrounded by the scintillating aroma of decadence, his mouth watered—for her. "Three days. It's been torture."

Victory's fingers curled around the thick stalks of the flower stems. She closed her eyes against the rise of tears.

"I thought you were...mad."

"Never." He eased back a step and met her gaze straight on. "Surprised, yes. Hurt?" He pursed his lips, shrugged. "Maybe my ego. Besides, the way I see it I've got e makeup sex coming my way, so what's to be mad about?"

God, Victory pressed a hand to her brow with a laughing groan. She'd expected him to want to chew her head off, at the very least take a snap at her. But here he was, bringing her flowers and being so sweet, funny and understanding, she suddenly felt even smaller and more guilty than before.

"I know I acted...there are some things about me that you don't know." Swallowing hard, she set down the flowers atop the opposing stainless steel counter, and then stuffed her hands in the front pockets of her sweater. Exhaling heavily, her breath ruffled the steam-curled tendrils framing the left side of her face. "Things I didn't think would be such a problem anymore, but—are." She finished weakly. "I know it sounds cryptic, and..."

The words died on her tongue, he saw the flash of doubt, the quick shift of self-preservation and thought, Oh no, I'm not letting you push me away again that easily. He'd promised he'd keep his temper and pride in check, but backing down or letting her retreat were two options entirely out of the question.

Gage yanked Victory against him, closing his mouth over hers, taking without question. The heady taste of her blasted through him, like being drawn into the heart of the sun, he thought, overcome by the flash and burn. So Gage matched that heat with need.

Vibrant, greedy demand pumped out of him and slammed straight into her so that all Victory could do was hold on as he devoured and gorged until satisfied.

"I gave you space," he said when he eased her back her eyes all misty as she struggled to get a hold on her bearings. "I gave you time, but I won't let you push me out. Trust me, Victory." Gage held out his hand watched as her gaze slid to it, then shift, slowly, back up to him.

Head spinning, blood churning, Victory fought to regain sense and reason in a storm of want his kiss had evoked. Could she do this? Should she? And while the voices of doubt and reason went to war, it was her heart who shouted loudest, and silenced them both.

As her lover, as a man she liked a great deal and respected considerably more, Gage deserved no less than complete and utter honesty.

Taking a deep breath, and a chance, Victory slipped her hand into his, and linked fingers, squeezed.

"Okay."