Shayne considered herself an excellent judge of character, reading people and moods, finding the truth through the bullshit and zeroing on what was either. And right now, seeing the kitchen in utter disarray as Victory stood over a raging stove, screamed of someone who swept emotions and troubles under a rug rather than deal with the mess.

Well, she thought while rolling up her proverbial sleeves, Victory Clarke was about to have a rude and brutal awakening because Shayne De Melo Donovan was a woman not afraid to get her hands dirty.

"Victory, hello."

Her head snapped up from the pot she was bent over, and Victory didn't even bother to mask the temper in her eyes or the irritation at having her private little haven breeched by the breezy and beautiful Shayne. Dressed in sage, she looked as pretty as summer, her mass of dark curls cascading and tumbling around her face, grey eyes warm against her golden skin. The woman, she thought with a snarl of resentment, couldn't possibly be human.

"I'm busy," Victory slid her gaze and attention back to her succotash, stirring vigorously. "Go away."

"What I have to say won't take long," Shayne insisted, not intimidated or deterred by the obvious dismissal and rejection implied, both in tone and stance.

"Fine." Covering the pan, Victory shifted over to the double ovens to check on her braised pork bellies. Found them beautifully cooked and the aromas—mouth-watering. Another couple of hours and they would be heaven on a plate.

Cooking was to Victory what a punching bag was to a boxer, Shayne realized, watching the way she moved, diving from one thing to the next with all the aggression of a flurry of punches, her feet moving in a dance Shayne found oddly hypnotizing to witnesses.

"I just saw Gage. He's in a real mood today." And, from the look of it, you are, too. Shayne mused, setting down her purse on the only clean wedge of counter so she could prop her hands on her hips. "He told me a bit about what happened."

Victory snorted, jabbing the ladle into the pot of veal stock she had reducing to stir rather vigorously.

"He's only part of the problem" Shayne pressed on, undeterred. "This morning I got a rather curious text from Niobe," she paused, grey eyes assessing in quiet speculation. "Requesting I step in as Maid of Honour."

She caught the jerk in Victory's shoulders as understanding slapped Victory straight in the face before her eyes cooled and chilled to mask the hurt.

"I am sure she had her reasons."

"And they would be?"

"None of your damn business."

Same words she threw at Gage, Shayne thought, interesting. "Since this matter pertains to someone I love and hold dear, I'd say it does concern me." Arms crossed, Shayne dug in her Manolo heels. "So, why don't you open up and talk to me, Victory, like a grown woman instead of snapping like a temperamental and childish brat?"

"Why?" Victory whirled around, brown eyes blazing as bright and hot as the flame on the range. "Because Queen Shayne says so?

"Finally we're getting somewhere..." Shayne's eyes popped with realization and understanding. "You don't like me."

"No." And because it was true, Victory shifted her eyes, and feet, uncomfortably. "I–"

"Yes, yes, oh—you've got guilty-judgy face." She gasped, a smile gleaming in her eyes at having sorted out part of the puzzle. "You think because I married a celebrity and wear designer clothes that I'm a snob."

"I..."

"That's why you've been distant, and your cool aloofness every time I'm around. Well, let me tell you something, you and I are not all that dissimilar. Before I met Roarke, I was a broke, pitiful wreck and lost everything in a horrible divorce to a selfish husband who took everything so he could start a new life with his twenty year old mistress."

Dammit, Victory thought, and picked at the waist of her apron. She didn't know what was worse, the fact that she'd misjudged Shayne, or that Niobe had blabbed and shared the details of her shady past with this irritatingly perfect glamazon?

"She never said a word," Shayne sighed, reading the apparent struggle with guilt and betrayal in Victory's eyes. "But for women who've endured what we have, I could see the signs on my own. I'm very observant and know how to read people, a useful skill in my profession. So, what's the deal? You think I've been influencing Niobe? Changing her?" She cocked a brow. "Stealing her?"

"It was never this hard." Victory huffed, ruffling her bangs. "I feel like I hardly know her. We can't speak the way we used to and it—"

"Hurts." Shayne supplemented with a knowing nod. "Yes, it hurts. But news flash, sweetie, people change. They grow. And Niobe isn't the same girl who left Toronto ten years ago. Neither are you, and there's nothing wrong with that. You both have gone through so much, how could you expect to have faced all that you have and come out the other end the same?"

"I've tried talking to her," Victory grumbled begrudgingly, minding the stove, she turned down the heat on the burners to simmer. "But Niobe won't return my calls, and when we do talk it's never more than a few, curt pleasantries before she brushes me off and hangs up. I hardly get a word in edgewise."

"Hm," was all Shayne said, but there was a wealth of meaning loaded into the single syllable.

Shamed heat blasted in her cheeks. "Are you trying to imply that I'm not trying?"

"Yes," was Shayne's immediate and unapologetic reply. "You're used to things just snapping back into place between you, never having to apologize or explain. But the dynamics have changed and you're out of your depth."

"I've never seen her so...disagreeable and difficult." Victory pushed back her hair so she could tie it into a small, blunt tail with the band looped around her wrist. "I'm not the only one who behaved like a spoiled brat."

Shayne cocked a brow. "And is that normal for her?"

"Well...no."

"Is Niobe the sort to lose her patience and temper over such trivial and menial matters?"

Victory puzzled over the question, an uncomfortable twinge niggled somewhere in the pit of her stomach. "No."

"Then maybe you need to ask yourself what else could be going on."

"If there is something wrong she should just talk to me about it. I'm not a mind reader."

"I don't disagree with you, but you're not the only one too proud to open up and ask for help when it's needed," Shayne pointed out. And because she was right, Victory could only snap her mouth shut with a frown.

"Did you come here to lecture me about Gage, or my strained relationship with Niobe?"

Shayne straightened, folded her arms. "Both. I thought you'd appreciate a change in sounding board. Especially since I married his brother and can provide unique insight into the Donovan psyche. Gage and Roarke are not that dissimilar.

"He cares for you. Deeply," Shayne continued, planting her hands to the stretch of stainless steel. "You're smart and astute, so I am sure you're aware that you matter to him, and by brushing him aside so carelessly, hurt. And since he's hurting, and since he's important to me, I want to see it resolved."

Because it was obvious that Shayne wasn't budging, or going away until she'd said her piece, Victory turned away from the range and wiped her hands on the towel. "I appreciate your concern, but—"

"I have twin boys," Shayne interjected, grey eyes narrowed. "They'll be three in September, and do you know what I've discovered about men and boys?" she asked then ploughed on when Victory's only response was to shrug. "They can be hurt just as easily. Donovan men are a deep and brooding sort. Strong, capable and with a will of iron that rarely bends, and as women who hold their affections we must be gentle, because in the hands of those they trust they are most vulnerable. And he's vulnerable with you."

Dammit, Victory thought, now she felt like a first rate, heartless bitch. A feeling she didn't particularly need or care for and left her more than a little ashamed because Shayne was right.

"I've got a lot of baggage." Victory sighed. "Personal and private. And I took it out on him. I know that, and I'm sorry for it. I just don't know what to do."

"Be honest. You don't have to share what is going with me, but Gage deserves an explanation. Put yourself in his shoes, Victory." Shayne slipped on her glasses, gripped the strap of her black purse. "I know you'll make the right decision." Striding towards the doors, she paused and cast a glance over her shoulder.

"As for your baggage...if you want to get rid of it for good being passive is no longer an option."

Left alone with that, Victory stewed, and paced, and stewed some more. Once the rest of her temper and defensiveness burned off, all that remained was shame and embarrassment. God, she thought, you are such a moron.

Shayne was right, and dammit, she hated to admit it. Because she hadn't wanted to deal with it, because she'd opted to just sweep Derek and her past under the rug, all she'd succeeded in doing was lashing out at two people who had only made the mistake of caring. Derek was only able to mess with her because she'd allowed him to walk away. Not once, but twice when she should have called the police.

Well, better late than never. Charging into her office, she leapt onto her computer and searched through her email until she found the contact details for the empathetic detective who, out of sympathy, shared the dirt on Derek Cole when her investigation fell flat.

Dialing in the phone number, she sat back and listened to the pulsing ring and almost smiled when she heard his rough, unmistakable voice.

"Detective Greg Bartz."

"Greg, my name is Victory Clarke. Not sure if you remember me, but you'd worked a case a few years ago..."

"Course," he answered without hesitation. "Miz Clarke. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well," Apprehensively, and in a nervous gesture she didn't even realize she was doing, Victory twirled the length of her office phone cord around her finger. "I have a lead on Derek Cole. Can we meet?"

Over the line, she heard the abrasive scrap of chair legs on linoleum, the heavy shuffle of his shoes, the muffled sound of voices as he exited his office.

"Did you say Derek Cole?"

"You heard me," she sighed. "Bastard popped up a couple weeks ago with the—'Hey baby, did you miss me?—routine."

"Arrogant prick," Detective Bartz muttered. She heard the rumbling wheeze of a pop machine dispensing a beverage followed by the hissing pop of the can being opened. "Any particular reason why ya waited so long to call?"

She understood the implication from his tone, and though it annoyed her, she couldn't blame him for having the thought crossing his mind. "I told him to get lost," she assured. "Didn't want to stir up the past, but apparently he didn't take me any more seriously than you just did and was here again this morning. Now I realize he doesn't deserve to get off easy. I want to stop him before he takes advantage of someone else. I should've called the second he first turned up, but I'm calling now."

Detective Bartz guzzled back a long swallow of pop, and released a low rumbling burp. "Yeah, kiddo. Better late than never. I can swing by in say an hour. Just have a few things to clear up on my desk before noon."

Victory glanced at her watch. It would run a bit tight towards evening prep, but given the circumstances..."I'll make it work," she replied. "I'll be at my restaurant all day. You have a pen and paper handy? I'll give you the address."

She waited as he got the necessary supplies, then the prattled off the information.

"Great. 'Kay, Miz Clarke, hang tight and I'll be there soon. In the meantime, might want to write down everything ya remember about your conversation. Jog the memory a bit. What he looked like, what he wore, car—if ya managed to squeeze a look at it. That sorta stuff."

She nodded, caught herself. "Okay. Will do."

"Great. 'kay, then. Talk soon."

Victory was a bundle of nerves that she used in the kitchen, but even though she kept herself busy, the minutes made an irritating habit of stretching out past the point of bearable. Finally, right when she thought she was about to lose her mind, Detective Bartz showed up.

He was short with thick, wiry hair, his frame wide and stocky as a bulldog, with a flat face and hard blue eyes under rust colour brows. Small hands with blunt, thick fingers, hooked in the waist of his belt, holding up faded jeans and he smiled his usual lopsided grin when he saw her.

"Miz Clarke." Detective Bartz rocked on the heels of his shoes, the restless eyes of a cop rolling across the expanse of her kitchen. "Ya got somewhere private to chat?"

"Sure." Wiping off her hands so she could lift a plate, she led him back out into the private section of the dining room, away from potentially straying ears or eyes of soon-to-arrive staff. She set down the plate of double chocolate brownies with walnuts atop the table where she already had fresh coffee waiting.

"Just baked these this afternoon." She smiled as his haggard, hound dog face lit up with a boyish grin.

"Ya remembered." He flushed a giddy pink, plucked a brownie from the cellophane wrapped plate and released a grumbling sigh of ecstasy.

Victory slid into the banquette facing him, her anxious hands linked in her lap.

"'Kay, kiddo, let's start at the beginning." Bartz pulled out his narrow pad, pressed the top of his pen with his blunt thumb and began to scribble. "Tell me what happened, as best as ya remember. No rush, this ain't a race."

Going back over the events and recalling all the nitty-gritty details wasn't especially difficult. Victory always had an unfortunate knack of remembering things she'd wished she could forget with perfect clarity.

He'd scarfed down three brownies while taking her statement and was working on his fourth by the time they'd finished.

"So he was holed up in Miami, y'say?"

"That's right." Hands in her lap, Victory twisted the ends of a cloth napkin.

Bartz snorted, adding to his notes. "Miami. A sunny place for shady people," he muttered under his breath. "This is good. Real good. 'Kay," He waved a half-eaten brownie, his eyes level and all cop. "First order of biz is we start combing hotels. The swankier the better, then roll down from there. Meantime, keep my card handy and call soon as ya get a whiff of him, y'hear?" Rising, Bartz stuck out a hand, shook hers with a single, brisk pump.

"We'll find him this time, Miz Clarke. And nail his fuckin' balls."