Following dinner, while Niobe primped in the guest bedroom—a production Victory knew could run close to two hours—still revving from the high of seeing Soleil, firsthand and the unexpected arrival of her best friend, Victory decided to wrap up her day with a couple follow-up calls.

For the half-hour, she bounced from contractors to suppliers, and even the dynamic design duo Vi-Va, but only to gush with excitement and praise. And saved the best call for last, and dialed in Isabel's work line.

And wasn't the least bit surprised to get a hold of Isabel, even at such a late hour.

"Don't you ever go home?" Victory teased and smiled at Isabel's answering sigh.

"Home? What's that? Besides you'll appreciate my brilliance and dedication come Saturday. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, fine." Lifting her empty glass of wine she'd poured earlier that evening, she strode towards the kitchen to pour a fresh one.

"Good, glad to hear it. I am sure you're aware everything is on schedule for Saturday. It's going to be one hell of an event. When it's over, you'll have people lining the block days before your doors finally open."

"I'm already getting swamped with advanced reservations," she laughed, just a little giddy at the thought. Phone sandwiched between her cheek and shoulder, she topped off her glass, emptying the bottle. "And speaking of reservations, do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

"Nothing that comes to mind." Isabel sang below her breath and punched fingers aggressively over the keys of a keyboard before she followed up with a more assertive, "Nope. Other than a client meeting that should wrap up by six-thirty, I have a relatively clear and open Thursday evening...which is about as rare as Halley's comet and will only ever occur once in my lifetime."

"Excellent." Opening her cupboard, she found the half-finished bag of Oreos, added five to a plate, hesitated, then added five more since she was in the mood to indulge. Calories be damned. "Keep it that way. You're coming out for Niobe's stagette. She's in need of a coordinator for her wedding and I'm going to set you up to make the pitch."

"That's very thoughtful, and I appreciate the recommendation. When's the big day?"

"Twelve weeks from now." Victory replied, taking a bite from an Oreo and followed with a sip of merlot. "Date's not written in stone, but she has her heart set on an October wedding before it gets too cold and frigid. She loves the glow and warmth of fall."

"Autumn is a beautiful season," Isabel agreed, "and to my mind, the perfect time for a wedding. Lovely, well, I won't say no to a night of drinks and dancing."

Recognizing and appreciating the weary note in Isabel's voice, Victory leaned against her counter, finishing off the second half of her first cookie, and smiled. "That bad of a week, eh?"

"Exceptionally bad. Bad on a scale of proportions so epic, I fail to find the appropriate cliché's to do it justice."

"Sounds like a lot of tequila is in order. Alright well, I'll fire off an email with details of when and where, and then we'll get drunk and dance until we're hobbling like a pair of feeble, old women."

Isabel laughed, a beautiful sound, soft as rose petals. "Looking forward to it. Talk soon."

Finished with calls, Victory returned to her room and blasted her music as she set about to begin her pre-party ritual.

Diving into her overcrowded, entirely disorganized closet, she found the sexy little black dress she'd picked up from a beautiful new boutique, Menagerie. It had long sleeves and a high neckline that skimmed around her shoulders but with a hem so short her legs appeared to go on for days and days.

A dangerous little dress, she mused, if a woman wasn't careful and not wearing the right sort of underwear. And with that in mind, she opted for a black pair of lace. Keeping with the monochromatic theme, Victory slipped on simple, but classic pumps, and tossed on a thick gold cuff bracelet and blue stone earrings for interest. Against the black of the dress and the almost black of her hair, the blue shone bright and bold as Caribbean waters.

Because her hair was hopelessly curly, thanks to the rise in summer humidity, Victory decided, why fight it?—and embraced the volume by refining her tresses with a curler, then finger combing for tousled and sexy waves. Pleased with the end result, she moved on to makeup.

Drama, a woman with eyes like hers could handle drama, and a lot of it. When wearing a little black dress, smoky and dark was just the way to go. She layered warm gold tones punched up with husky black, lots of liner and two coats of mascara. Long lashes, one of her best features, framed large eyes of velvety amber.

For her lips, she applied a shade of lipstick that verged between red and plum. Just a hint, she thought, to get the idea without the full punch of the heavy colour. She had a great mouth, full and lush with a bright smile, but she wanted her eyes front and center stage.

Finishing off the look with a touch of powder and blush, she did a once over, smiled with approval. Putting away her makeup and styling tools, she dusted off her hands and turned off the light.

Gauging herself for time, Victory figured she could squeeze in fifteen minutes to check a few emails. Fortunately, there weren't many, so she sat down and worked through whatever had been left unanswered or pending, and stopped when she reached one from the Sphinx's leading architect, Ryder Donovan.

Unlike his famous celebrity brother Roarke, she'd never met the man in person, only corresponding through a never-ending stream of emails over the last year. And although she was thrilled to be standing at the finish line, a small part of her was sad to know it was soon to come to an end.

The cursor blinked over his name. Clicking open the email, Victory leaned closer, reading the brief correspondence with a smile.

Flew in yesterday morning, finished a meeting at Sphinx, working over final touches and putting out wildfires. I stopped by Soleil for an impromptu sneak-peek on the way out.

She's a beaut. Knew she would be. I'll be sure to book a table, opening night.

- RD

Easing back, Victory drummed her fingers along the keyboard, grinning from ear to ear as she typed a reply:

Great to hear you're in town. Hope all your meetings went well and without headaches. I've still got a few fires to stomp out, as well, but otherwise things are progressing nicely.

Impromptu walk-through, eh? Tisk-tisk. I stopped by the restaurant earlier today, as well. Must have just missed each other. Shame.

Would have been nice to meet you, finally.

If you're sticking around for the weekend, why not reconsider the party on Saturday?

As for opening night, I'll make sure you get the best seat—chef's table.

First bottle of red is on me.

- V

She paused, reading over her email. The tone was equal parts friendly and flirty—as was the overall theme of their correspondence the last few weeks. Nothing wrong with a little harmless cyber flirting, was there? After all, he was the slightly younger brother of the Roarke Donovan, a man who occupied the majority of women's fantasies for the last ten years since his starring role as Quinn Cameron in the edgy paranormal thriller: Malevolence.

So, Ryder was bound to be equally gorgeous, not that a guy like him, born on the right side of the Hollywood hills, would ever look twice at someone like her. Besides, he probably had a leggy debutant or a Giselle Bundchen-esque model dangling from his arm.

A few months prior, when curiosity had peaked, she'd tried to run a Google search to get a glimpse of the mysterious Ryder, but the few photographs she found, he was either ducking and dodging cameras, lingering in the back of a group or entirely out of focus. There were a few of him and Roarke from their earlier teenage modelling days that launched Roarke's acting career, but while his brother sought out fame and adoration, Ryder swung around and ran the other way as fast as he could.

In fact, she was surprised that a man with his illustrious family connections was able to maintain a non-descript and low profile lifestyle for the last decade. He rarely attended gala's or functions, movie screenings or major A-list parties, preferring to keep as far from the radiance of the Hollywood limelight as possible.

Seven years ago, he'd moved from boisterous and loud Los Angeles to serene and picturesque Vancouver. Instead of gracing magazine covers, he picked up a tool belt and worked with his friend Matthias Grayson, a hotel chain savant, on several of his projects, bringing a level of charm, quiet sophistication and masterful artistry that had helped turn Grayson's line into a budding empire.

Her lips twisted pensively, the cursor blinked back at her on screen.

Hitting send, Victory pushed away from her computer. Slipping on heels as she paused by the entryway mirror to check her face, fluff her hair.

Enough about work, and enough wondering about the mysterious Ryder.

Tonight she had a hot date with her best friend and a dance floor. 

#

Ryder Gage Donovan went to Everleigh, alone and on a whim, in need of a drink and good music to unwind after a long day of work, deciding to enjoy the trendy patio lounge of the upscale venue.

As the leading architect in charge of not only design but project management for the Sphinx, he took pride in his work and, out of the many he'd collaborated on throughout the course of Matthias Grayson's exclusive chain, this hotel was quickly becoming his favourite.

And the most challenging.

From day one, the project had been fought with hurdles, setbacks and delays that had kept him up most nights and resulted in more headaches then he cared to count. And while his title, position and pay didn't require he put in the hours onsite that he'd worked the last six months, Gage always preferred to be the sort of leader carrying his weight at the head of the pack, instead of cracking a whip from behind a desk in a swanky office thousands of miles away.

Nothing gave him more satisfaction or a greater sense of accomplishment than immersing himself in the work, sliding into the rhythm of men, hammers and drills, electric saws and dry wall; to be one of the crew, in the trenches with his team. And then to see it, when the project was all done and come together, knowing his hands and mind helped forged this creation, leaving behind his blood and carrying a piece of it with him in bruises and scars.

After a long and tumultuous road, the build was finally drawing to a close. In less than three weeks, they'd cut the proverbial ribbon and swing open the doors to the flood of guests, most of which were celebrities, fashion designers, media moguls and models, already clamouring to be the first to spend a night in Toronto's newest luxurious and aspiring five diamond hotel.

Reaching into his pocket, Gage popped out his blackberry, scrolled back to his last message from Ms. Clarke and smiled. Sassy was the overall undertone, and he liked it. Playful but not overt. No, Ms. Victory Clarke was anything but. In fact, when curiosity had peaked, he'd flipped open his laptop to run a Google search on this intriguing, faceless woman, only to come up shaking his head.

In a day where it was almost impossible to go through life without leaving a single blip on the internet, Victory was a ghost. No social media sites or pages, no stray pictures from university, not even so much as a professional headshot on Soleil's website. Only an interesting little bio, outlining her foray into cooking at George Brown for three years, and following that she'd worked beneath some pretty prestigious chefs like Lynn Crawford, Susur Lee and even Mark McEwan. But anything outside of the last seven years was a complete mystery and she kept about as low and off the radar as he did.

Prizing her privacy over notoriety—a quality he had to admire.

Kicking back in his private booth, content to enjoy a night to himself, the last thing he expected after a long and tiring day was to have a woman catch his eye. And what a woman!

Great legs.

There wasn't a man alive who didn't appreciate a woman with great legs. Strong thighs met shapely calves and tapered into sleek ankles, dressed up with a pair of sexy black pumps. Every step turned another head in her direction as she danced, really danced, to the primitive rhythm of tribal house. In a roomful of beautiful faces, all eyes were on her.

And the best part? She didn't even know it.

Gage sipped from his glass of rye and ginger, his eyes travelling up those legs, and took a good hard look at the face.

She'd spun around, features hidden behind a shock of black hair, a waving mass cut in an angled bob that demanded confidence. At first, all he saw was a pair of brown eyes. Almond shaped against pale gold skin, wide and innocent. Playful.

And then a mouth, lush and full, highlighted by sculpted cheekbones and delicate chin, painted a subtle shade of red. Sensual. Provocative. Those lips opened in a laugh. A sultry, smoky sound that shot straight to a man's loins.

His artistic eye appreciated the sheer beauty of that face, and everything else that went with it. A first-rate knockout with a bit of sass and sense. Rare bird, if he ever did see one.

Gage set down his glass.