Author's Note: I'm expecting this to be in (approx.) three parts, as it's already half-written. Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!

From the first moment he sees her, he knows she isn't the one to fill the position as his much-needed assistant.

And it isn't because her step is a little off in her high heels, or her smile isn't bright enough, or any of the other things his previous assistant – Regina Mills, who has turned up to laugh at her possible replacements – will have you believe.

No, it is because Belle French is sin on a stick, and temptation has never boded well for him. As his tutor – Zoso the Great – has always said, "The girls are for looking at, not touching."

Which had been why he had chosen Regina in the first place, three years ago, because she's a cool-headed ice-queen who can charm the pants off the audience but who he doesn't want to go near with a twenty-foot fucking barge pole.

Unfortunately for him, Regina is also a backstabbing bitch who wants the big-time just as badly as he does. So, after sucking him dry of all his knowledge and her cut of the cash, she had moved on to the next poor bastard. Hunter – a young regular on the circuit – had taken her in gladly a couple of months ago, and, to be honest, Gold is glad he is shot of her, even if it leaves him high and dry with a solo act.

But, just like that, Regina had come swanning in to the village hall in the arse-end of nowhere where he is holding auditions – and, quite frankly, scraping the bottom of the barrel with – in his nationwide search for a woman who isn't afraid of letting him cut her in half and make her disappear in the same show.

Regina had slammed one of his damp flyers – with all the dates and places of auditions on it – down on the wobbly table he sits behind in front of the tiny, wooden stage, making the first girl jump out of her skin, and had told him that she didn't want to miss it for the world.

The fact that she hadn't turned up to all the other towns he'd driven through in his old, beaten, blue Ford Fiesta, looking for a new assistant, tells him that something is afoot, but he knows prying anything out of Regina Mills is like putting a ham-wrapped hand straight into the mouth of a starving Rottweiler: he's bound to lose something important.

So he lets Regina sit at the table with him in her designer kit and sunglasses – in the middle of the wettest fucking January England has seen for forty years – and he lets her heckle the girls that trot in through the side door of the hall.

Because if they can handle her, then they can handle any audience on Earth.

Belle French is beautiful and charming, with long dark curls and striking blue eyes, and she reads out the lines he gives her in a clear and attractive way, with a soft and worn twang of an accent that he finds intriguing and lends something to her stage persona, rather than detracts. She also has cracking legs, which he has a good long look at.

She seems like the type of girl that he'd rather go into a relationship with than business, and Regina's harsh and biting comments make it easy to dismiss Belle French with the usual crap about having her number and letting her know.

"Yes, thank you, Verna," Regina says in that usual, thinly-veiled, saccharine tone of hers. "Perhaps a little less glitter and a little more substance next time."

Belle French ignores her, steps off of the stage with a polite 'thank you for your time,' puts her long coat back over her glittery dress and tights, and gives him a lingering look as she leaves through the door she had come through, out into the rain.

When the girls have all come and gone, Regina leaves with a self-satisfied smile and a flick of her short dark hair, saying something about just passing through and catching the train to London. Gold wonders why she came at all, but for all her walls and tight-lipped nature, she's never been very good at hiding her hand of cards. He just needs to know how to read them.

So, he doesn't end up picking Belle French.

But because Fate is a cruel fucking mistress, he ends up having to.

The other girls – all three of them – who had auditioned were all a bust. The first was too clumsy, the second was five months pregnant, and the third was obviously on the bottle.

But then that's what Andrew – or Gold the Magnificent – expects from his luck these days: a klutz, a mother-to-be, an alcoholic, and temptation with a smile in sparkly high fucking heels.

So he sits at the tiny desk in his hotel room at the local pub, listening to the lively, drunken chatter from downstairs and thinking why. Why did Regina come? Why does Belle French seem like such a natural? And why the hell is she the only woman he's come across in the past month that is anywhere near fit for the job?

He stares at the red, plastic, hotel telephone in front of him, ignoring the CV she's given him and the picture of her paper-clipped to the front. But, of course, he just has to look.

It is a professional shot, black and white, and she is posed in front of a pair of velvet stage curtains like she's just heard her name and turned in time to see the camera and smile. She's wearing her glittery dress, looking only a little younger than her current twenty-seven years, and she seems to still have an aura of innocence about her that she did not have at auditions earlier.

Andrew glances at the CV, finding nothing out of the ordinary between her stints as a florist and a waitress apart from one gap; there are seven years unaccounted for, between 2001 and her current job as village librarian.

He lets his head fall back with a sigh, shutting his eyes and warding off the itch to go downstairs or open up the mini-bar in search of a stiff drink. He needs to tell her she's got the job – if she still wants it that is, after Regina's machinations – but also needs to find out how she could have gone from being a waitress in Perth to a librarian in Kent. He doesn't need another scandal on his hands.

At least now he knows where the accent is from.

So he looks at her telephone number, and lifts the receiver of the old rotary dial phone. As he turns the dial for the corresponding numbers, he notices nothing on her CV about experience in show business. There is something niggling at him about it and her obvious talent.

The call connects while the dial quickly spins back into place. She answers on the second ring.

"Hello?"

Andrew sits up a little straighter in the hard-backed hotel chair and clears his throat. "Miss French?"

"This is Belle," she confirms, sounding a little more alert.

"I'm calling about the audition," he says. "Earlier today."

There is a pause on the other end of the line as he watches the rain battering the small window above the desk.

"Oh." She sounds stunned. "When you gave me the line about having my number, I didn't think you'd actually call."

He scratches his head, pushing his hand through his recent inch-long haircut. "Well, I did– I mean, I am."

"Right. Okay." Belle French seems more frazzled than stunned now. "Wow. Thank you."

He is unsure whether to be flattered or concerned with her gratitude.

"But I need you to clear a few things up for me," he tells her, eyes on the jump in her CV.

She is quiet for a moment, but he hears the sound of rustling, then a sigh. "Alright."

"Why the move?"

He can tell from the soft sound – almost of defeat – on the other end of the line that this is the question she has been hoping to avoid and expecting that he would ask.

"I'm sorry," she says immediately.

He puzzles over her apology, but says nothing, waiting and watching the rain.

Eventually, she speaks again. "I omitted on my résumé."

Andrew sighs and draws his hand down his face, thinking he is going to have to start auditions all over again in a new town if she's stayed at Her Majesty's pleasure.

"I've done the circuit before."

This, of all things, is not what he had been expecting to hear, but it doesn't come as a complete surprise.

"Alright." He sits back in his chair, a little more relaxed. "I'd like some details, if you don't mind."

"I worked as a florist in my father's shop in Perth," she tells him after a moment, sounding a little resigned. "We had a falling out about what I wanted to do with my life, so I moved into the city to get into acting. I had to make rent, so I got a job as a waitress. There was a big show one night, nearby, and the actors came to the café because we were the only place open after midnight. I was...talent-spotted, if you can call it that.

"The guy – the magician – said I should audition for his assistant, so I went along the next day and...he liked me. He got big, and we travelled. We left Australia, went to Vegas, and we were so close to getting everything...but he choked, said he had to go back to his roots, that the spotlight was too hot for him.

"We went to Wales, and he just...shut down. Eventually, he kicked me out, said it was too hard to even look at me any more because I just reminded him of everything he'd lost, said it was my fault. I was so angry. I went to Cardiff, London, Edinburgh – everywhere – to look for work, but all I got was promises about call-backs. In the end, I met a friend – she's married now, off in Ireland – but I moved here a couple of years back, and I just let myself...forget. But when I saw your flyer on the church notice board it sort of woke me up...

"I'm sorry," she sighs softly. "I'm going on now."

Belle French, Andrew realises as she finishes her little speech and turns quiet, is a desperate soul – just like him – and one that deserves a second chance.

"Have you ever been arrested?" He asks, and she makes a confused sound, seemingly at the turn in conversation.

"No?"

He smothers any irritation he might feel. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"No." She sounds firmer. "No, I haven't. I don't do drugs or anything either, and I don't drink...you know, much."

Now he has to smother a smile. "Good. What about kids? A husband, boyfriend, lover, someone you'll be leaving behind?"

A pause. "I haven't been with anyone since him."

Ah, Andrew thinks, that's where she'd gone wrong. Never mix business with pleasure.

He has to clarify. "You understand this will be all business. I'm not looking for anything but a partner."

He wonders if he can really tell she's smiling when she says, "I know. That's why I'm still on the line. Although..."

"Go on."

"Your wife won't be coming with us, will she?" Belle queries, a little more tentatively.

It takes him a good minute, he'll admit, to figure out what she means, and when he does, he can't help the strangled laugh that escapes him.

"No," Andrew tells her, once his laughter has subsided into jolts of intermittent chuckling. "No, Regina won't be coming, and she's not my wife."

"Oh, good." Belle sounds more than relieved, and she laughs too. "She was awful."

Andrew smiles, looking out into the drizzly night, and already knows that something good is on the horizon, if he can just get over the way Belle French's sexy laugh makes him feel.

They had agreed on the phone that they would meet the next day in the pub to discuss matters over breakfast.

Andrew places an order for tea and a full English at the bar about nine o'clock, pays the narrow-eyed old lady there, and then takes a seat at a small centre table. He doesn't know why he feels so nervous as he runs a hand over his face and rolls up the sleeves of his jacket and cleanest shirt. But, perhaps, it's because he is so close.

He is so close to having an assistant – a good one – and if this works, then he could have an act for the slot he's been picked for at the end of June, in the Edinburgh International Magic Festival.

It's pure luck he's got that as well – a chance meeting with an old acquaintance who had owed him a favour and is working as Artistic Director for the show. Jefferson had warned him though – "No fucking up, or it's your head."

Andrew doesn't blame him for being wary. After Milah's interview, he doesn't blame anyone for not wanting to take him on.

His ex-wife had branded him a pervert, after all, telling the fucking gossip hounds that he had taken in girls looking to be actresses and stage stars and done disgusting things with them.

He had been in a frenzy at the time, close to breaking into the big leagues, when Milah had turned up and told him that she wanted her son. Her son, like she hadn't left him and Bailey destitute, scraping cash off club floors with a father-son magic act in Glasgow ten years past.

Andrew had been cocky, full of confidence and manly bravado – mainly because his then-girlfriend Delilah had been waiting back stage with champagne and no clothes on – and he hadn't seen it coming. He hadn't expected telling Milah to stick her wants where the sun doesn't shine to have such drastic consequences.

Consequences like getting Delilah – who was, he'll admit, a little green – to agree that he'd brought back confused and unwilling girls into their bed with promises of fame and fortune. Consequences like finding a veritable stream of desperate girls run ragged on the circuit to come forth and tell the world what a despicable and low-down human being he is.

Consequences like losing him his shot at nationwide and possibly international fame.

He had been bested. But he hasn't been beaten, and she hasn't gotten her hands on Bae, because he is abroad, off in America pursuing his own dreams, and he is untouchable. It's like she hadn't even known he was twenty-one at the time and quite capable of finding his mother if he had wanted to, which he hadn't and still doesn't.

So Andrew has careened downwards after that, looking high and low for someone who could take him back up, and Regina had been all too happy to fulfil that role. But while she had pretended to be satisfied with the clubs and slowly rising through the ranks, she'd had no designs of staying with him indefinitely.

No, she had seen him as a sinking ship, but she had looted him first before letting him know it. But she has no idea about the festival – she must think he's still merely looking for someone to drown with him – and he likes it that way. Let her be surprised when he shoots out of the mud with Belle French on his arm, straight past her and Adam fucking Hunter.

Andrew is knocked out of his thoughts by a plate being put in front of him. He thanks the old woman – who seems to be acting as waitress as well as barmaid – and looks up just in time to see Belle French walking towards his table.

She is smiling.

"Mr Gold," she greets, once she's close enough, holding out her hand. "Good morning."

He stands and takes her fingers in his, giving them a squeeze and finding them warm and soft. "Thanks for coming."

"No problem," she practically chirps, unobtrusively fucking sunny as she takes the other seat at the table as he retakes his. "I just rearranged my hours. There isn't much to do down at the library."

At that moment, the grey-haired woman returns with his tea and pours it at the table. She doesn't acknowledge Belle, but the younger woman has no such qualms.

Belle gives her a sunny smile. "Orange juice and Marmite on toast, please, Granny."

The older woman takes off without a word, leaving Andrew bemused, an eyebrow hitching on his forehead.

Belle answers his unspoken question. "We have a complicated relationship. It's her granddaughter I met in London and moved back here with, and I introduced Ruby to her Irishman. Granny blames me for Ruby leaving."

Andrew scoffs in amusement and starts in on his breakfast, eating slowly so as to draw out the time he has in which to think. And he's thinking about her, of course. She's entirely beautiful, with her curls and her eyes and her lips, and every inch of her seems to scream for him to touch her, from the soft notch at the base of her throat to her short and unpainted fingernails.

Her dress – a blue, floral thing – is not entirely suited to her. It's a frock made for an older woman – probably an unmarried one – and the pearl buttons remind him of his grandmother's false teeth. The watch on her right wrist is unfashionable, with a strap of thin leather and an oval face with Roman numerals, but, with what Andrew now knows of Belle French, it lends her an air of secrecy, of mystery. It's like she's a spy, deep undercover as a librarian in South East England, just waiting for her charade to end so she can burst like a fucking butterfly.

She has been stifled, he knows, and he wants to rekindle that flame. He wants to see the woman who got on stage yesterday, wearing nothing but glitter and a smile.

Belle receives her toast and her drink, and once the old lady, Granny, has gone, they are left once more to their own devices.

He's startled when he isn't the one to break the silence.

"So, I know who you are."

Andrew glances up to see Belle watching him over the rim of her glass.

He swallows. "Yeah?"

She nods. "And I just want to let you know that if you tell me those things weren't true, then I'll take your word for it."

He'd expected something like this, something about his 'past,' but not exactly this. He had never considered understanding, or trust, or even the chance of either, especially from a practical stranger.

He wants to tell her the truth, but, instead, he finds himself leaning forward and asking, "What do you think?"

She looks at him for a moment, scanning him with those too-blue eyes, before giving a smile. "I think you've been screwed over, too."

"Well." He gives a half-snort, glancing down at the bacon he has speared on his fork. "You've got that right."

It's quiet for a moment, before he feels the urge to truly tell her that he isn't the man everyone thinks him to be.

"And I didn't," Andrew murmurs, putting his cutlery into one hand and taking up his mug of milky tea in the other. "I never did any of it."

Belle doesn't pause, or smile again, or say anything else. She just takes a bite of her toast, and he knows she believes him. They finish their breakfast in comfortable silence.

"Business?" Andrew suggests, clearing his throat once the plates have been taken away.

Belle nods, dusting her fingers of crumbs. "Sounds good."

He takes out a folded wad of paper from the inside pocket of his khaki jacket, straightens the bent pages, and passes it over to her. She eyes the cover page with a shrewd look, an eyebrow cocked.

"A contract."

He nods at her statement, placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on top of his clasped hands. "I don't want you quitting out of the blue, and I'm sure you want reassurances, too. This way, we'll both get what we want."

Belle looks up, and Andrew feels a soft chill pass through him at the sight of her pleased smile. She could pry sins from the lips of a saint with that look.

"This is great," she sighs, reading through the clauses. "Thank you. This... I've been waiting for this."

He says nothing. He knows she has been.

She signs where she has to and puts her initials where he indicates, reading thoroughly – which he finds more than appealing in a future business partner – and questioning where appropriate. They confirm the details of her pay, in percentage rather than an absolute amount, and expenses. He also makes sure she understands the full depth to their new partnership.

"I'll need to train you," Andrew tells her, not unkindly.

Belle nods. "I know. The smile and the footwork, too, right?"

He bites back a colourful word to call Regina, and simply says, "No. We don't need to work on that."

She smiles at that – really smiles – and it's like he's just handed her the fucking moon. Her shy and pleased flutter of her sooty eyelashes is enough of a thank you for his, frankly, half-baked compliment.

"So," she says after a moment's silence. "Just the tricks, then?"

He smiles, long and slow. "Acts, dearie, and I'm going to teach you them all. But, ah, we'll need to spend some time in Scotland, at my home in Dumfries."

"Sounds wonderful," she tells him without a second's hesitation, before signing her name on the very last line.

The deal is struck, the contract signed, and Andrew can suddenly breathe easy.

He has an assistant. He has an act. He has a chance.