My apologies for taking so blasted long. I was short on inspiration. Anyways, this chapter is dedicated to Poe Parcheezie and Macy Carmaire, for getting me off my lazy butt. This one's for you guys!

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I hate Goldenpeak, I hate Goldenpeak…

"Tell me again why we are doing this?"

Joren sighed and glanced down at Keladry. He had to admit (to himself only, of course) she looked attractive tonight. Well, not so much attractive as elegant, refined. Her hair had been done up into some stylish hairstyle she had concocted, including curling her hair and then pinning it up, and it looked very good on her, and she had added a smidgeon of eyeliner and mascara. She had put on a little bit of foundation to hide her old acne scars. A string of genuine pearls encircled her long, graceful neck. She wore a shimmering black dress that hugged her body loosely. Most would have called it gaudy on anyone else; it suited Keladry Mindelan perfectly.

"For the thousandth time, my commanding officer told – no, ordered me to go out with you. He wanted for as many people to see us together, strangers or friends."

"I won't argue," she sighed. "As long as you're paying."

Joren twitched.

"I'm glad Neal didn't go with us," she continued, her tone conversational. "He would be running up to people asking some kind of stupid, disturbing questions."

"I figured him for that type of guy."

"Reservations?" the maître d' asked, flashing a brilliant white smile at them.

Mithros, did he dye those goddamn things? My eyes! They burn! GAH!

"Stone," Joren replied politely. Damn bum. You're gonna poke an eye out with those things.

"Right over there, sir, miss," he said, pointing with his gloved fingers to a table in the corner.

"I love the Dancing Dove," Kel commented once they were seated. She smoothed her dress nervously. "It's so elegant. Cleon used to take me here all the time."

"Cleon?"

"You know, my ex."

"Oh yeah. That angry redhead twerp."

"Don't bash Cleon. He's nice. A little stingy – he is a lawyer after all – but we're still friends."

"He didn't look too happy to me on the elevator," Joren ventured, smiling stiffly at the waiter as he brought them menus.

"Ah, Cleon's funny that way. It's okay for him to date chicks – but so help him if he catches wind that I've even talked to another guy," Kel said, opening the menu. "Great gods, I forgot how expensive all this is."

"Order what you want, I got the money."

"Don't sound so modest," she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

"I won't."

"What would you like to drink?" the waiter asked. His nametag read Esmond.

"Champagne for both of us," Joren ordered curtly. "The best in the house."

The waiter bowed. "As he wishes." His gaze flicked to Kel before he turned, only to wheel back around again. "Keladry?"

Kel blinked, confused, then her face broke out in a wide smile as she shot up, her eyes dancing. "Esmond, gods, is it really you?"

"I haven't seen you in ages," the man said, hugging her tightly, and she replied in kind. "It's been what, four years?"

"More like ten," she said brightly. For some reason, Joren felt a little put out by all the attention she gave him. Was he or was he not her boyfriend? He stood up and Esmond turned to him, his face polite.

"I'm Joren Stone," he said coolly, holding out a hand. "Her boyfriend."

"Esmond Nicoline," the waiter said, his gaze never really leaving Kel's face. Was he caught up in the moment of reunion with an old friend or was he aghast at her loveliness? Joren didn't like either one. Most people called it narcissistic, but as long as he was in the picture, he was to come first before any of her priorities, or at least tied wit her own. That meant coming before Neal's, and Cleon's, and especially Esmond's.

"Haven't you some place to go?" Joren said, ever the aloof patron. "Like the kitchens?"

Now Esmond looked at him, his eyes glaring, taking deep offense at that little snub in his status. He drew himself up importantly. "I, sir," he sneered, "do not belong in the kitchens. I am a waiter, just short of becoming maître d', and as such I demand respect – "

"Dude, come off it," the handsome blond said impatiently. "You won't even be blessed with working in the kitchens if you don't hustle – I see your boss glaring at you."

Blanching visibly, Esmond scuttled off, not even glancing around for his boss. Joren told a half-truth – there was someone glaring at them, it just wasn't Boss. It was Cleon, looking sharp in a black tux, wining and dining a small-waisted busty blond dressed to kill in a short miniskirt and a dressy silk shirt. Kel didn't turn around, but glared at Joren as she slowly sat back down.

"What was that about?" she snapped, furious. Joren was not even listening. He was focused instead on Cleon, who excused himself from his date and was making his way toward them. He was barely aware of the other man coming toward them – a man slightly taller than average, with middle-aged features, including almost no hair.

Just as both stopped at the table, the lights went out.

Joren did not hesitate. He leaped to his feet and swung around the table to grab for Keladry, and would have made it too, except someone large blocked his way, and they both crashed against the table to the ground, sending the table and chairs toppling over with a racket rivaling that of an earthquake. He heard a squeal of indignation, knew intuitively that it was Kel, and was fighting, snarling to extricate himself from whoever was on top of him, but realized it was to no avail. The large person entangled with him was doing the same thing, and all they managed to do was slip and jumble each other more.

The light's switched back on.

Joren took inventory.

It was Cleon intertwined with his legs, scowling at him with just as much zest as that of a preacher for his faith.

Keladry was not in her seat, but her purse was.

The middle-aged man who had been skulking amiably toward them was nowhere to be seen.

And Joren, with his heart sinking rapidly into something akin to anxiety and frustration and perhaps a little fear, realized that he failed his mission.

"Godsdamn it!" he shrieked.

No one made a fool of him. No one stole a client literally right beneath his nose. No one made a mess out of one of his missions.

No one.