Charlotte ran a hand through her long, chocolate mane and tore herself from the mirror before it was too late. She didn’t want to be that woman who stood admiring or fretting over herself all night. One quick check, one little stroke of her locks, perhaps a touch of gloss, and she was through the door again, seeking her frienemy cousin.

In the crowd, it was near impossible to find Quincy, however (admittedly) pretty she happened to be. The St. James women, they were all lovely. Charlotte liked to think she was the loveliest, but it didn’t stop her from being secretly envious of everything her older and wiser cousin possessed. Still, she flashed the trademark smile and floated through the crowd, narrowly avoiding strangers’ hands, or placing her own mits where they didn’t belong.

With no fellow Single Woman in sight (in other words, the newly divorced mother of three, with whom she’d been dancing and drinking for a good two hours now), Charlotte did what any respectable woman would do: she headed for the bar.

It was hard to find a good seat, as Signature seemed as popular as ever, but somehow one materialized (as if by magic), and Charlotte found herself slipping into a cozy spot beside a handsome stranger. “Are the drinks on you?” She asked, tilting her head slightly to her left, speaking with a kittenish air of confidence without even yet having introduced herself.

Adon wasn't exactly sure why he had come here alone. Except, of course, that his friends were all losers.

Arch was on duty, Romeo was crashing -- or something --, Gil was running the restaurant, Altair was, well, not the sort of person you took to pick up girls with -- he'd call them sweet dove or something and they'd flit around him and he'd have no use for them at all. And Adon'd not bothered inviting Dree.

Adon needed new friends. And he was working on that. He'd gotten friendly with Romilda over by the mirrors. Become familiar with Cynthia over at the tables. Made . . . friends . . . with a pair of sisters somewhere. Adon didn't remember. He was, actually, starting to get drunk. Which meant the night was either drawing to a close or just beginning.

So, when he heard a seductive "Are the drinks on you?" near his ear, he did not look up immediately, but smirked subtly to himself. Just getting started, it seemed. He made a bit of a display of inspecting the front of his shirt. "On me?" he muttered. Finally, he looked up, smiling. Seeing what he saw, the smile easily spread to a grin.

God, she was perfect.

"No, the drinks are not on me," he said, eyebrows raised as he inclined his head slightly, as though leaning in to whisper a secret. "They are in me at this point and. . ." he looked across the bar, tilting his chin subtly with a pointed gaze at the bartender. He put a couple of sickles on the counter. "Whatever the lady wants," he muttered to him. The bartender nodded and both men turned their gazes to Charlotte.

"And that," he said, motioning vaguely to the bar, "is for you."

As for prepositions. The preposition "on" was for later. If he was lucky -- he hoped he was -- it wouldn't be drinks that were 'on' him. . .

Looking at him more properly, Charlotte realized she’d glimpsed the same striking young man a few times in the club’s dusky-lighted crowd that evening. With other women squirming to get his attention, nonetheless. These were the sorts of things that Charlotte didn’t easily forget, even while dancing with her frienemy cousin, or other, less notable strangers. She’d frequented Signature, a haunt that was the turf of the blue-blooded Grosvenor heartbreaker. Finn was young, but still an old friend. This was the first evening she’d laid eyes on this new drinking accomplice.

He was cheeky, too.

She raised a brow, and let out a little breath of laughter as he pushed money toward the bar tender, motioning for him to take Charlotte’s request.

“Well, thank you, sir,” she said after a moment of glancing humorously between both men. “I think this time I’ll have a rum and soda... with a couple of cherries in it, please,” she added, leaning over the bar to pluck a sweet maraschino from a big jar emblazoned with Signature’s suave title.

Turning back to the stranger-- swiveling in her bar stool, rather-- Charlotte glanced him over again. “But what are you having? I can’t drink alone. That wouldn’t be very ladylike.”

Oh, she was practised. A seasoned veteran of the scene. More so than he. He had to admit it lost a bit of her charm, yet added to her fascination. Adon typically did not go for woman who could lord over him. But it did add more to the value if he could catch them.

Looking at her again, it seemed a bit doubtful. But he wasn't Houdini for nothing. Impossibility was dangerous, fun, sexy. Well, here it went.

"Far be it from me to deny you a drinking partner. And far be it from me to deny myself a drink." He looked to the bartender. "Achilles' heel," he said, having read an editorial on Signature's drinks and being curious to try it.

He watched with a bit of a smirk as she, kitten-like, stretched over to reach a for a cherry. Very practised. She wasn't, he decided, the sort of girl you learned the name of. Adon had always been terrible at names; he'd forgotten Thea's on their first meeting and she, two years later, had never quite forgiven him for that. It was better to lower the level of accountability.

Adon couldn't imagine she was the sort to ever drink alone. He wondered how often she came here. How often she met people. He wanted a feel for the competition. "Do you come here often?" he asked, allowing his accent to shine through just a bit more. "I hear it is the best -- in the Magical Community at least." There. Another test. See how she responded to the possibility of Muggle bar-hopping.

Charlotte raised an impressed brow as he placed his own order. She’d sipped it once or twice, but had never had more than a taste. It was a strong drink, the one he’d requested. “I hope you hold your liquor well,” she chimed, clearly humored.

“I do,” she conceded, settling back into her seat with the cherry, and looking at him with a charismatic smile. “Come here often.” Clarification. “The owner is an old... friend.” Of sorts. Finn Grosvenor had been Charlotte’s first adventure into cougar land (relatively speaking, of course). Until then, and mostly following, she’d tended to go after the older ones. But he’d been fun, and remained a good friend. “Don’t let him hear you saying that anything could better than this place...”

Her own rum and soda arrived in record time, placed enticingly in front of her. But she didn’t lift a finger. Instead she kept her attention on her new companion. “The last time someone implied it, the premiere drink menu doubled.” Perhaps that was a tall tale. An exaggeration. But if Charlotte knew anything about Finn (and she knew a lot), it was that he was ambitious, personable, and pioneering. A trust-fund baby, perhaps, but he’d built his own empire. And no one was going to out do him, least of all an ordinary barkeep in London.

“Muggleborn?” She inquired, finally reaching blindly for her drink. She didn’t mind them, muggleborns. But she preferred the magical way of life. She’d rolled her eyes when Sam had dragged her into a muggle clothier for example; but in the end, it had been worth it, and Charlotte had walked out with an impressive number of garments. “We weren’t in school together, were we?”

"I hope you hold your liquor well," she purred -- Adon realised idly that this woman was the most feline he had met yet. And while his brother kept that creepy familiar -- an Egyptian mau -- around, Adon couldn't help but muse that he wouldn't mind if this cat was a bit more . . . familiar.

Adon flashed a smile, noting that she was waiting for him to take a sip before she enjoyed her own drink. And a gentlewoman, too. He took a slight sip, enjoying at first the flavour. He had no idea what he really had ordered, but it would be no problem at any rate. Adon had some gifts. The most notable of which was his ability to drink. And drink. And drink. It was, unfortunately, his least marketable talent. That did not imply, however, that it had not come in handy and served him well.

Adon practised as often as he could. Because, well, such things needed to be second-nature. Yet Adon had none of the ability to forget that he often envied his friends when they drank. There came with liquor, however, a certain openness. And callousness.

Of course, Adon had been drinking all night and, on ordinary nights, would be drawing his limits at about now. But he had something to prove, didn't he? He smiled a bit broader as he rested his forearm across the bar so he could lean on it, looking sidelong at her. "I hold it, I drink it, and enjoy it very well," he reassured before nodding at her own drink. "How is it?" He paused before adding, "After such a description of your friend," a raise of the eyebrows as he said this teasingly, suggestively, "I can hardly expect you'd give anything shortest of the highest of praise. That is, if he's here and within earshot."

He swiveled his head about. "Is he?" he smiled mischievously. For his own sake, he hoped not. He wanted this woman incredibly alone. Because Adon prided himself on being a helpful sort of man; and he could help with that.

At the question of Muggleborn, Adon's cheek flinched, barely perceptible. A woman like this -- that might not have been a compliment. "No; actually quite far from. But my family's very involved in their doings," he responded, thinking of his father's works, his brother's previous job teaching Muggle-Mage Relations. "We lived in Israel. So, unless you somehow managed to escape my notice at Beit Gaddol--" He broke off here to take another sip, adding "impossible" under his breath as he did so, "I would have to say the answer is no. You -- let me guess. Hogwarts. Former Slytherin? Gryffindor. Hard to say. And a. . ." he looked her briefly up and down. "Londoner.  And that is obvious because that is where the most attractive people live in these parts. What else should I know about you?"

Just no names. Not for now.

Laughing at his answer, Charlotte nodded in agreement-- and in approval. It was honest and ballsy, and exactly the sort of response she was looking for tonight. Someone to entertain her, someone easy on the eyes and not particularly heavy in the heart.

“It looks like we have a lot in common, then. I enjoy a good drink or three now and then, too... especially now.” Because ‘then’ was the past, and the only past that concerned Charlotte was the one which she could hold against someone or use to her advantage. This stranger’s past was of little concern. The present was much more entertaining. Unless...

“Well if you don’t know him by face, you’re obviously not from around here.” She tilted her head, suddenly curious about his whereabouts, despite her current live-fast-and-for-the-present line of thought. The one that tended to sink in when a few drinks had warmed her throat. “But, uh... he’s not around here either, not right now.” Wherever Finn was, he was likely having a jolly old time. The young aristocrat.

His answer to her oh-so-innocent question about his bloodline seemed to kill two birds with one jinx, in that it also confirmed he wasn’t from this area. “I’ve heard good things about your alma mater,” she acknowledged. What was wrong with dabbling in the exotic array of men who found their way to rainy England? Nothing at all. “But, no, I’m a Hogwarts girl, through and through... for better or worse.” She winked, but then sat up, lips parting. She rather impressed with his analysis. He’d pegged her alright. “Not a lion,” she said, mocking a sour expression. “Slytherin, yes. You’re good. Do you stalk us or something?” Grinning, she lifted her drink again. “And I do live in London. A lovely little penthouse... You should drop in sometime. If you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

“So, do you collect muggle artifacts, or...?”

"Three?" Adon asked with a smirk. "Three's a magic number . . ." he listed off idly, looking at her over his drink, eyes raking her neckline.

"Especially now.” Adon mused as he thought this over, not certain, exactly, what was meant by that. One might be concerned: a rough day? Or one might be flattered: she was going to do things she wouldn't normally . . . Or . . . one might be slightly insulted. She needed beer goggles.

The last one made him chuckle slightly to himself. He put the drink down with a soft clink onto the countertop. "So . . . you're saying this would be better after three drinks. . ." He leaned in a bit. "Why?"

“Well if you don’t know him by face, you’re obviously not from around here.”

Adon recoiled slightly at this. It seemed he didn't know a lot of people by face. Surprising, as he was a man accustomed to knowing. But first Trina, now this man -- whoever he was. He had neither name nor face. Adon didn't like not-knowing. Unless it was a choice. He wasn't from around here, no, he reminded himself, lifting his chin a bit as he took a deep breath, thinking.

Just the sort of thing he wasn't supposed to do tonight.

Thinking ruined everything.

So it was better to return to the conversations about things that didn't really matter. It really, he decided, just gave them the opportunity to stand near to each other, the excuse to look at each other. . . She didn't seem to mind the scars. Which was fortunate; he hadn't quite expected that. Perhaps not being from here was a bit of an advantage -- it was mysterious. In Israel, it was just bad luck.

"Not a lion -- but you have the lion's share of things, it seems. I must have gotten confused," he said, picking up his drink again and smiling wolfishly at her last question. "Stalking is such a common sounding word. . ." He raised an eyebrow, allowing the silence to confirm suspicions for just a moment before adding, "And no. I've just noticed that people here have a way of categorising very neatly. It's a fairly easy system to understand, once you get the hang of it. And I'm trying to, ah," he smiled a moment, looking into her eyes -- they were gorgeous; and much more convenient to look at than her legs, which were also fantastic. He could enjoy looking at them just a moment longer -- "acclimate myself to London living."

As fortune would have it, he had a tourguide. “And I do live in London. A lovely little penthouse... You should drop in sometime. If you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

"Well, that's funny -- I live in the neighbourhood. Greater London, at least." His brow furrowed as he thought, finding himself dangerously close to being genuinely interested. "I've just moved, though, and am trying to find out what sort of neighbours I've got. What part?" A light chuckle followed as he added, "You must remember what I said earlier, though -- I don't stalk. Do you believe me?"

“And I love magic,” she assured him. She could toast to that. It was one of the sincerest things she’d uttered all night. Though her flirting with this stranger was quite genuine, no doubt about it.

"So . . . you're saying this would be better after three drinks. . ."

“Why not?” She challenged. “There’s not harm in enjoying something, is there? Especially if you can enjoy it while enjoying good company, too. It’s a winning situation for everyone.” Charlotte believed wholeheartedly in excesses: money, men, magic. Why settle for one diamond necklace when they were willing to toss half a dozen in her direction? They gifts. She didn’t owe them anything, but she certainly wasn’t going to turn down a present or six.

"Not a lion -- but you have the lion's share of things, it seems. I must have gotten confused.”

She smiled. Confusion could be endearing. Yet another reason three drinks were better than none. But, whether under the influence or not, she could see him just fine: handsome, mysterious, with unexplained scars. Battle scars? Whom had he defeated? Someone, if he was still alive. That was Charlotte’s line of thought. It was an attractive quality, really. He wore them in a way that suited him. “Right,” she agreed, not bothering to hide it. “I do tend to... get more than some people’s fair share. I guess I don’t like settling.”

She wrinkled her nose, still smiling. “Don’t make me for a commoner, sir. I was just being curious...” But, of course, she didn’t mind in the least someone betraying a bit of... egotism. Elitism, perhaps. Charlotte understood both all too well.

She knew he was staring at her; she stared back. The difference was that Charlotte’s eyes remained on his face, his eyes, his lips. The man’s seemed to roam freely to her bare legs, and anywhere else. She didn’t mind. She enjoyed the attention. “We are categorical,” she agreed. “But once you’ve made a friend or two, it’s easy to get the hang of things. We have a lot of rainy days... a lot of time for... chatting.”

An invitation? She could never turn one down. Not from this sort of patron, anyway.

“I’m sure we live near enough. Just an Apparation away.” She raised her drink again. “I live just outside of Diagon Alley, near a lovely little park. A penthouse, too, actually.”

Shrugging, she didn’t answer one way or another whether she believed him, though she’d really been joking all along. If it were the right person, Charlotte never minded a little stalking, anyway. Not that this man had the time or patience. He seemed quite well adjusted, however new he was to the neighborhood.

“And I love magic,” she assured him.

"To magic, then," he toasted, raising his glass and eyebrows, before taking a final sip. He'd not be foolish enough to go for another. He'd been drinking all night. And a rational man -- if he wanted to stay a rational man -- would stop now. Before he ended up losing his countenance and . . . other things. Like his stomach. And . . . other things.

“Right,” she agreed, not bothering to hide it. “I do tend to... get more than some people’s fair share. I guess I don’t like settling.”

There was a deep rumble of a chuckle in his throat at this. A compliment? From her? Well, that was promising. And not something he got every day.

His smirk grew knowingly at the mention of a penthouse. Of course. Put his commonhold flat to shame. At least he'd upgraded from the bedsit he had in Jerusalem. But it was home. And it functioned just fine for what he needed it to. "Well," he said, putting his glass down onto the countertop surface, "we are neighbours. I live near Leadenhall Market -- outskirts of the magical community, though. Have some other rather . . . interesting neighbours," he chuckled as he thought of the woman with the stuffed duck who carried it about the street to sit in the park. Could not be the same park that this woman spoke of; he couldn't see her sharing a bench with a stuffed duck.

Though the thought was rather amusing.

Realising he'd been monopolising her time, but also realising that no one had come to claim her -- an odd instance, but perhaps she kept discreet company -- he looked about the club curiously. "You come with anyone?" he asked. If it was a man, he'd not dare ask her any more about her penthouse. And if it was a girl -- or group of girls, as they seemed to move in flocks -- they'd need to be tactful to avoid any gossip later.

The London Wizarding community was, as most Magical Communities, too small for comfort.

Charlotte could feel the fingers of tipsiness creeping across her brow, sinking into her brain. They calmed and delighted her, and made her already questionable inhibitions all that more... questionable. In the most wonderful, light-hearted way, of course.

She could tell, too, that the drinks being served were having a similar-- or perhaps more lucrative-- effect on her new ‘neighbor’. “Leadenhall’s a nice area,” she admitted. And it was. The muggles seemed to have fashioned it after Diagon Alley. If Charlotte didn’t know better, she would have asked them. Only the random, modern, and very still-life advertisements gave it away to wizards visiting for the first time. That, and the chalkboard price tags in British pounds... and, perhaps, the lack of other wizards. “Some of the food they make for busy lunchers, though...” Charlotte questioned a few of the egg dishes she’d seen whilst walking through the shaded, domed market and on to Gracechurch Street.

"You come with anyone?"

An innocent shrug was followed with a sigh of an answer. “Oh, just my cousin. If she’s not passed in the loo from all the fun she hasn’t been having lately, she’s probably ditched me. We’re sort of like sisters, really. Love-hate, you know...” More on the bickering side than the hugs-and-kisses.

Draining her final glass, she stood up, wobbling just barely, but managing a completely sober expression. Casual. “Do you want to have a walk, my friends? All the dancing has it made it a bit stuffy inside. Fresh air is good for the soul.” She nodded to his glass. “And your pockets.” Signature’s signature drinks could cost a pretty galleon. She extended her hand and motioned toward the coat room near the front of the club.

Adon shrugged at the compliment on Leadenhall. He'd gone there because it was close and it was convenient. It was expensive, sure, but the Eleors had money -- being one of the oldest wizarding families around, on both sides. They just didn't know how to spend it.

Adon did.

He'd had some smoked salmon one day wandering Leadenhall, seated amidst suits that looked like they cost more than his rent back in Israel. And he wanted it -- the salmon, the lifestyle, the suits -- not that he really planned on wearing all that many suits when he could dispense with them. For now, he was enjoying it. Being in a business part of town meant the place cleared out, for the most part, after six or seven, and he could be as loud as he pleased. Which came in handy when he wanted to play music or the radio, or compose something on piano later at night. Or other activities that made noise. . . Adon felt a flush come to his face from the drink and he cleared his throat as his eyes once more raked over Charlotte.

It was the drink, he knew, but Adon did not follow the comment on food. Had they mentioned food? Were they talking about that? He didn't want to, so he didn't comment. He didn't really want to think anymore.

And so, when she mentioned a cousin, who might be sick, Adon's natural instinct to make sure she was alright, that she was not left behind, was suppressed. Damn it, if he was going to get some, he couldn't have some nauseous tag-along . . . along.

He nodded mutely to the explanation, feeling suddenly a bit overwhelmed by the noise and the . . . thinking. Yes, he had to stop thinking. At the mention of a walk, he smirked slightly. "A friendly walk sounds nice. . ." He left the tip on the bar counter, finished his drink, and, placing his hand upon the small of her back, steered her towards the door. "Did you bring a coat?" he asked; it should be warm enough outside, of course, but if they weren't coming back. . . she'd best gather her things.

Already headed for the door, Charlotte paused, flouncing slowly so that her hair swished. She looked him up and down and grinned. “I did,” she said, matter-of-factly. Detouring sharply for the coat room, grabbing his hand as it brushed her back and tugging him along with her, she soon found herself pulling the pretty stranger into the big, desolate closet. Charlotte, Mr. Leadenhall, and a whole bunch of coats.

She browsed them, her fingers tracing the softness of each hanging jacket or cloak; she’d long since become friends with the bouncers, elves, bartenders, and coat boys at Signature. They’d let her past without so much as a word. She didn’t need help finding her belongings. Well, perhaps this fine young man’s help...

“Did you?” She asked, turning around to face him, grabbing his other hand so that she was now holding both of them. She swung them absently, feeling the mingled heaviness and lightness of the drinks going to her mind. “Bring a coat?” She elaborated, smirking.

Adon watched, breathless, enchanted, as she moved her way into the cloak room. He decided with no little uncertainty -- she had calculated and practised those steps to the greatest effect, to exact the highest emotion from her viewers.  And it worked. He only hoped that his hand, as she took it, did not betray the quickened pulse he felt. He was glad he did not have a coat on;

Adon was not complaining -- not one bit -- as he watched her hips shift and sway with each step.

Moloch, he cursed in his head. Perfect.

She turned her back to him, but he knew she was not unaware of his presence as she fingered each of the cloaks and coats in the closet. He noticed the deep, blood-red crimson of her nails -- matching her lips . . .

They were still holding hands, but Adon moved in closer, wrapping an arm around her waist as she turned. She moved his hand to swing both playfully; like a schoolgirl playing jumprope with his arms. Adon was a fool if he gave himself up to believing this woman wouldn't want to play with him a bit. Schoolgirl tricks. He smirked back at her question because it seemed to require it. Because he was drunk. Because that was his default expression. And he was brewing a response which also required it.

"Mmm, yee-es," he said mused hesitatingly, leaning in closer, conspiratorily. "But, you see," he elaborated, painting a conundrum, "a coat's not really," he moved in closer still, his lips nearly at her cheekbone, "what . . . . I want on me tonight."

It was time to take command of his hands again, and Adon, not daring to break the connection, guided her hands up to his neck before shifting slightly. One hand broke free to run along her bare shoulder and come to rest at the back of her neck as he moved in for a kiss. He felt the soft hairs that grew at the nape of the neck -- softer than the skin, and his smirk grew more self-assured. He felt particularly clever tonight, and as always in such moments, Adon's face glowed with a certain becoming confidence that bordered on arrogance, his eyes brightening and breath catching.

The coziness of the coat room might have had more to do with the dim lighting and excess of insulating attire hanging from wall to wall, but Charlotte could have sworn it had followed them in. The air of mystery that surrounded this dark and handsome gentleman with the curious scar was rivaled only by the warm anticipation of his lingering form (slightly bleary in Charlotte’s tipsy line of vision).

She didn’t protest the arm that snaked smoothly around her waist; in fact, her lips fortified their grin, inviting the liquor-inspired touch.

Turning her cheek a bit toward the coats as he spoke the word, Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh. She leaned closer to his shoulder, her lashes hovering demurely over her cheekbones, pointed toward the ground while her eyes caught of glimpse of the suggestive-tongued stranger.

“Really?” She asked, sounding innocent enough, as she leaned closer still. She raised her chin and met his eyes, but then she seemed to look past him... or over him... and refocused her gaze on his neck, as if he were some sort of victim she might soon feast upon. Melanthe would be proud; Lia would call her indecent. The devil and angel on her own shoulders danced invisibly while Charlotte made friends with the man’s more solid limbs. “Don’t you think you’ll be cold... without a coat?”

His hands brought hers up, and she brushed her fingers over his neck, settling them behind his rich head of hair. Meeting his kiss, Charlotte was at first meek, and then hungry. Her mouth played with his, nipping in soft, clumsy turn at his bottom lip, and breathing in whatever delicious thing Finn’s army had served up tonight. She found his jawline, kissed that next, and then drew back, clearly humored. “Where do you want to go... to put the non-coat... on you?”

But before he could reply, Charlotte tugged at his shoulder, one arm still laced around his neck. She stumbled out of her heels, stood on her tippy-toes, and beckoned him to sink with her. With a wondrous laugh, she fell backward into the wall of coats, and slid down the wall, making a lovely seat of the floor and some woman’s out-of-style mink. “Oops,” she said vaguely, of the quite-intentional fall. Clasping the man’s hand, she leaned toward him again, intending to kiss him more properly.