<div class="floatleft">(http://res.freestockphotos.biz/pictures/5/5625-a-beautiful-woman-in-a-white-dress-sitting-on-theatre-chairs-pv.jpg)</div><strong>Name/Occupation:</strong>Mrs. Avery LeBlanc, Professional Widow/Socialite<br/><strong>Time/Day:</strong>Late afternoon, Day 1<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Courtyard<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Jiovanni, Fern, James the Embittered Butler, and whomever else might like to be about<br/><hr/><br/>The alabaster Aston Martin One-77 purred into the elegant drive of Ironstaff, pure sex crafted into one-of-a-kind form and function - rather like its driver.  The playful creature behind the wheel pulled past both with the practiced ease of a seasoned driver, waving pleasantly with one hand to both recently arrived dinner guests before parking the vehicle along the curb.<br/><br/>The engine cut, the silence rushing in like a prelude to a hell of a show - one that would in no way disappoint.  The driver's side door opened, one golden bare, shapely and incredibly long leg after the other easing from within that magnificent vehicle.  Avery LeBlanc stood to her exquisite, breathtakingly expensive Giuseppe Zanotti stilettos (http://www.fashaddictshop.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/giuseppe-zanotti-summer-white-wings-heels-2013.jpg?v=7516fd43adaa), as airily sumptuous as her J. Mendel gown (https://cdnd.lystit.com/photos/8804-2015/08/29/j-mendel-ivory-crepe-high-neck-gown-with-cutaway-sleeves-white-product-3-185921926-normal.jpeg).  If she noticed one of the cars she drove by was an Aston Martin - even as the other was decidedly<em>not</em>- nothing in the cursory glance over both said as much.  Honey-gold hair falling in waves about her shoulders, she glided along the length of the drive like a dream, like a spun sugar confection of summer clouds and pure, sweet deliciousness.<br/><br/>"Well how<em>do</em>you do?"  Her voice flowed like sinfully dark molasses, her thick Georgia accent warm and luscious as fresh peach cobbler as she closed the distance between herself and Jiovanni.  The man was a complete stranger of course (however oddly familiar, in a way she just couldn't put a finger on quite yet) but in Avery's world?  There were no strangers, only potential playmates.  And<em>this</em>man looked like he just might know a particularly entertaining game or two, or at the very least?  He certainly knew his way around a good time...<br/><br/>"My name is Avery.  Avery LeBlanc.  And aren't you looking<em>just</em>like the kind of gentleman who'd offer a lady an arm."  Actually, he looked more than a little put out, but it would be incredibly impolite - and impolitic, of course - to say as much.  That did not stop her from boldly sliding her arm into his, skillfully and simultaneously pressing a rather delectable curve or two along the length of his oh-so-elegantly dressed self.  An impish little lift of her perfectly shaped brows followed the flitting of her gaze from his face to the grand entrance of Ironstaff, as if she were curiously appraising the possibilities.<br/><br/>And then she lifted herself just so to her tippy-toes, quite the feat in those stilettos (and testament to a lifetime of doing that and more in precariously high heels), the heat of her spice-scented breath bathing his ear. "Is there some show we're all waiting on out here?" she whispered with a soft laugh as she let herself back down, peering about him toward the only other vehicle in the drive.<br/><br/>The arm not currently hooked into the beautiful man's arm raised to wave to the pretty little lady still sitting in her own car, for no particular reason Avery could fathom.  "Well, just<em>bless</em>your sweet heart," she called, her perfectly-painted crimson smile warm and welcoming and, surprisingly enough, making it all the way up to those angel blue eyes.  "What are you waitin' for?  C'mon now darlin', Mr. Temple doesn't strike me as the kind of man who's going to thank you kindly for letting his dinner get cold."