Danielle Steel - Second Chance

“I think I can manage that.” He had to make some business calls himself, but he was planning to do them in the afternoon, because of the time difference with New York. “What do you like for breakfast? I'll order for both of us, if that's all right with you.” She was so independent that he didn't want to step on her toes, or make her feel out of control. He had a feeling that wouldn't be a good move.

“Grapefruit and coffee,” she said unceremoniously, with a small yawn. She was getting sleepy, and he liked the way she looked when she did. She seemed somehow softer and smaller, and not quite as efficient or as daunting, or as much in control.

“Can't you do better than that? You can't run around till lunchtime on half a grapefruit and a cup of coffee. You'll fall over, Fiona. What about an omelette?” She looked hesitant for a minute, and then nodded. “Do you like anything in it?”

“Chanterelles,” she said, smiling up at him, and he looked pleased.

“That sounds good to me too. I'll order it for eight-thirty. My room or yours?” But he had already guessed before she said it. He was starting to know her.

“Mine probably. Someone may need to call me. I'm working.”

“No problem. See you in the morning, Fiona. I had a wonderful time tonight. Thank you for including me. This is definitely a night I won't forget, though I don't think anyone would believe me if I described it to them. I think I liked all those Masai warriors best of all.”

“Naturally.” She smiled at him. “That's boy stuff.”

“What did you like best?” he asked with interest.

She had a sudden overwhelming urge to say “being with you” but didn't, and was shocked at herself that it had even come to mind. “The wedding dress maybe, or the painted skirts.” She was going to write about them for the magazine, and hoped that the photographs of them were good.

“I thought the tigers and leopard were great too,” he said, sounding boyish. He could hardly wait to tell his daughters what he'd seen. They knew he had gone to Paris, but they didn't know why or with whom. He always let his daughters know where he was, particularly now that Ann was gone.

“I should have taken you to the natural history museum or the zoo instead of Dior,” Fiona teased him, and they both laughed, as she scolded him for the irreverence, and lack of fascination with fashion, but she knew he'd had a good time, which was all that mattered. They lingered for a moment, sensing each other more than saying anything, and then he gently kissed her on the forehead and walked to his own room with a wave. Fiona felt haunted by him as she walked into her own room. He was damnably attractive, responsible and normal, sensible and so undeniably all-male. For a mad moment, she wanted to run down the hall after him, but she had no idea what she would do after that, if she did. She was trying to keep her head clear despite his proximity, but suddenly it seemed harder to do. She felt overwhelmingly attracted to him. But fortunately, he had closed the door to his room by then, and Fiona congratulated herself silently for her self-control. It would serve no purpose getting involved with him, she told herself. She had made that decision in the course of the evening. He was handsome as hell, and she was physically attracted to him, but she was wise enough to know that they were just too different. She wasn't a kid anymore, after all, and some gifts, no matter how alluring they were, were better left wrapped and unopened. All she had to do now was get through the next few days of the shows without losing control. She was determined to do just that and not succumb to John's charm, no matter how hard to do. And when it came to self-control, Fiona was a pro.

Chapter 5

John Anderson knocked on Fiona's door the next morning, with the room service waiter standing right behind him. As Fiona opened the door, she looked wide awake and was wearing a pink terry-cloth Ritz robe and matching slippers. Her teeth were brushed, her hair was combed, and she told John she had been on the phone since seven o'clock that morning. She and Adrian had discussed the Dior show from the day before, and were in complete agreement as to which were the most important pieces. They were both going to Lacroix that morning. Adrian had been to the ateliers the day before and was extremely enthusiastic about what they'd shown him. By the time John arrived for breakfast, her head was already full of business and fashion.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked solicitously. He was wearing gray slacks and a blue shirt with the collar open. And he was wearing impeccably shined black Gucci loafers. As she looked at him, she was aware once again of how attractive and sexy she found him.

“Yes, thank you.” She smiled at him as the waiter set out their breakfast on the rolling table and pulled up two comfortable chairs for them. There was a folded newspaper at each place, and a small vase of red roses on the table. It was the perfect breakfast. “I always sleep well. Although I have to admit, after I've been here awhile, I miss the sound of Sir Winston snoring. It's kind of like the ocean,” she said as they both sat down, and glanced at the papers. They had two copies of the Herald Tribune. And for a moment, they sat in silence, eating, lost in their own thoughts, as they contemplated the morning.

“So what am I going to see today? More leopards and tigers, or something tamer?”

“Today you see living art.” She smiled at him. “Poetry in motion. Living sculpture. Lacroix's clothes are like paintings worn by women, with different elements integrated, unrelated fabrics, and vibrant colors. I think you'll love it.”

“Anything like yesterday?” he asked with interest, sitting back in his chair, eyeing her. He liked the way she looked in the morning with her hair cascading past her shoulders. It made her look younger. She thought he had the clean, fresh-shaven look of a man of distinction and good grooming, and even from across the table, she noticed that he smelled delicious.

“Completely different,” she said, in answer to his question. “This is quiet, distinguished, striking, but very elegant. Galliano is a showman and creates theater, Lacroix is a genius and creates art.”

“I like your description,” John said, turning to the financial page of the paper, and glancing down the list of stocks. Once satisfied that all was well, he turned his attention back to her. “You're teaching me a lot.” He wasn't sure what he'd do with it, but he liked sharing the experience with her. It was fun seeing her in her world, and getting to know her better.

She ate the whole omelette he had ordered for her, the half grapefruit she had wanted anyway, and then as an afterthought, she ate a pain au chocolat and drank two cups of coffee. “I can't see you anymore, John,” she said as she set her cup down, and he looked across the table at her, startled.

“That was sudden.” He suddenly wondered if there was someone else in her life. It would explain the distance he felt from her occasionally. He had thought it was self-protection, and now he wondered if it was actually due to another romance. He hated to admit it, but he was disappointed. “What brought that on?”

“Breakfast. If I hang around you any longer, I'll be the size of this table. You're too fattening. I eat too much when I'm with you.” He looked at her in amazement and relief and grinned broadly. And then sounded sheepish when he answered.

“I thought you meant it. For a minute you had me worried.” He felt vulnerable as he said it.

“I did mean it. I can't afford to get fat in my business. I'd look foolish. I mean, how chic is a two-hundred-pound editor of the world's most important fashion magazine? They'd drum me right out of the business, and it would be all your fault.”