Danielle Steel: Second Chance

She shook her head, with chocolate on her upper lip, which made him smile. He wished he could lick it off. “We already did. It's out of our system. Let's keep it that way. For both our sakes. We don't need to destroy each other's lives again. We did that once.”

“What if it worked this time?” he said hopefully, wanting to convince her, and at the same time scared to death himself.

“What if it didn't? We'd both get hurt. Way too much.” It was like her decision about dogs. She didn't want one anymore. She didn't want to care that much. And she didn't want him either. She did, of course, but she didn't want the pain that would inevitably go with it, or his kids, or his housekeeper, or his insanely aggressive dog. But she didn't say all that to him. “Besides, your kids would go nuts again.”

“They're a little older now. And I know better. Mrs. Westerman retired to North Dakota. She was a huge influence on them. And we could always put Fifi down. How's your ankle, by the way? No permanent damage, I hope.” Fiona laughed at the thought.

“She's one hell of a dog.”

“The dog from hell,” he corrected her, and she laughed again. “She's living with Hilary at Brown. They let them have dogs. Maybe Fifi will get an education and shape up.”

“Do you want a glass of wine or something?” she offered, and he hesitated, looking apologetic. He had intruded on her and he knew it, but he didn't want to miss this opportunity, as long as he was in Paris.

“Am I keeping you from your work?”

“Yes, but you've already done it. I'm too tired now anyway. And the profiteroles make me lazy. Do you want a glass of port?” She still remembered how much he liked it, but he decided this time on a glass of white wine, and she poured one for him, and another for herself.

They settled in her small living room, John lit a fire in the fireplace, and they talked again about her book, his work, the new apartment he wanted to buy in New York, they rolled from one subject to another, and the companionship they shared warmed both their hearts. He was still talking about a house he had seen and fallen in love with on Cape Cod, when she leaned over to pour him another glass of wine, and he gently reached out and touched her face.

“I love you, Fiona,” he whispered in the light from the fire. She was more beautiful than ever in her old sweater, with her hair in an unruly braid.

“I love you, too,” she whispered back, “but it doesn't matter anymore.” The moment had passed for them. But just as she thought it, he kissed her, and pulled her down next to him, and before she could object or even think about it, she was kissing him. It was just what she hadn't wanted to do, but she no longer remembered that, as a year's hunger for each other overtook them both, and it seemed like only moments later when they wound up in her bed. And they were both overwhelmed by such passion for each other that it was hours later when they stopped and caught their breath. She was half asleep by then.

“This was a terrible idea,” she whispered into his chest as she drifted off to sleep in his arms and he smiled down at her.

“No, it wasn't, it was the best idea we ever had,” he said, drifting off to sleep himself.

And when she awoke in the morning, wondering if it had been a dream, she stared at him in disbelief. “Oh my God,” she said, looking at him. He was already awake, lying there holding her, and looking very pleased with himself. “I can't believe we did that,” she said, looking mortified. “We must be insane.”

“I'm glad we did,” he said happily, rolling over to look at her, and he smiled when he saw her face. “Leaving you was the dumbest thing I ever did. And all I've wanted for the last year was a second chance. I never thought it was possible, or I'd have approached you sooner. I thought you hated me. You have every right to. I'm amazed you don't. I think I would have just let this go, no matter how much I still loved you. But when I saw you at La Goulue in New York, I just couldn't. I knew I had to at least see you and talk to you. I've been crazed over you since that night.”

“You wanted a second chance to do what?” She sat up and stared at him, looking angry finally. “Leave me again? I'm not coming back to you,” she said with a look of fierce determination, as she sprang out of bed, and he admired her long graceful limbs. She had an exquisite body that belied her age. “We don't even live in the same country anymore,” she said as though that were the only reason not to start their relationship again. “I don't believe in long-distance romances. And I'm not coming back to New York either. I'm happy here.”

“Well, now that we got all that out of the way, why don't I make us breakfast? And may I point out to you that if you don't come back to me, Fiona Monaghan, that makes you nothing more than a one-night stand, and you're not that kind of woman. Nor am I that kind of man.”

“Then I'll learn to be. I will never marry you again.”

“I don't recall asking you,” he said as he got out of bed, and stood next to her with his arms around her. “I love you, and I think you love me. What we decide to do about it remains a matter for some discussion.”

“I won't discuss it with you,” she said stubbornly, still standing naked next to him, but she didn't resist his embraces. She had enjoyed the night before as much as he did. “I thought you were leaving.”

“My plane isn't till four o'clock. I don't have to leave for the airport till one.” The clock on her bed table said it was nine o'clock. That gave them exactly four hours to solve the problem. “We can discuss it over breakfast.”

“There's nothing to discuss,” she said as she stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door, and he climbed into his trousers and went to make breakfast. She joined him ten minutes later after brushing her teeth and combing her hair, wearing a pink bathrobe.

“Did you steal that from the Ritz?” he asked with interest. He was scrambling eggs and frying bacon, and looked perfectly happy.

“No,” she growled at him, “I bought it. I can't believe I slept with you. That's the dumbest thing I've ever done. I don't do retreads.”

“That's a charming thing to call me.”

“I could call you a lot worse, and should have,” she said, sticking a baguette in the oven to heat it up, and putting on a pot of coffee. “This was just plain stupid.”

“Why? We love each other.” He looked calm as he glanced at her. He hadn't been this happy since he left her.

“Would it be tasteless to remind you that you divorced me? And for all I know, you were right. Our lives were just too different.”

“Everything's different now. You're a starving writer, living in a garret in Paris. You could marry me for my money.”

“I have my own money, I don't need yours.”

“That's a shame. If you were after me for my money, everything would be perfect.”

“You're not taking this seriously,” she scolded him, as she took the baguette out, and poured them both coffee. She put the correct amount of sugar in it, and handed him the cup.

“I'm taking it very seriously. You're the one who's not serious. It's totally immoral to sleep with a guy and tell him to get lost in the morning. Particularly if he says he loves you.”

“I don't want a relationship, I don't want a boyfriend, and I don't want a husband. I just want to be left alone to write my book. Look, we did a stupid thing. We went to bed, lots of ex-wives and ex-husbands do that. It's called a lapse of judgment. We did it. It's over. You go back to New York. I'll stay here. We forget we ever did it.”

“I refuse to forget it. I'm addicted to your body,” he said, teasing her as he put the scrambled eggs on plates, added the bacon, and sat down at the kitchen table.