Danielle Steel: Second Chance

“Do you think it's a little too casual?” she asked, as she tried another of the hors d'oeuvres. They were great.

“It's too hot to wear anything,” he said, sticking the bread in the oven. She noticed on the kitchen clock that she had forty minutes to get dressed.

“Well, stick with the pants, Jamal. It's a good look.” He had worn a gold jewel-encrusted loincloth once, which even she had admitted was a bit much, or actually not quite enough in that case. “I love the sandals, by the way. Where'd you get them?” She had seen a pair like that once, but couldn't remember where.

“They're yours. I found them in the back of the closet. You never wear them. I thought I'd borrow them for tonight. Do you mind?” He looked artless and innocent as he asked, and she stared at them and laughed.

“I thought they looked familiar. Now that I think about it, I think they hurt. Keep them if you like them. They look better on you.” They had been Blahnik samples specially made for a shoot several years ago.

“Thank you,” he said sweetly, as he tested the salad dressing on a lettuce leaf, and she hurried upstairs.

Half an hour later, she was back downstairs wearing white silk pants and a gossamer-thin gold shirt, with huge hoop diamond earrings, high-heeled gold sandals, and her hair hanging down her back in a thick braid. She and Jamal looked almost like a matched set. He had put plates, napkins, and cutlery on the table in the garden, and there were candles and flowers everywhere. She tossed some big cozy cushions around in case people wanted to sit on the floor, and put some music on, just as the first guests came through the door. She had almost forgotten who she'd asked, and had glanced at a list upstairs. It was the usual unusual assortment, artists, writers, photographers, models, lawyers, doctors, the musicians who had come from Prague. There were a couple of Brazilians she'd met recently, two Italians, and a woman one of them brought who spoke French, and by sheer coincidence one of the musicians discovered that the woman also spoke Czech. She said her father had been French and her mother Czech. It was the perfect blend, and as Fiona looked around at the nearly two dozen people in her garden, she suddenly saw John wander through her living room in immaculate pressed jeans and a starched white shirt. He was wearing Hermès loafers without socks. He looked every bit as impeccable as he did in a suit, and he didn't have a hair out of place. And despite the lack of imagination he showed in his wardrobe, she liked his look. He looked manly and elegant, immaculate, and perfectly put together, and she found all of it remarkably attractive. And when he kissed her cheek, she liked the cologne he wore as well. And he commented on hers. It was the same scent she had worn for twenty years. She had it made for her in Paris, and it was a signature for her. Everyone who knew her recognized it, and people always commented on it. It was just warm enough and cool enough, with a slightly spicy scent. And she loved the fact that it was hers alone, and had no name. Adrian called it Fiona One, and she'd had cologne made for him as well. He was there that night too, and he was watching her when John walked in. She introduced them to each other, as Jamal offered John champagne. Fiona told him that Adrian was the most important editor at Chic.

“She flatters me instead of giving me a raise,” Adrian teased, taking John in. And like Fiona, he liked what he saw, he liked his style and self-confidence and quiet grace, and he could see that she liked it, too. She was standing close to John as the others milled around, and she introduced him to everyone in the group.

“This is quite a collection of people,” he said quietly in a moment's lull, after Adrian moved away to talk to one of the Czechs.

“It's a little weirder than usual, but it seemed like fun. I do more serious dinners in winter. In summer, it's fun to be a little crazier.” He nodded and seemed to agree, although he had never been to a dinner quite like this. Her house looked beautiful, and warm and welcoming, and there seemed to be a million tiny treasures everywhere, mostly things she had found on trips and brought home with her. He seemed to be looking for something, and then turned to her.

“Where's the power saw?”

“What power saw?”

“The guy snoring in your bed last night.”

“Sir Winston? He's upstairs. He hates guests. He thinks this is his house. Would you like to meet him?” She was pleased that he'd asked. It was a definite point for him.

“Will he object?” He looked mildly concerned.

“He'll be honored.” It was a good excuse to show John the rest of the house. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were on the main floor, and there was a cozy library on the second floor, and a guest room next to it. The colors she had chosen were all warm caramel and chocolate, with accents of white and a little red to spice it up. She seemed to favor suedes, silks, and fur. She had exquisite beige silk drapes trimmed in red. Her bedroom and dressing room were on the top floor, with a tiny office she used when she worked at home, which was rare. It was the perfect house for her. There had been a second bedroom on the top floor, which she had turned into a closet when she moved in.

When John was halfway up the stairs, he heard the loud snoring. And as they walked into her bedroom, which was all done in beige silk, even the walls, John saw him on the bed. Sir Winston was sleeping and never stirred. Fiona gently patted him, and he finally picked up his head with considerable effort and a groan and stared at them, and a moment later, he dropped his head back on the bed again with a sigh, and closed his eyes. He made no attempt to introduce himself to John. He seemed entirely indifferent to him, as John grinned.

“He looks like a very proper old gentleman. He doesn't seem to be worried about a strange man in your room,” John commented with amusement. He really was a funny old dog, and he started snoring loudly again as they stood there. He had his head on her pillow, and a favorite toy next to him.

“He knows he's the master of the house. He has nothing to worry about, and he knows it. This is his kingdom, and I'm his slave.”

“Lucky guy.” John smiled at her and glanced around the room. There were a few silver-framed photographs of Fiona with assorted celebrities and political figures, a few famous actors, two presidents, and one she pointed out to John as a particular favorite, of herself and Jackie Kennedy when she first started at Chic. And in spite of the simple decor, there was something elegant and feminine about her room. There was a subtle but unmistakable style to it, and it was instantly obvious that no man lived there. She had never shared the house with anyone except Sir Winston. “I like your house, Fiona. It's cozy and comfortable and elegant, informal and yet stylish, just like you. I can see you everywhere.”

“I love it,” she said as they left her bedroom, and went back downstairs to the guests. Her tiny office had red lacquer walls and Louis XV chairs upholstered in real zebra skins. And there was a handsome zebra rug on the floor. And a small portrait of her by a famous artist on the wall. There was nothing male about a single corner of the house. As they got back downstairs, Adrian stood watching them, and smiled. He was wearing a white T-shirt and white jeans, and red alligator sandals Manolo Blahnik had made for him in a size fourteen.

“Did she give you a tour?” Adrian asked with interest.

“I introduced him to Sir Winston,” Fiona explained, as Jamal announced dinner with a little Tibetan gong that had a pretty sound and reminded everyone to eat. Everything about Fiona and her surroundings was exotic, from her half-naked Pakistani house man to her friends, and in some ways even her house and dog, although they were slightly more traditional, but not much. There was very little traditional about her, or predictable, and she liked it that way. But so did John. He had come to realize in a matter of days that she was the most exciting woman he had ever met in his life. He thought she had more style than he had ever seen wrapped up in one human being. And Adrian would have agreed with him, most people did.