Danielle Steel - Dating Game

She told Anne she was having lunch with Chandler the next day, and what Bix had said about him, about being a professional dater possibly.

“Keep an open mind,” Anne reminded her. “You might have fun. And even if he's a ‘professional dater,’ as Bix says, he might be an interesting person to know. You were going to meet people, remember. You don't have to love them all. He might introduce you to a whole circle of his friends.” It was a good point. She was starting from scratch, and she had known when she left Greenwich that it would be hard work. This was only the beginning.

At five minutes before noon the next day, Paris heard a roar beneath her office window, and when she looked down, she saw that it was a silver Ferrari. And seconds later she saw Chandler Freeman get out in a blazer, gray slacks, blue shirt, and yellow tie. It looked like Hermès. He looked very chic, and extremely prosperous. He rang the bell, came upstairs, and a moment later, was standing in front of her desk, with a dazzling smile.

“I'm very impressed. This is quite an office.”

“Thank you. I've only worked here for about five minutes.” She didn't want to take credit for it. Bix had done all the decoration himself.

“How so?”

“I moved out from Greenwich, Connecticut, less than two weeks ago. This is only my second week in the

job.”

“You look like you've been here forever.”

“Thank you.” She smiled.

“Shall we go?” he said with a wide smile. He had perfect teeth, and looked like a toothpaste ad on TV. He was an incredibly good-looking man. It was impossible not to notice, and she felt flattered somehow that he was taking her out.

She followed him down the stairs and out to his car, and seconds later the silver Ferrari roared off. “Where are we going?” she asked nervously, and he smiled at her.

“I'd like to tell you I'm kidnapping you, but I'm not. I know you're pressed for time, so we're going very nearby.” He took her to a tiny Italian restaurant in a Victorian house, with a garden out back, only blocks from her office. “This is one of the city's best-kept secrets.” And the owners seemed to know him well. “I go out to lunch a lot,” he explained, “and I hate to get stuck inside.” The weather was even warmer than the week before. Spring had arrived.

The waiter offered her a glass of wine, and she asked for iced tea instead. Chandler had a Bloody Mary, and they ordered salads and pasta for lunch. And the food was extremely good. Somewhere, halfway through lunch, as he chatted with her, she started to relax. He was actually a very interesting man, and he seemed like a nice guy.

“How long have you been divorced?” he asked her finally, as she realized she was going to be hearing this question a lot. Maybe she should hand out leaflets with all the details.

“Two months. I've been separated for nine.” She didn't offer any further information. For now at least, it was none of his business. She didn't owe him any explanations.

“How long were you married?”

“Twenty-four years,” she said simply, and he winced.

“Ouch. That must have hurt.”

“A lot,” she said, and smiled, and turned the tables on him. She wanted information too. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he asked with an evasive smile.

“Same questions. How long have you been divorced? How long were you married?” She was learning the ropes.

“I was married for twelve years. I've been divorced for fourteen.”

“That's a long time,” she commented, thinking about it.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

“You've never remarried?” Maybe he was hiding one from her, but not if Bix was right.

“Nope. I haven't.”

“Why not?”

“Never found the right woman, I guess.” Oh shit. Maybe Bix was right. “Or maybe being single has just been too much fun till now. I was thirty-four when I got divorced. And I was pretty badly burned. My wife ran off with my best friend. It was a lousy trick. Turns out they'd been having an affair for three years before she left. Things like that happen, but it hurts like hell when they happen to you.” More data. The ex-wife as supreme bitch. And slut.

“That sounds pretty rough,” she said sympathetically, but he no longer looked upset. It had been a long time. Maybe too long. “Do you have kids?”

“One. My son is twenty-seven, lives in New York, and has two little girls. I'm a grandfather, which I still have trouble believing sometimes. But the girls are awfully cute. They're two and four. With another one on the way.” At forty-eight and as good-looking as he was, he didn't look like a grandfather to her.

They chatted about other things then, traveling and favorite cities, languages they spoke and wished they did. Paris spoke a smattering of French. Chandler said he was fluent in Spanish. He had lived in Buenos Aires for two years as a young man. Favorite restaurants in New York. He even asked about her name, which had always seemed silly to her. Her parents had honeymooned in Paris, and had conceived her there. So they had named her after their favorite city. He said it was exotic and looked properly amused. With a practiced hand, he kept the conversation light. He was good company, and on the way back to the office in the Ferrari, he told her he flew his own plane, with a copilot of course. It was a G4. And he offered to take her up in it sometime. He told her when he dropped her off that he'd love to see her again, maybe they could have dinner later that week, and she told him that she had to work. He just smiled, and kissed her on the cheek before he left. And then in a roar from the engine, he sped away as Paris walked up the stairs. Bix was doing sketches at his desk.

“Well?”

“I think you're right. I don't even know why I went. I don't want to date. So what's the point?”

“Practice for when you grow up. You will one day. Unless you want to be a nun.”

“It's a thought.”

“So?”

“He was married for twelve years, has been divorced for fourteen. And he just hasn't met the right woman to make him want to marry again. How do you like that?”

“I don't,” Bix said, looking cool. After knowing her for a week, he already felt protective of her. She needed it, more than anyone he knew. And he wanted to do that for her. She was a babe in the woods. And by all rights she should still have been happily married in Greenwich, but she wasn't. Thanks to Peter. Who had Rachel. Now Bix wanted her to have someone too.

“He has one son, and two granddaughters and another one on the way. He lived in Buenos Aires for two years. And he flies his own plane. Oh, and his wife had an affair with his best friend while they were married, and ran off with him, hence the divorce. And that was about it.”

“Very good.” Bix smiled at her. “Did you take notes, or did you remember all that?”

“I recorded it on a device in my shoe,” she said, grinning. “So what do you think? My shrink says it doesn't matter if he's a shit, he could introduce me to his friends.”

“Who are probably shits too. Professional daters stick together. They hate married couples, they think

they're bourgeois and dumb.”

“Oh. So? Is he? A professional dater, I mean.”

“Maybe. Be careful. Did he ask you out again?”

“He suggested dinner later this week. I said I had to work.”

“Do you like him?”

“Sort of. He's interesting and intelligent, and very sophisticated. I just don't know if he's nice.”

“Neither do I, that's what you have to watch. Give him a chance, but a very small one. Protect yourself, Paris. That's what counts.”

“This is a lot of work.”

“But it's worth it. Unless you want to be a nun.”

“I'll give it some thought.”