“Thank you for coming over,” she said pleasantly as they stood eyeing each other. She was nearly as tall as he was in the towering Blahnik heels she had slipped back on before she came to greet him. The rest of the time, she loved walking around her office barefoot. She said it helped her think. “I'm sorry about the air-conditioning. We've had brownouts all week.” She smiled agreeably.

“So have we. At least you can open your windows. My office has been like an oven. It's a good thing we decided to meet here,” he said with a smile, glancing around her office, which was an eclectic hodgepodge of paintings by up-and-coming young artists, two important photographs by Avedon that had been a gift to her from the magazine, and layouts from future issues leaning against the walls. There was a mountain of jewelry, accessories, clothes, and fabric samples almost entirely covering the couch, which she unceremoniously dumped on the floor, as her assistant brought in a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies. Fiona waved John Anderson toward the couch, and handed him a glass of the ice-cold lemonade a moment later, and sat down across from him. “Thank you. It's nice to finally meet you,” he said politely. She nodded, and looked serious for a moment as she watched him. She hadn't expected him to look quite that uptight, or be that good-looking. He seemed calm and conservative, but at the same time there was something undeniably electric about him, as though there were an invisible current that moved through him. It was so tangible she could feel it. Despite his serious looks, there was something very exciting about him.

She didn't look as he had expected her to either. She was sexier, younger, more striking, and more informal. He had expected her to be older and more of a dragon. She had a fearsome reputation, not for being disagreeable but for being tough, though fair, in her dealings, a force to be reckoned with. And much to his surprise, as she smiled at him over the lemonade, she seemed almost girlish. But despite her seemingly friendly air, within minutes she got to the point of their meeting, and was clear and concise in outlining Chic's expectations. They wanted good solid advertising campaigns, nothing too trendy or exotic. The magazine was the most established in the business, and she expected their advertising to reflect that. She didn't want anything wild or crazy. John was relieved to hear it. Chic was a great account for them, and he was beginning to look forward to his dealings with her. More so than before the meeting. In fact, as he drank a second glass of lemonade, and the air-conditioning finally came back on, he had actually decided that he liked her. He liked her style, and the straightforward way she outlined their needs and issues. She had clear, sound ideas about advertising, just as she did about her own business. By the time he stood up to leave, he was almost sorry the meeting was over. He liked talking to her. She was tough and fair. She was totally feminine, and strong at the same time. She was a woman to be feared and admired.

Fiona walked him to the elevator, something she did rarely. She was usually in a hurry to get back to work, but she lingered for a few minutes, talking to him, and she was pleased when she went back to her office. He was a good man, smart, quick, funny, and not as stuffy as he looked in his gray suit, white shirt, and sober navy tie. He looked more like a banker than the head of an ad agency, but she liked the fact that he wore elegant expensive shoes that she correctly suspected he'd bought in London, and his suit was impeccably tailored. He had a definite look about him, in sharp contrast to her own style. In all things, and certainly her taste and style, Fiona was far more daring. She could wear almost anything, and make it look terrific.

She left the office late that afternoon and as always was in a hurry. She hailed a cab outside their offices on Park Avenue, and sped uptown to her brownstone. It was after six when she got home, already wilted from the heat in the cab. And the moment she walked in she could hear chaos in her kitchen. She was expecting guests at seven-thirty. She kept her house ice-cold, as much for her own comfort as for that of her ancient English bulldog. He was fourteen years old, a miraculous age for the breed, and beloved by all who knew him. His name was Sir Winston, after Churchill. He greeted her enthusiastically when she got home, as she hurried into the kitchen to check on progress there, and was pleased to find her caterers working at a frenzied pace, preparing the Indian dinner she had ordered.

Her part-time house man was wearing a loose yellow silk shirt, and red silk harem pants made of sari fabric. He loved exotic clothes, and whenever possible, she brought him wonderful fabrics from her travels.

She was always amused by what he turned them into. His name was Jamal, he was Pakistani, and although he was a little fey at times, most of the time he was efficient. What he lacked in expertise in the domestic arts, he made up for in creativity and flexibility, which suited her to perfection. She could spring a dozen people or more on him for dinner at the drop of a hat, he would manage to do fabulous flower arrangements and come up with something for the guests to eat, although tonight the caterers were performing that task for him. There were half a dozen of them in Fiona's kitchen, and Jamal had covered the center of the dining table with moss, delicate flowers, and candles. The whole room had been transformed into an Indian garden, and he had used fuchsia silk place mats and turquoise napkins. The table looked sumptuous. It was just the right look for one of Fiona's parties, which were legendary.

“Perfect!” she approved with a broad smile, and then dashed upstairs to shower and change, with Sir Winston lumbering slowly behind her. By the time the dog got upstairs, Fiona had peeled off her clothes and was in the shower.

Forty-five minutes later, she was back downstairs again, in an exquisite lime-green sari. And an hour after that, there were two dozen people in her living room, conversing loudly. They were the usual crop of young photographers, writers her own age, a famous artist and his wife, an ancient editor of Vogue who had been Fiona's mentor, a senator, a flock of bankers and businessmen, and several well-known models—a standard evening at Fiona's. Everyone was having a good time, and by the time they reached the dinner table, the conversations had intertwined, people felt like old friends, and Jamal passed trays of champagne and the hors d'oeuvres the caterers had provided. The evening was a success almost before it started. Fiona loved evenings like that, and entertained often. Her dinner parties always appeared casual but in fact were always more carefully orchestrated than she admitted, however impromptu or last minute the arrangements. She was a perfectionist, although she enjoyed eclectic people, and collected an odd assortment of acquaintances from a wide range of artistic fields. And by coincidence more than design, the people at her table were often wonderful to look at. But the star who always stood out among them as the most intriguing, most fashionable, most impressive was Fiona. She had a gift of style and grace and excitement like few others. And she drew interesting people to her like a magnet.

When the last of the guests left at two A.M., she went up to bed, after thanking Jamal for his efforts. She knew that he would leave the house impeccable, the caterers had left the kitchen immaculate, and Sir Winston was long since snoring in her bedroom. He sounded like a lawn mower, and it never bothered her, she loved him. She dropped her sari on a chair, slipped into bed in the nightgown Jamal had left out for her, and she was sound asleep five minutes later. And up again the moment the alarm went off at seven. She had a long day ahead of her, they were putting the last of the August issue to bed, and she had a meeting scheduled about the September issue.

She was up to her ears in editors when her secretary buzzed her intercom to tell her John Anderson was on the phone, and she was about to tell her she was too busy and wouldn't take the call, and then thought better of it. It might be important. She had raised a number of questions at their meeting that needed answers, mostly about the budget.

“Good morning,” John said pleasantly. “Is this a bad time?” he asked innocently, and she laughed. In her life, there was rarely a good one. She was always busy, and usually surrounded by chaos.

“No, it's fine. The usual craziness around here. We're just locking up the August issue, and starting on September.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you. I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed our meeting yesterday.” His voice was deeper than she had remembered it, and it struck her as she listened to him, that he sounded sexy. It wasn't a word she would have used to describe him, but his voice on the phone had a powerfully male timbre to it. He also had the answers to some of her questions, and she liked that. She liked working with people who got the job done quickly. He had obviously put some effort into the research. She made notes of what he said, and he told her he'd fax over more information later. She thanked him, and was about to get off the phone and deal with the chaos around her, when he switched into another gear entirely, and she could almost hear him smiling. The voice evolved suddenly from efficient businessman to something akin to boyish. “I know this is short notice, Fiona. You sound busy as hell, but do you have time for lunch today? Mine just canceled.” In fact, he was planning to cancel it himself if she would have lunch with him. He'd been thinking about her all morning, and he wanted to see her again. Everything about her intrigued him.