“I should have tried harder with them. I didn't know how either. I'm not very good with kids. It's a good thing I never had any of my own.”

“Do you regret that?”

“No, I don't. I think I would have been lousy at it. My own childhood was too screwed up. The only thing I regret is not making it work with you. It's probably the most glaring failure of my life. I was too wrapped up in a lot of meaningless bullshit, like my own importance, and how I wanted to do things, and my job. I guess I was riding high on a wave, and thought I was hot shit. And then I got cut down to size.” He liked the size she was now. In a lot of ways. But he had liked her then too. She had knocked him right off his feet, and still could with very little effort. But she was being careful not to do that. She had no concept of the effect she had on him. She was too busy resisting what she still felt for him.

“Do you miss your job?” He was curious about that.

“No, I don't. I think I had pretty much done it. It was time to move on. And Adrian is doing a fabulous job.” But so had she. “I had a good run. And now I love writing my books.” There was nothing she couldn't do, or so he thought.

“I'd love to see your apartment,” John said out of the blue as he paid the check, and Fiona looked up at him as though she had been struck by lightning.

“Why?” She looked terrified.

“Relax. Just curiosity. You have great taste. It's probably terrific, knowing you.”

“It's very small,” she said, looking guarded. She had let him in far enough. “But I like it. It suits me. I'm not even sure I want to move, but I think I do. I wish the owners would sell me the whole house. They live in Hong Kong and they're never here.” She was trying to get her realtor to look into it, and they had written them a letter, but she hadn't heard anything yet. The location was perfect and the house was adorable. She was willing to buy it if she could.

He had a car and driver outside, and the afternoon had gotten cold. She shivered in the wind despite her mink sweater, and he turned to her with a cautious smile. He had loved having lunch with her. And in some ways, she was glad she had. It had been nice to apologize to each other, and admit how wrong they had each been about some things. Maybe he was right, and they could be friends, although she wasn't entirely sure yet. She wanted to think about it.

“Can I give you a lift?” he offered, and she hesitated, and then nodded. She got in next to him and gave the driver her address.

He was impressed when he saw the building on the street. It was an imposing eighteenth-century hôtel particulier, but the real gem was in the courtyard behind it, where she lived. She explained it to him as she pointed to the rooftop. You could just barely see her house in the back. And then with a cautious look she asked him if he wanted to come up.

“Just for a minute. I have to get back to work,” she said precisely. And he nodded.

He followed her through the huge door in the front building, through which horse-drawn carriages had once passed, and walked into a courtyard that seemed magical to him. It was so typical of Fiona to have found it. And the house she lived in was as cute as she had said. She used her key and the code, turned off the alarm, and he followed her up the slightly crooked stairs, and a moment later they were in her apartment, and as he had suspected, it was lovely, and beautifully decorated. She had filled it with orchids, hung some paintings, and bought a few pieces of furniture herself. The entire effect was one of coziness and warmth, with her own inimitable brand of exotic chic. It was totally Fiona. She walked him up another flight of stairs to the studio with the roof garden where she worked, and he grinned broadly when he saw it.

“This is so you. I love it.” He would have loved to sit down and have a cup of tea, but she didn't invite him to. She seemed anxious for him to go. They had been together long enough. She needed to catch her breath. And sensing that, a moment later he left.

It took her hours to get back into her work. She was haunted by their lunch at Le Voltaire. And thinking of it kept distracting her. She kept hearing the things he had said. Walking along the Seine, and then later down the Faubourg St. Honoré, he was doing the same. He could see her face, hear her voice, and smell her perfume. She still dazzled him in just the way she once had, perhaps more so now that she seemed to have grown up. He liked who she had become, although at great price. But he felt less guilty now than he had before. He somehow felt as though they had both landed in a better place. And he loved the apartment where she lived.

He called her that night, but she didn't answer her phone. He suspected she was there, when he spoke to the machine. She was listening to him, and wondering why he had called. He thanked her for letting him come up to see her place. And the next day, wanting only to be polite, she called and thanked him for lunch.

“What about dinner tonight?” he suggested, as he had the day before, and she looked unhappy as she shook her head.

“I don't think it's a good idea.” She sounded stiff.

“Why not?” he asked sadly. He wanted to see her. He suddenly missed her more than he had in the past year, and he had the ghastly feeling that he had let a priceless diamond slip through his fingers. He had, and in her own way so had she. But she was willing to live with the loss. She had adjusted to it, and she had no desire to reopen old wounds. One thing she knew, and had always believed, no matter how many regrets you had, you could never go back. And she said as much to him. “I wasn't suggesting we go back. I was suggesting that we move forward. If nothing else, we can be friends.”

“I'm not sure I can. It makes me too sad. It's like looking at pictures of Sir Winston. I can't do that either. It hurts too much.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” he said regretfully. He had a business meeting to go to then, and couldn't linger on the phone with her. He promised to call her later, but before he did, an enormous bouquet arrived for her from Lachaume. It was the most spectacular thing she had ever seen, and it embarrassed and worried her. She didn't want to start something with him. She left him a voice message thanking him at the hotel, knowing he was out, so she didn't have to speak to him again. And when he called her, she didn't pick up the phone. She let him talk to her machine. He was asking about dinner again that night. He suggested Alain Ducasse, or something comparable, or something simpler if she preferred. She never called him back, and stayed at her desk until late that night. She was still at her desk, in blue jeans and an old sweater, when she heard the bell. She couldn't imagine who it was, and she answered the intercom from her studio.

“Qui est-ce?” she asked in French.

“Moi,” said a familiar voice. It was eleven o'clock.

“What are you doing here?” It was John.

“I brought you dinner. I figured you didn't eat. Can I bring it up?” She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Reluctantly, she buzzed him in and went to open her front door. He was standing there with some kind of box in a paper bag.

“You shouldn't be doing this,” she said, frowning at him, and trying to look stern. It was a look that had terrified junior editors for years, but he knew her better, and it didn't scare him. She took the bag into the kitchen, and when she opened it, she saw that it was profiteroles from Le Voltaire, and she turned to him with a smile. “This is like my drug dealer showing up at the door.”

“I figured you needed the energy, or the calories, or something.” It was nice of him, but she didn't want to be tempted by him again. Profiteroles. Flowers. Lunch. He was like a man on a mission, or a quest. And she didn't want to be his prize.

“Do you want some?” she asked, putting the profiteroles on a plate. In spite of her reservations, she couldn't resist what he'd brought, and handed him a spoon as she sat down at her kitchen table, and he sat down next to her. And he ate one of them too. “I don't want to get in a mess with you,” she said honestly. “You broke my heart once. That was enough.” It was a calm clear statement that struck him like a blow.

“I know. I go a little nuts every time I'm around you, Fiona.” It was a classic understatement. He had been more than nuts when he left.

“I've been trying to stay away from you. It's better for both of us.”

“I'm not sure it is,” he said, equally honest with her. They always had been with each other, and she liked that about them. Or she had. “Maybe we need to get this out of our system.”

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.”