“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.

“You've done fine without my body for the last year. Join a twelve-step program.”

“You're not funny,” he said seriously.

“Neither are you. Neither was what we did last night. It was just plain stupid.”

“Stop saying that. It's insulting. It was wonderful and you know it. And do you know why? Because we love each other.”

“We used to love each other. We don't even know each other now. We're practically strangers again.”

“Then get to know me.”

“I can't. You're geographically undesirable. And I know better. John,” she said seriously, holding a forkful of eggs, which were delicious, “be reasonable. I drove you crazy. You hated being married to me. You said so. You left me.”

“I was scared. I didn't know what I was doing. Your whole life and world were unfamiliar to me. Now I miss them. I miss you. I think about you all the time. I don't want some boring blonde from the Junior League. I want my crazy redhead.”

“I'm not crazy,” she said, looking miffed.

“No, but your life was, a little. Or eccentric at least.”

“Maybe you'd be bored now. I've become very reclusive.”

“At least you're not frigid,” he teased her.

“I could learn to be, if that would convince you to stay away from me. Just take last night as a memory, kind of a good-bye gift we gave each other. Leave it at that. We'll laugh at it twenty years from now.”

“Only if we're still together,” he said firmly.

“I can promise you we won't be. I'm not coming back to you. And you don't really want me, any more than you did before. You just think you do, because you can't have me.”

“Fiona, I love you,” he said, sounding desperate.

“I love you too. But I'm not going to see you again. Ever. If this is how we behave when we're together, it proves we can't be friends, which was what I thought anyway.”

“Then let's be lovers.”

“We live in different cities.”

“I'll fly here on weekends.”

“Don't be silly, that's crazy.”

“So is not being with someone you love whom you once loved enough to marry.”

“And hated enough to divorce,” she reminded him again, and he rolled his eyes, chewing on a piece of bacon. The coffee had been delicious. She always had made great coffee.

“I didn't hate you,” he corrected her, looking mortally embarrassed.

“Yes, you did. You divorced me,” she said primly, finishing her eggs, and looking at him.

“I was an asshole. I admit it. I was stupid.”

“No, you weren't,” she said gently. “You were wonderful, that's why I loved you. I just don't want to do it again. We did it. It's over. Why screw up the good memories with more bad ones? I had almost forgotten the bad part, and now you come along and want to do it all again. Well, I just don't want to.”

“Good. Let's not. Let's just do the good part.”

“We did that last night. Now you can go back to New York to your friend from the Junior League and get on with your life without me.”

“You just ruined that for me. Now you owe me something,” he said, leaning back in his chair and looking at her smugly. “You can't just sleep with me and turn my life upside down and then toss me aside like so much trash. What if I get pregnant?” he asked, looking outraged, and she laughed at him and then leaned over and kissed him.