“I… actually…” She was startled, and thought about it for a minute. They had covered all the ground they needed to the day before, but she told herself it wasn't a bad idea to establish a working relationship with him and get to know him. “I was going to eat here, today is crazy… but… can we make it quick? I can probably get out around one-fifteen, and I have to be back here for our September editorial meeting by two-thirty.”

“That'll work. I know a very decent deli near you where we can grab a sandwich. Will that work for you?” He was businesslike and matter-of-fact, and she liked his lack of artifice and pretension. There was a lot she liked about him, and she suspected she was going to like working with him. Far more than she'd expected. He was pleasant and personable, and she might even invite him to a dinner party, when she got back from Paris.

“Sounds great. Where should I meet you?”

“I'll be downstairs at one-ten. Don't worry if you're late,” he said reassuringly. Which was a good thing. She was almost always tardy. She just had too much on her plate, and it was hard to fit it all in. She usually ran twenty to thirty minutes late, like clockwork.

“Perfect. See you then.” She hung up without giving it further thought and went back to her meeting. Adrian was making a presentation to the other editors by then, and it was nearly one-fifteen by the time he finished. She glanced at her watch as the meeting broke up, gathered up her papers, dropped them in her in basket, grabbed her bag, and headed out of her office.

“Where are you off to? Do you want to have lunch?” Adrian asked, smiling at her. The meeting had gone well, and they were both pleased with the look of the August issue now that it was complete.

“Can't. I'm busy. I'm having lunch with our ad agency.” She almost invited Adrian to come, and then didn't.

“I thought you did that yesterday.” He raised an eyebrow. He knew Fiona didn't go out for lunch unless she had to, so it was obviously not social.

“Follow-up.” She wasn't sure if she was lying to him or herself as she headed out. But for some reason, she correctly sensed that her lunch with John Anderson wasn't entirely business. And she didn't mind. He seemed like a nice guy, and a decent person. He was waiting downstairs in a black Lincoln Town Car with a driver. He smiled broadly the moment he saw her. She was wearing pink linen slacks, a white sleeveless shirt, and sandals, and with a straw bag over her shoulder, she looked as if she were going to the beach. It was another day of torrid heat, but it was blissfully cool in the air-conditioned car. And as she got in, she smiled at him.

“You look terrific,” John said admiringly, as she slid in beside him, and they drove off to the deli he had promised. It was only a few blocks, but it was too hot to walk. It was just over a hundred degrees outside. He was wearing a beige suit and a blue shirt, and another serious-looking dark tie. All business, in sharp contrast to Fiona's summer look. She had her hair piled in a loose knot on her head with ivory chopsticks stuck in it. He couldn't resist wondering suddenly what would happen if he pulled them out. He liked the thought of her red hair cascading to her shoulders, as he tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

She was telling him about the meeting she'd just been in, and he realized as he looked at her that he hadn't heard a word she said. By then, they had reached the deli, and the driver opened the door and helped her out.

The deli was busy and full, looked efficient and clean, and the food smelled delicious. Fiona ordered a salad and iced tea, John ordered a roast beef sandwich and a cup of coffee, and as he looked at her, he found himself randomly wondering how old she was. She was forty-two, but looked ten years younger.

“Is something wrong?” Fiona asked him. He had an odd look on his face, as though he had been struck by something, as the waiter poured his coffee.

“No.” He wanted to tell her he liked her perfume, but was afraid she would think him a fool if he did. She didn't look like the sort of person to mix business with pleasure, and normally neither did he. But there was something vastly unsettling about her, and almost mesmerizing. And he was feeling mesmerized. Without meaning to, she had a seductive quality about her, and he found it hard to keep his mind on business as he sat across the table from her, looking into the deep green eyes that looked back so earnestly at him. She was entirely oblivious to what he was thinking about her. She had never paid much attention to the impact she had on men, she was always too busy thinking and talking about a variety of topics. John was fascinated by her.

“I liked the initial figures you came up with this morning,” she said as their food arrived, and she began picking at her salad. She was so stylishly thin that it was hard to imagine that she ate much, but she didn't look anorexic either. There was just enough meat on her bones to give her figure a look that appealed to him. She looked athletic, and he noticed that she had firm, thin, strong arms. He wondered if she played tennis or swam a lot. The budget for Chic magazine was the furthest thing from his mind, as he mused about her.

“What are you doing this summer?” he asked after they had paid cursory homage to the budget. He wanted to know more about her, not just her work.

“Are you going away?”

“I'm going to Paris in two weeks, for the couture shows. And I always go to St. Tropez for a week after that. Afterwards I have to get back here, or I'll be out of a job.” She grinned at him between bites of her salad, and he laughed.

“Somehow I doubt that. Do you go out to the Hamptons on weekends?” He was curious about her life.

“Sometimes. A lot of the time I work through the weekend. Depends what I've got on my plate. I try to take a little time off. And I usually go to the Vineyard on Labor Day. I'll be in France over the Fourth.”

“What are the couture shows like?” He couldn't even imagine them, and they sounded interesting to him. He had never been to a fashion show in his life, let alone one in Paris. But he could easily envision her in that setting, and liked the idea of it. There was something innately exciting and glamorous about her.

“The shows are fun, busy, crazy, beautiful, frenetic. Gorgeous clothes and spectacular models. There are fewer couture houses than there used to be, but it's still a damn good show. Now that you represent the magazine, you should come sometime. You'd love the models, men always do. I can get you tickets if you want. Would your daughters like to go?”

“They might.” He couldn't recall mentioning Hilary and Courtenay to her, but maybe he had. “Neither of them is passionate about fashion, but a trip to Paris would be hard to resist. We usually go to a ranch in Montana every year. Both of my girls love to ride. I'm not sure we'll make it this year. Both girls have summer jobs. Hilary is going to be working in L.A., and Courtenay took a job at a camp on the Cape. It's a lot harder to take vacations together now that they're in college.” And he hated to admit it, but since their mother died, the family didn't spend as much time together as he liked. They all went separate ways these days, although they spoke frequently, and the ranch in Montana was a bittersweet memory for him. He wasn't unhappy at the prospect of giving up that trip. It reminded him too much of his wife, and the happy summers they had spent there when the girls were little. “Do you have children, Fiona?” He knew very little about her, other than in the context of her job.

“No, I don't. I've never been married, not that that's a prerequisite these days. Most of the people I know who have children aren't. But no, in answer to your question, I don't have kids.” She didn't look unhappy about it.

“I'm sorry,” he said sympathetically, and she smiled.

“I'm not. I know it sounds awful to admit it, but I've never wanted them. I figure there are lots of people who'd make good parents, and I've never been sure I'd be one of them. I've never wanted to take that chance.” He wanted to say it wasn't too late, but thought it would be presumptuous to tell her that.

“You might surprise yourself. It's hard to warm up to the idea of children till you have your own. I was only lukewarm about it until Hilary was born. It was a lot better than I thought. I'm crazy about my girls. And they're very tolerant of me.” He hesitated for a moment and then went on. “We've been a lot closer since their mother died, although the girls are busy and have their own lives now. But we speak often, and get together when we can.” They also confided in him more than they used to, now that their mother was gone.

“How long ago was that? Your wife, I mean,” she asked carefully. She wondered if he was still in deep mourning or had adjusted to the loss. He didn't speak of his wife with awe and reverence, but with kindness and warmth, which led her to assume that he had made his peace with her death.

“It'll be two years in August. It seems like a long time sometimes, and only weeks ago at others. She was sick for a long time. Nearly three years. The girls and I had time to adjust, but it's always something of a shock. She was only forty-five when she died.”

“I'm sorry.” She didn't know what else to say, and thinking of it made her sad on his behalf.

“So am I.” He smiled wistfully at her. “She was a good person. She did everything she could to get us ready to take care of each other before she died. She taught me a lot, about grace under fire. I'm not sure I could have been as strong in her shoes. I'll always admire her for that. She even taught me how to cook.” He laughed at that, and lightened the moment, as Fiona smiled at him. She liked him a lot, far more than she had expected to. Suddenly this had nothing to do with Chic, or the new ad agency she'd hired.