He got out of bed at noon regretfully. He had to shower, shave, dress, and pick his things up at the Crillon. He had sent his driver away the night before, and told him he would take a cab back to the hotel. He didn't want to keep him waiting. And he had arranged to meet him at the hotel the next day at one o'clock to take him to the airport. He had wanted to walk around Paris in the morning, but liked what he had done with Fiona much better.

“I hate to leave you,” he said sadly, as he put his jacket on. He had no idea when he would see her again, or if she would let him. She was incredibly stubborn, and she seemed absolutely determined to end it. Or not even start it.

“You'll forget me before you land in New York,” she reassured him.

“And you'll forget me even sooner?” he asked, looking tragic.

She smiled at him them, and put her arms around him. “I will never forget you. I will always love you,” she said, and meant it, and he nearly cried when he kissed her this time.

“Fiona, marry me… please… I love you…. I swear, I'll never leave you again. Please help me fix this. I made a terrible mistake when I left you. Don't punish both of us because I was so stupid.”

“You weren't stupid. You were right. And I can't do it. I love you too much. I don't want to get hurt again, or hurt you. It's better this way.”

“No, it isn't.” But he couldn't stay and argue with her. He had to catch a plane. He kissed her one last time before he left, and then hurried down the stairs and across the courtyard, while she stood watching him for the last time. And after he left, she crawled into her bed again, and stayed there all day. At nightfall, she was still lying there, crying, and thinking about him. He called her from the airport, and she didn't answer the phone. She heard him talking to the machine, telling her how much he loved her, and she just closed her eyes and cried harder.





Chapter 15




Fiona didn't tell Adrian what she'd done when he called the next day to tell her about his Thanksgiving dinner. She listened and pretended to be interested, but all she could think of was John. He had called her a dozen times since he'd left. But she didn't take the calls, nor return them. She wasn't going to speak to him again. She had meant what she told him. It was over. Their night together had been a brief reprieve from a life separate from each other. And in every possible way, it had made it harder. Which made her all the more determined not to speak to him, or see him. She had never loved anyone as she had him, and she didn't want to go through the pain again, especially with him. She loved him too much to try again. And she knew that eventually he'd stop calling.

It took her nearly a week to get back to work. She walked, she smoked. She talked to herself. She tried to work, and couldn't. It was like detoxing from a highly addictive drug. She not only pined for him and longed for him, she craved him. All of which proved to her how dangerous he was for her.

John had been gone for a week when Andrew Page called and told her the second publisher wanted to buy her book. Not only that, they were offering her a three-book contract. It was the first and only good news she'd had since John left, and after she hung up, she realized that even that hadn't cheered her. She felt almost as miserable as she had when he divorced her. And in the last two days, he had finally stopped calling.

She went out to buy groceries that afternoon, which seemed stupid to her since she wasn't eating anyway, but she needed cigarettes and coffee. And as she walked into her courtyard carrying the bags, she heard a footstep behind her. She turned to see who had followed her, and saw John standing there, looking at her. He looked ravaged. He didn't say a word to her, he just walked toward her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a flat voice. She didn't have the energy to fight him. But she felt no differently than she had when he left. She had meant everything she said to him, and her agony in the past week confirmed it. He was dangerous for her. She was not going to sleep with him this time, for whatever reason he had come to Paris.

“I can't live without you.” He looked as though he meant it.

“You have for a year and a half,” she reminded him, and set down the bags next to her. They were heavy. He picked them up for her, and stood looking down at her.

“I love you. I don't know what else to say to you. I made a terrible mistake. You have to forgive me.”

“I did that a long time ago.” She looked sad and defeated.

“Then why won't you try again? I know it would work this time.”

“I trusted you. And you betrayed me,” she said simply.

“I would rip my heart out before I would do that to you again.”

“I don't know if I would ever trust you again.”

“Then don't. Let me earn it.” She stood looking at him for a long time, hearing the things Adrian had said to her long before, about compromise and adjustment. She hadn't done it perfectly either. And he was willing to trust her. The only thing she was sure of now was that she loved him.

She didn't say a word to him, she just turned and walked up the steps and unlocked her door, and he followed her in, carrying the two bags of groceries, and he closed the door behind him.





Chapter 16




The snow was falling on Christmas Eve, and Adrian had come to Paris that morning. He had brought presents for her, and she had a stack of brightly wrapped packages for him, which were piled up under the tree she had decorated the day before. Her apartment looked warm and cozy and festive. And Fiona looked more serious than he had ever seen her.

She was wearing a white velvet dress she'd bought at Didier Ludot, with a little ermine-trimmed jacket. It had been made by Balenciaga in the forties, and Adrian thought he had never seen her look more exquisite. They had booked a table at Le Voltaire for later that night, and they were going to mass at St. Germain d'Auxerrois before that. It was a small, dark Gothic church made of stone, and when they got there, it was entirely lit with candles. She said almost nothing on the ride there, and Adrian didn't press her. She sat staring silently out the window. He took her hand in his and held it.

When they got to the church, John was waiting for her there. He smiled the moment he saw her. It had been complicated to arrange, but John had handled all the details. All their papers were in order. They had been married in a Protestant church before, so they were able to do it in a Catholic church now, which made it feel more official to her. She had told Adrian before he'd come, in case he wanted to cancel his trip, but he insisted he wanted to be there. He was going to visit friends in Morocco when she and John left for Italy on their honeymoon. They were going to spend Christmas together, as planned, and take off on their respective travels the day after. And she had wanted Adrian to be there, as their witness. It still seemed slightly insane to her, and she was amazed at herself that she was willing to do it. She hadn't thought she could trust him again, but she knew she did. And in the end, what they owed each other as much as love was forgiveness.

The priest did the ceremony in French, but he had them say their vows in English, so they knew what they were saying. And as John held her hand in his, and then slipped on the ring, she felt more married to him than ever. There were tears in his eyes when he answered her, and tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as she made her vows to him. It was an unforgettable moment. And when the priest declared them man and wife, John stood for a long moment before he kissed her and just held her. And then he smiled at her with a look she knew she would never forget. When they left, the church was all lit up behind them, and they stood for a moment looking out at the snow, and then dashed to the car, laughing, with Adrian right behind them throwing snow at them instead of rice.

They celebrated at Le Voltaire that night, and at ten o'clock they were home. Adrian was staying at the Ritz, and John said something to him before he left, and the doorbell rang when they were in bed at midnight. John and Fiona were both still awake, and just lying there talking. They had a lot to think about, and plans to make. He was going to commute from New York on weekends for two months, and he had somehow managed to convince the agency to open a Paris office, and he was going to run it. They had to find a house, and he had to sell his New York apartment. She was still trying to convince the owners to sell her the house she lived in, but they were dragging their feet about it. And John had had a serious talk with his daughters just before he flew back to Paris to marry her. He had told them in no uncertain terms what the boundaries were. They didn't have to love Fiona, he couldn't force them to do that. But they had to be respectful, civilized, and polite to her. Or else. It was what he should have said to them two years before.

“Who do you think that is?” Fiona asked, looking worried, when the bell rang. She didn't know a soul in Paris who would ring her doorbell at midnight.

“It must be Santa Claus,” John said with a smile. He looked peaceful and happy as he went to open the door, and a bellboy from the Ritz handed him something. Adrian had kept it in his room for him, and John walked back into the bedroom to Fiona with it.

“What was it?” She was looking at him strangely.

“I was right. It was Santa. He said to say hi to you, and ho ho ho and all that stuff,” and as he said it, he placed the bundle in her arms, and watched her as she opened a small blue blanket and a small black face emerged and looked at her. It looked like a cross between a bat and a rabbit, and she held it to her face with wide eyes and stared at John. It was an eight-week-old French bulldog.

“Oh my God, you didn't…” she said as tears leaped to her eyes, and she looked from the puppy to her husband. She set it down on the bed, and saw that it was a little female. “I can't believe you did that!”

“Do you like her?” he asked, as he sat down on the bed next to her. It wasn't Sir Winston, but it was a distant French relation, and yet another bond between them. He knew how much she must have missed him.

“I love her,” Fiona said with wide eyes, looking just like a child on Christmas. She had bought him a beautiful painting by an artist he loved, but nothing so wonderful as this puppy. And as she held the puppy in her arms, she leaned over and kissed him. She knew as she looked at him that things were going to be better this time. In the ways that were good and right, still the same, and in new and better ways, they would be different. She trusted him again, which was a miracle in itself. And she had always loved him.

“Thank you for giving us a second chance,” John whispered to her, as the puppy licked his face and then nibbled his finger, and he looked lovingly at his wife. The vows meant more to both of them this time, as did the love that bound them.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DANIELLE STEEL has been hailed as one of the world's most popular authors, with over 530 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include ImPossible, Echoes, Second Chance, Ransom, Safe Harbour, Johnny Angel, Dating Game, and other highly acclaimed novels. She is also the author of His Bright Light, the story of her son Nick Traina's life and death.

Visit the Danielle Steel Web Site at

www.daniellesteel.com

a cognizant original v5 release october 15 2010







SECOND CHANCE

A Dell Book

Published by Bantam Dell

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the author's imagination or are

used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2004 by Danielle Steel

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“Loving the Wrong Person,” from DAILY AFFLICTIONS: The Agony

of Being Connected to Everything in the Universe by Andrew Boyd.

Copyright © 2002 by Andrew Boyd. Used by permission of

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