“I miss you,” he said softly, and Paris instantly had butterflies in her stomach. She hated to admit it, but she missed him too, more than she wanted.
“So do I,” she answered.
“When am I going to see you again?” he asked hungrily. “What about tomorrow?”
“I'm working late with Bix,” she said regretfully, and it was true this time. “What about Tuesday?”
“That's perfect. Would you like to see my apartment? I could cook you dinner.”
“You don't have to do that. Or I can help you.”
“I'd love it,” he said, sounding happy, and promised to call her in the morning.
And the next day, at work, Bix was waiting for her like a stern father, and wanted a report.
“So how was it?”
“Terrific. Better than I expected. And he was a perfect gentleman.”
“That's what I was afraid of,” Bix said grimly.
“Why? Did you want him to rape me?” She was in frighteningly good spirits.
“No. But real men aren't perfect gentlemen. They get grumpy and tired. They don't take women shopping. Which reminds me, did he?”
“Yes,” she said, laughing at him, “and he bought me a Chanel handbag.”
“Worse yet. When was the last time a man took you shopping and bought you a Chanel handbag? Did Peter?”
“No. He loathed shopping. He preferred root canal to shopping with me.”
“Precisely. This guy is too smooth, Paris. He scares me. And real guys rip off your clothes. They're klutzes. They don't know all the right moves unless they've done that routine a lot, with a lot of women.”
“I don't think he's a virgin.”
“I hope not. But he sounds like a playboy to me.”
“He says he hasn't met the right woman. He's been dating.”
“I don't buy that. There are a lot of good women out there, dying to meet straight guys. If he wanted to, he could have found one by now.”
“Maybe. From what everyone says, it's not that easy.”
“For a guy like him it is. He's got a Ferrari and a plane, and a lot of money. How hard do you think it would be to find the right woman?”
“Good women don't necessarily want all those things. He's cooking me dinner tomorrow.”
“I'm getting nauseous,” Bix said, sitting back in his chair with a worried look.
“What's wrong with cooking me dinner?”
“Did Peter?” he asked bluntly.
“Not if he could help it.” And then she looked serious for a moment. “Peter left me for another woman. How good was he in the end? Not very.” It was the first time she had said that. “Chandler was in the same boat as I am. I think he's been cautious,” she said fairly. It was beginning to annoy her that Bix was so suspicious of him. Chandler didn't deserve that.
“I think he's been busy. I went out with a guy like that once. He spoiled the hell out of me, and I couldn't understand it. Watches, bracelets, cashmere jackets, trips. I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven, until I figured out that he was sleeping with three other guys, and was the most promiscuous sonofabitch on the planet. He had no soul, no heart, and when he got bored with me, he wouldn't even take my phone calls. I was heartbroken until I figured it out. There was no there there. He was a player. I'm afraid that might be Chandler. Same guy, this one just likes women. Try not to sleep with him too quickly,” he said, and she nodded. In a short time, she and Bixby had become amazingly close, and she loved him. Bix was smart, sensible, and he cared about her. All he wanted to do was protect her, and she appreciated it, but she thought he was wrong about Chandler.
They worked as late that night as she had expected, and the following day she left the office at six o'clock, and Chandler picked her up at seven-thirty. She didn't recognize him at first when he drove up, he was driving an old Bentley instead of the Ferrari.
“What a lovely car,” she said, admiring it, and he said he almost never used it, but hated to sell it. He had thought she'd like to see it.
But his apartment, when she saw it, was even better. It was a penthouse on Russian Hill with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view, and a terrace that nearly made her dizzy. And everything in the apartment was either white marble, black granite, or black leather. It was very striking, and very masculine. The kitchen was a state-of-the-art wonder. And he had everything ready. Oysters on the half shell, cold lobster, and he made a delicious capellini pasta with caviar. There was nothing for her to do, as they sat down to eat at a long granite table in his kitchen. He dimmed the lights and lit candles, and played CDs by some of the artists they had seen perform at Walter Frye's party. And he poured an excellent French white Bordeaux for her. The dinner was far more elegant than anything she would have cooked for him, and she thoroughly enjoyed it.
