“No, you won't. And if you do, I'll just spirit you away again,” he said, smiling at her. “I'll call you later,” he said, as he kissed her in the doorway, and she hoped no one was looking. She felt more than a little racy, having a man bring her home with a suitcase. But she didn't know who she was hiding from. She didn't know anyone in the neighborhood, and no one cared what she was doing.
And just as he had promised, he called her that evening.
“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.
Afterward they sat in his living room in front of the fire, admiring the view. It was chilly outside, and nice being next to him by the fire. And in a little while, they were kissing. She had only known him for three weeks, but in spite of all her reservations, and Bix's warnings, she knew she was falling for him. She could no longer remember why this was supposed to be such a bad idea, or why she had felt such eternal loyalty to Peter. What difference did it make? He was married to Rachel. She owed him nothing, she told herself, as Chandler continued to kiss her, and ran a hand slowly up her leg, but he was cautious, and didn't want to upset her. He stopped and looked at her, and she melted into his arms, and it seemed like hours later, but suddenly she was lying next to him in bed, and she had her clothes off.
“Paris, I don't want to do this unless you want to,” he said gently.
“I want to,” she whispered, as he nestled his head against her, where he found her breasts and caressed them. Their bodies seemed to mesh and blend, and he took her expertly and carefully. He gave her pleasures that even Peter had never thought of. She spent the night with him, and they made love again in the morning. Peter had never done that. She felt an odd disloyalty when she got up, but when she sat across the breakfast table from Chandler, she felt better. He looked happy and at peace, and he was smiling at her. This wasn't a dream, it was real.
“That was incredible,” he said, and then teased her when she blushed. It was better than she had ever expected.
“Yes, it was,” she said, drinking the orange juice he gave her.
He took her home in time to change for work, and promised to call her later. Which he did, and then took her for lunch at their favorite Italian restaurant with the garden. She felt completely under his spell, and this time she didn't say anything to Bix. It was none of his business. The night she had spent with Chandler had changed things. Her loyalty was to him now. They had a relationship.
And she felt awkward with him at lunch, as she struggled to ask him an unfamiliar question, but this was her first venture into new waters. And she wanted to act responsibly. “I… should we…are we supposed to get an AIDS test before we go any further?” She was grateful that he had used protection, but she knew that if they were going to stop using it, at least some of the time, they should probably get tested. That seemed to be what people did, according to Meg at least.
“As long as we use protection, we don't need to,” he said, smiling at her, and she nodded. She didn't want to press the matter further. It was too awkward. And his answer seemed reasonable to her. Besides, it solved the issue of birth control for her.
He picked her up at her house that night after work, and she spent the night in his apartment again, and the next day Meg called her at the office, so
unding worried.
“Mom, are you okay? I called you last night and the night before, really late, and you were out. Were you
working?”
“No…I…I was out with Chandler.”
“Did something happen?”
“No, of course not. Everything's fine, sweetheart. We were just out late, talking.”
“Well, be careful. Don't fall for him too quickly.” She sounded like Bix, but Paris thanked her and went back to her office. Poor thing, everyone was so suspicious of him, and he was so good to her. She couldn't remember being this happy. She wanted to call Anne and tell her about it, but she didn't have time until the weekend. They had two weddings on Saturday, and with the time difference, she never called her. And Paris worked so late, she didn't see Chandler all weekend. One wedding went until two-thirty, and the other till after four in the morning, and she didn't want to call and wake him. Weddings were different than dinner parties, a lot more could go wrong. They needed to keep track of each minute detail, and they always stayed to supervise till the bitter end. Chandler said he understood, and she saw him Sunday night for dinner. She wanted him to meet Wim, but when she called him in the dorm, he said he was busy. So she and Chandler ate alone.
They spent a quiet evening at her house watching videos, and this time she cooked him dinner. She made a big bowl of pasta and a salad, far simpler fare than he served, but the wine was good. And after they made love, he went back to his apartment. He said he had an early meeting the next day.
And for the next three weeks, they lived in their own cozy world. Whenever she wasn't working, she was with him. She spent the night at his place more frequently than she did in her own house. But the one thing she no longer was was lonely. She felt as though she were living a fairy-tale existence. She had never known anyone like him. He was attentive to her every need, kind, thoughtful, and funny. And he continued to be very conscientious about using protection. She suggested to him one day that they get AIDS tests, to reassure each other, so they no longer had to, when it was safe for her. But he said it was just as easy to use condoms. And thinking about it later that day somehow set off a bell in her head, and that night she asked him about it again.
“If we get AIDS tests, we don't have to use anything,” she said cautiously. It seemed so much simpler to her.
“It's always a good idea to use protection,” he said wisely, as he came back from the bathroom and snuggled next to her again. He was in extraordinarily good shape, and had a splendid body. And his sexual skills were beyond impressive. But in spite of that she decided to ask him the question that had popped into her mind that afternoon, although she already knew the answer, or assumed she did.
She propped herself up on one elbow in bed and smiled at him. “You don't sleep with anyone else, do you? Now, I mean, since we've been together.”
He looked at her and smiled, and traced her nipples with one finger, which aroused her. “That's a pretty big question.”
“I assume it has a simple answer,” she said softly.
“I'm assuming that this is an exclusive arrangement.” She had heard Meg use the term.
“Exclusive is a big word,” he said, as he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling without expression.
“What does that mean?” She could feel a knot form in her stomach.
“I haven't slept with anyone else since I've been with you,” he said, as he looked at her, and she watched him. “But it could happen. It's awfully early in the day for us to make a commitment to each other.”
“I don't expect a commitment,” she said quietly. “But I do expect to be exclusive, or monogamous, or whatever you want to call it.”
“As long as we use condoms, that's not a problem. I'm not going to put you at risk, Paris, I wouldn't do that.”
“But you're not going to be monogamous either?”
“I can't promise you that. I don't want to lie to you. We're adults. Anything can happen.”
“Are you reserving the right to see other women?” Paris looked stunned. It hadn't even occurred to her that he might, or that he would want to.
“You don't leave me time for that,” he said lightly. But he traveled. And there were plenty of nights when she had to work. She had never expected his answer, and she looked deeply upset as she sat up in bed and looked down at him, lying next to her. It had never dawned on her until then that this was not an exclusive arrangement. “You never said that was an issue for you,” he said, looking somewhat irritated that the subject had come up.
“I didn't think I had to. I just assumed that was what you wanted too. You said this was special and different.”
“It is special. But I'm not going to be put on a leash. We're not married. And we both know how little that means.”
“No, I don't,” she said plaintively. “I don't know anything of the sort. I was faithful to my husband, and he was faithful to me for more than twenty years of our marriage. And that's beside the point.” She looked sad suddenly. Reality had hit her. This wasn't marriage—it was dating. “I don't want to share you.”
“You don't own me,” he said, sounding angry.
“I don't know that I want to. But I do want to know that while you're sleeping with me, however long that is, you won't sleep with other people.”
“It's premature in the relationship to do that, Paris. We're adults, we're free. You might meet someone you want to sleep with.”
“Not if I'm involved with you, and if that happens, you'll be the first to know.” She was sitting ramrod straight now.
“That's noble of you,” he said practically, “but I'm not going to make you the same promise. Things happen, even if you don't plan them.”
“Would you tell me afterward if it did?”
“Not necessarily. I don't owe you that. Not after six weeks. In six months maybe, depending on how things go between us. But that's a long way off. We're not there yet.”
“Is there a rule book on this? Because if there is, I want to see it. Are there timetables about what happens when, like what happens at six weeks, and then what you can expect at three months, or six, or a year? Who makes these rules?”
“It depends on the arrangement between two people,” he said comfortably. He was not going to let her pressure him. It bothered him that she even tried to. Exclusivity was not part of the deal. For him.
“And what arrangement do we have?” Paris asked, looking straight at him.
“None officially for the moment. We're having a good time, aren't we? What more do we need than that?” Paris didn't say a word as she got out of bed and looked over her shoulder at him.
“I need a lot more. I need to know that I'm the only woman in your life, or in your bed at least, for the moment.”
“That's not reasonable,” he said simply.
“I think it is. I think this is a sad way for people to live. Life is about integrity and caring and commitment, not just playing and having sex.”
“Do you have fun with me?” he asked as he rolled over on his side and watched her. She was dressing.
“Yes, I do. But life is about more than just fun too.”
“Then give it a chance to get there. It's too early to be talking about things like this. Paris, don't spoil it.”
“You just did.” But she had to admit, he was honest at least. But not much else.
“If you leave it alone, we might get there eventually, but you can't force it.”
“And while we're ‘getting there,’ you want to sleep with other people?”
“I may never do it. I haven't yet. But yes, I could.”
“I don't want to worry about it, and I would. I would always wonder. Now that I know how you feel about it, I'm not sure I would ever trust you. How could I? Any more than you could trust me. You'd never know what I was doing. Except with me, you would know. That's the difference.”
“I don't expect that of you. Those are the ground rules.”
“What? Every man for himself, and screw w
hoever you want to? How pathetic. And how sad actually. I want more than that. I want love and integrity between two people.”
“I've never lied to you. And I wouldn't.”
“No,” she said sadly, “you just wouldn't tell me. Would you?” He didn't answer, and she stood and looked at him for a long moment. “If you ever feel differently about this, call me.” She wanted to say, if you ever grow up and decide to stop playing. “This has been wonderful. But it wouldn't be if I knew you were cheating on me. And to me, that's what it would be. I'm a very old-fashioned person.”
“You just want to be married, and control me,” he said cynically. “And if you're not married, you want to pretend you are. Well, you're not. You might as well enjoy it. And you're not going to control me.” It was the ultimate crime to him, a capital offense.
“I was enjoying it… for a minute… you spoiled it.”
“You're wasting your time,” he said, looking annoyed, as he got up and stood naked before her. “People don't play by those rules anymore. They went out with the Dark Ages.”
“Maybe so,” she said quietly, “but if so, I'm going out with them. Thanks for everything,” she said, and then walked out and closed the door. She stood in the hall for a minute, and then rang for the elevator. Part of her hoped that he would open the door and beg her to come back. And the rest of her knew that would never happen. She had learned a painful lesson. And whatever the ground rules were in Chandler Freeman's version of modern dating, Paris knew they weren't for her, and neither was he. Bixby had been right.
Chapter 20
It was the third week in March when she stopped seeing Chandler, and a full two weeks later before Bix questioned her about it. He had the feeling somehow that he was no longer calling. She had been quiet for a few days, and then seemed to be keeping unusually busy. He finally asked her about it on an evening they were working late, planning a wedding.
“Have I missed something? Or is Chandler no longer calling?”
Dating Game Page 20