{"product_id":"second-chance-isbn-9780440240792","title":"Second Chance","description":"As editor-in-chief of New York’s leading fashion magazine, Fiona Monaghan was utterly content with her life, jetting back and forth between her stylish Manhattan and Europe—until the sweltering June day John Anderson strolled into her office. A widower with two daughters, John was as conservative as Fiona was freewheeling, both amused and appalled by her world of high-strung designers, anorexic models, Fendi-stuffed closets, and Sir Winston, her snoring bulldog. But after Fiona impulsively invited John to the Paris couture shows, somewhere between the magic of the runway and the stroll along the Seine, she let him into her heart. And within weeks of their return to New York, John was making friends with Sir Winston—and Fiona was making room in her closets.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It didn’t take long for the dominoes to start falling. First, John introduced Fiona to his hostile daughters and their bloodthirsty Pekingese and snarling housekeeper. Then, after a disastrous dinner party with John’s biggest client, Fiona and John’s relationship began to unravel with alarming speed. What happens next will set Fiona on a journey filled with pain, revelation, and awakening. When she risks everything and returns to Paris alone, an extraordinary series of events begins to unfold. And as the snow falls on the city of light, the curtain will rise on a second act Fiona never saw coming.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In a dazzling tale of modern misadventures and career-crossed relationships, Danielle Steel captures the heady magic of instant attraction, the challenges of change—and the hope that comes when we dare to do it all over again.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Danielle Steel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Steel is one of the best!”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Few modern writers convey the pathos of family and material life with such heartfelt empathy.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Steel pulls out all the emotional stops. . . . She delivers!”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What counts for the reader is the ring of authenticity.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eDanielle Steel\u003c\/b\u003e has been hailed as one of the world’s most popular authors, with over 650 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include \u003ci\u003eCountry, Prodigal Son, Pegasus,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eA Perfect Life, Power Play, Winners, First Sight, Until the End of Time, The Sins of the Mother, \u003c\/i\u003eand other highly acclaimed novels. She is also the author of \u003ci\u003eHis Bright Light,\u003c\/i\u003e the story of her son Nick Traina’s life and death; \u003ci\u003eA Gift of Hope, \u003c\/i\u003ea memoir of her work with the homeless; \u003ci\u003ePure Joy, \u003c\/i\u003eabout the dogs she and her family have loved; and the children’s book \u003ci\u003ePretty Minnie in Paris.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e The air-conditioning had just stopped working in the offices of Chic  magazine on a blisteringly hot June day in New York. It was their second brownout  of the day, and Fiona Monaghan looked as if she were ready to kill someone as she  strode into her office after being trapped in the elevator for twenty minutes. The  same thing had happened to her the day before. Just getting out of the cab on the  way back from lunch at the Four Seasons made her feel as though the air had been  sucked out of her lungs. She was leaving for Paris in two weeks-if she lived that  long. Days like this were enough to make anyone hate New York, but in spite of the  heat and the aggravation, Fiona loved everything about living there. The people,  the atmosphere, the restaurants, the theater, the avalanche of culture and excitement  everywhere-even the brownstone on East Seventy-fourth Street that she had nearly  bankrupted herself to buy ten years ago. She had spent every penny she had on remodeling  it. It was stylish and exquisite, a symbol of everything she was and had become.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At forty-two, she had spent a lifetime becoming Fiona Monaghan, a woman men admired  and women envied, and came to love when they knew her well and she was their friend.  If pressed, she could be a fearsome opponent. But even those who disliked her had  to admit they respected her. She was a woman of power, passion, and integrity, and  she would fight to the death for a cause she believed in, or a person she had promised  to support. She never broke a promise, and when she gave her word, you knew you could  count on her. She looked like Katharine Hepburn with a little dash of Rita Hayworth,  she was tall and lean with bright red hair and big green eyes that flashed with either  delight or rage. Those who met Fiona Monaghan never forgot her, and in her fiefdom  she was all knowing, all seeing, all powerful, and all caring. She loved her job  above all else, and had fought hard to get it. She had never married, never wanted  to, and although she loved children, she never wanted any of her own. She had enough  on her plate as it was. She had been the editor-in-chief of Chic magazine for six  years, and as such she was an icon in the fashion world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She had a full personal  life as well. She had had an affair with a married man, and a relationship with a  man she had lived with for eight years. Before that, she had dated randomly, usually  artists or writers, but she had been alone now for a year and a half. The married  lover was a British architect who commuted between London, Hong Kong, and New York.  And the man she had lived with was a conductor, and had left her to marry and have  children, and was living in Chicago now, which Fiona considered a fate worse than  death. Fiona thought New York was the hub of the civilized world. She would have  lived in London or Paris, but nowhere else. She and the conductor had remained good  friends. He had come before the architect, whom she had left when the affair got  too complicated and he threatened to leave his wife for her. She didn't want to marry  him, or anyone. She hadn't wanted to marry the conductor either, although he had  asked her repeatedly. Marriage always seemed too high risk to her, she would have  preferred to do a high-wire act in the circus than risk marriage, and she warned  men of that. Marriage was never an option for her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her own childhood had been hard  enough to convince her that she didn't want to risk that kind of pain for anyone.  Her father had abandoned her mother when her mother was twenty-five and she was three.  Her mother had attempted two more marriages to men Fiona hated, both were drunks,  as her father had been. She never saw her father again after he left, nor his family,  and knew only that he had died when she was fourteen. And her mother had died when  she was in college. Fiona had no siblings, no known relatives. She was alone in the  world by the time she was twenty, graduated from Wellesley, and made it on her own  after that. She crawled her way up the ladder in minor fashion magazines and landed  at Chic by the time she was twenty-nine. Seven years later, she became editor-in-chief,  and the rest was history. Fiona was a legend by the time she was thirty-five, and  the most powerful female magazine editor in the country at forty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fiona had nearly  infallible judgment, an unfailing sense for fashion and what would work, and a head  for business that everyone she worked with admired. And more than that, she had courage.  She wasn't afraid to take risks, except in her love life. In that arena she took  none at all, and had no need to. She wasn't afraid to be alone, and in the past year  and a half she had come to prefer it. She was never really alone anyway, she was  constantly surrounded by photographers, assistants, designers, models, artists, and  a flock of hangers-on. She had a full calendar and an active social life and a host  of interesting friends. She always said that it wouldn't bother her if she never  lived with anyone again. She didn't have room in her closets anyway, and had no desire  to make room for anyone. She had enough responsibilities at the magazine, without  wanting to be responsible to or for a man as well. Fiona Monaghan had a breathtakingly  full life, and she loved all of it. She had a high tolerance for, and a slight addiction  to, confusion, excitement, and chaos.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was wearing a long narrow black silk skirt  that fell in tiny pleats from her waist, as she walked off the elevator she'd been  trapped in for twenty minutes, on her way back from lunch. She wore a white peasant  blouse with it, off her shoulders, with her long red hair swept up in a loose knot.  Her only piece of jewelry was a huge turquoise bracelet that nearly devoured her  wrist and was the envy of all who saw it. It had been made for her by David Webb.  She was wearing high-heeled black Manolo Blahnik sandals, an oversize red alligator  Fendi bag, and the entire combination of accessories and long, clean lines gave an  impression of inimitable elegance and style. Fiona was as dazzling as any of the  models they photographed, she was older but just as beautiful, although her looks  meant nothing to her. She never traded on sex appeal or artifice, she was far more  interested in the soul and the mind, both of which shone through her deep green eyes.  She was thinking about the cover for the September issue, as she sat down at her  desk, kicked off her sandals, and picked up the phone. There was a new young designer  in Paris she wanted one of her young assistant editors to research and pursue. Fiona  was always on a mission of some kind, it took a flock of underlings and minions to  keep up with her, and she was feared as much as she was admired. You had to move  fast to match her pace, and she had no patience for slackers, shirkers, or fools.  Everyone at Chic knew that when Fiona shined the spotlight on you, you'd better be  able to come up with the goods, or else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her secretary buzzed her ten minutes later  to remind her that John Anderson was coming in to see her in half an hour, and she  groaned. She had forgotten the appointment, and between the heat, the lack of air-conditioning,  and the interlude in the elevator, she wasn't in the mood. He was the head of the  new ad agency they'd hired, it was a solid old firm that, thanks to him, had come  up with some exciting new ideas. It had been her decision to make the switch, and  she had met nearly everyone in the agency but him. Their work and their track record  spoke for itself. The meeting was merely a matter of form to meet each other. He  had been reorganizing the London office when she decided to hire the firm, and now  that he was back in town, they had agreed to meet. He had suggested lunch, but she  didn't have time, so she'd suggested he come to her office, intending to keep it  brief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She returned half a dozen calls before the meeting, and Adrian Wicks, her  most important editor, dropped in for five minutes to discuss the couture shows in  Paris with her. Adrian was a tall, thin, stylish somewhat effeminate black man who  had been a designer himself for a few years before he came to Chic. He was as smart  as she was, which she loved. Adrian was a graduate of Yale, had a master's in journalism  from Columbia, worked as a designer, and had finally landed at Chic, and together  they were an impressive team. He was her right arm for the last five years. He was  as dark as she was pale, as addicted to fashion as she was, and as passionate about  his ideas and the magazine as Fiona. In addition, he was her best friend. She invited  him to join the meeting with John Anderson, but he was meeting with a designer at  three, and just as Adrian left her office, her secretary told her that Mr. Anderson  had arrived, and Fiona asked her to show him in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Fiona looked across her desk  to the doorway, she watched John Anderson walk in, and came around her desk to greet  him. She smiled as their eyes met, and each took the other's measure. He was a tall,  powerfully built man with impeccably groomed white hair, bright blue eyes, and a  youthful face and demeanor. He was as conservative as she was flamboyant. She knew  from his biographical material, and mutual friends, that he was a widower, he had  just turned fifty, and he had an M.B.A. from Harvard. She also knew he had two daughters  in college, one at Brown and the other at Princeton. Fiona always remembered personal  details, she found them interesting, and sometimes useful to help her know who she  was dealing with.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thank you for coming over,\" she said pleasantly as they stood  eyeing each other. She was nearly as tall as he was in the towering Blahnik heels  she had slipped back on before she came to greet him. The rest of the time, she loved  walking around her office barefoot. She said it helped her think. \"I'm sorry about  the air-conditioning. We've had brownouts all week.\" She smiled agreeably.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So have  we. At least you can open your windows. My office has been like an oven. It's a good  thing we decided to meet here,\" he said with a smile, glancing around her office,  which was an eclectic hodgepodge of paintings by up-and-coming young artists, two  important photographs by Avedon that had been a gift to her from the magazine, and  layouts from future issues leaning against the walls. There was a mountain of jewelry,  accessories, clothes, and fabric samples almost entirely covering the couch, which  she unceremoniously dumped on the floor, as her assistant brought in a tray with  a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies. Fiona waved John Anderson toward the  couch, and handed him a glass of the ice-cold lemonade a moment later, and sat down  across from him. \"Thank you. It's nice to finally meet you,\" he said politely. She  nodded, and looked serious for a moment as she watched him. She hadn't expected him  to look quite that uptight, or be that good looking. He seemed calm and conservative,  but at the same time there was something undeniably electric about him, as though  there were an invisible current that moved through him. It was so tangible she could  feel it. Despite his serious looks, there was something very exciting about him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She didn't look as he had expected her to either. She was sexier, younger, more  striking, and more informal. He had expected her to be older and more of a dragon.  She had a fearsome reputation, not for being disagreeable but for being tough, though  fair, in her dealings, a force to be reckoned with. And much to his surprise, as  she smiled at him over the lemonade, she seemed almost girlish. But despite her seemingly  friendly air, within minutes she got to the point of their meeting, and was clear  and concise in outlining Chic's expectations. They wanted good solid advertising  campaigns, nothing too trendy or exotic. The magazine was the most established in  the business, and she expected their advertising to reflect that. She didn't want  anything wild or crazy. John was relieved to hear it. Chic was a great account for  them, and he was beginning to look forward to his dealings with her. More so than  before the meeting. In fact, as he drank a second glass of lemonade, and the air-conditioning  finally came back on, he had actually decided that he liked her. He liked her style,  and the straightforward way she outlined their needs and issues. She had clear, sound  ideas about advertising, just as she did about her own business. By the time he stood  up to leave, he was almost sorry the meeting was over. He liked talking to her. She  was tough and fair. She was totally feminine, and strong at the same time. She was  a woman to be feared and admired.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fiona walked him to the elevator, something she  did rarely. She was usually in a hurry to get back to work, but she lingered for  a few minutes, talking to him, and she was pleased when she went back to her office.  He was a good man, smart, quick, funny, and not as stuffy as he looked in his gray  suit, white shirt, and sober navy tie. He looked more like a banker than the head  of an ad agency, but she liked the fact that he wore elegant expensive shoes that  she correctly suspected he'd bought in London, and his suit was impeccably tailored.  He had a definite look about him, in sharp contrast to her own style. In all things,  and certainly her taste and style, Fiona was far more daring. She could wear almost  anything, and make it look terrific.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She left the office late that afternoon and  as always was in a hurry. She hailed a cab outside their offices on Park Avenue,  and sped uptown to her brownstone. It was after six when she got home, already wilted  from the heat in the cab. And the moment she walked in she could hear chaos in her  kitchen. She was expecting guests at seven-thirty. She kept her house ice cold, as  much for her own comfort as for that of her ancient English bulldog. He was fourteen  years old, a miraculous age for the breed, and beloved by all who knew him. His name  was Sir Winston, after Churchill. He greeted her enthusiastically when she got home,  as she hurried into the kitchen to check on progress there, and was pleased to find  her caterers working at a frenzied pace, preparing the Indian dinner she had ordered.Americas #1 bestseller","brand":"Dell","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301943070949,"sku":"NP9780440240792","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780440240792.jpg?v=1767736251","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/second-chance-isbn-9780440240792","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}