Sweet Dreams (12 page)

“I can’t commit until tomorrow.”

Belinda had promised Chandra she would let her know when a moving company would deliver the bedroom, living room and kitchen furniture, and she wanted to be available if or when a school district contacted her for an interview.

“No problem.” Resting his hands on her shoulders, Preston steered Chandra to the cooking island. “I want you to sit down and relax.” He settled her on a tall stool. “After breakfast we’ll go on a walking tour of the valley.” Resting his elbows on the granite surface, he smiled at the young woman who’d managed to fill the
empty spaces in his solitary life. “Do you like blueberry buttermilk pancakes?”

Her eyes brightened like a young child’s on Christmas morning. “You’ve got to be kidding. They’re my favorite.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who told you I like blueberry pancakes?”

“No one.”

Chandra sat up straighter. “I don’t believe you. Someone in my family
had
to tell you.”

“Okay, baby, I’ll tell you. It was your mother.”

Heat seared her cheeks as if someone had placed a lighted match to her face. “You told my mother I was staying over with you?”

“She wanted to know if we were coming back to Paoli for brunch, so I had to tell her we were going to Kennett Square. Does my telling her upset you?”

“No.”

At thirty, Chandra didn’t have to rely on her parents for financial support, but she was living at home—even if it was only temporarily. If she didn’t come home she didn’t have to call and give an account of her whereabouts. Yet she still didn’t want to advertise when she was spending the night with a man.

“I assured your mother that you were safe with me.”

“Why? Because you’re a nice guy?”

“Being a nice guy has nothing to do with it. It’s just that I would never consciously hurt you.”

The seconds ticked as Chandra’s gaze met and fused with Preston’s. He’d claimed he would never consciously hurt her and she suspected that neither did Laurence. But it happened. Laurence had to have known of his parents’ biases, yet he’d pursued her relentlessly until she finally
agreed to go out with him. Her ex-fiancé hadn’t hurt her as much as he’d deceived her.

“That’s nice to hear,” she drawled.

“You still don’t trust me, do you, Chandra?”

“I’ll trust you until you give me cause not to.”

Preston ran a finger down the length of her nose. “Let’s hope that never happens.”

Chandra flashed a smile she didn’t feel.
I pray it never happens
, she mused. She knew she had to shake off the sense of distrust or she would never enjoy her relationship with Preston. Pulling back her shoulders, she exhaled a breath as her heart swelled with an emotion she’d thought she would never feel again. Despite her decision not to—she knew she was falling in love with Preston Tucker.

C
handra came to a complete stop. She didn’t want to believe she was that tired. Her calves were aching. After a breakfast of the most incredibly delicious pancakes she’d ever eaten, she had retreated to her bedroom where she’d put on a pair of running shoes and joined Preston as he led her on a walking tour.

The exterior of his home was as exquisite as the interior. The boxwood garden, covering a quarter acre, was a riot of exotic ferns and flowers. She’d recognized late-blooming roses, hydrangea in hues ranging from deep purple to snow white, dahlia in various colors and sizes and chrysanthemum—some that were six inches in diameter. There were sections with all white, yellow, pink and red flowers in different varieties she didn’t recognize, and if she could she wouldn’t be able to pronounce.

A shed several hundred feet from the rear of the
house was filled with cords of firewood, while two dozen stumps that would eventually become firewood were covered with a clear plastic tarp. Preston revealed he chopped wood during the winter months and worked out in his building’s health club whenever he stayed over in Philadelphia to keep in shape. She’d had her answer to how he’d maintained a slender, toned physique.

Lowering her head, she rested her hands on her knees. “We’re going to have to stop while I rest my legs before we start back.”

Preston looped an arm around her waist. “Let’s get off the road and sit down under that tree.” Of the twenty miles of rolling hills and country roads that made up the Brandywine Valley, they’d covered more than five miles.

They sat down under the sweeping branches of a towering oak tree with leaves of brilliant autumnal colors in orange and yellow. The midmorning temperatures were at least ten to fifteen degrees cooler than they’d been the day before. Preston wondered whether summer was about to take its last curtain call. The next weekend would also signal the end of daylight saving time, and with it came fewer hours of daylight. He wanted to complete his first draft of
Death’s Kiss
before Thanksgiving and that would give him the winter months to edit and reedit to his critical satisfaction.

Chandra, sitting between Preston’s outstretched legs, rested the back of her head against his shoulder. The view from where they sat was awe-inspiring, ethereal.

“I can’t believe I’ve lived in Pennsylvania most of my life, yet I’ve never visited this part of the state.”

Winding several strands of Chandra’s hair around his forefinger, Preston rubbed the pad of his thumb over
its softness; he released it, watching as it floated into a corkscrew curl.

“You’ve never been to Longwood Gardens?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately I haven’t.”

“Most Philadelphia schoolchildren visit the gardens at least once during a class trip.”

Tilting her chin, Chandra smiled at him staring down at her. “Well, I must have had a deprived childhood.”

“Where did you go to school?” Preston asked.

“My brother, sisters and I attended Chesterfield Academy.”

Preston wanted to tell her that she was anything but deprived. Dr. Dwight and Roberta Eaton had enrolled their children in one of Philadelphia’s most prestigious private schools, while he and his sister took advantage of the best that the public school system had to offer.

“I assume you went to Europe instead of Longwood for class trips.”

Chandra placed her hands atop the larger one resting on her belly.

“Only the upperclassmen were permitted to leave the country. I spent the second half of my junior year in Spain studying and occasionally taking side trips to Portugal and France. It was the first time I was bitten by the traveling bug. I could’ve easily lived in a different country every year.” She glanced up at Preston again. “How about you? Are you a vagabond or a homebody?”

He smiled. “I’m definitely a homebody.”

“Where’s your spirit of adventure?” she teased.

“My spirit of adventure means traveling first class.”

Chandra shifted to face Preston, she half on, half off his body. “I think I’ve found my Pascual.”

He frowned. “Say what?”

“You,” she said. “I hadn’t realized when I began developing Pascual that you and he shared similar physical and psychological characteristics. His mantra is enjoying the best immortality has to offer him.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Chandra. I’m not immortal.”

“Okay. But do you gamble?”

“What do you mean by gamble?” he asked, answering her question with one of his own.

“Do you play cards?”

“Yes.
If
I do play, then it’s either poker or blackjack.”

Pressing her chest to his, Chandra brushed her mouth over his. “Perfect. Blackjack, or as the French call it,
vingt-et-un
, whist or cribbage were the popular card games during Josette’s time. Poker didn’t become popular until after 1830. Pascual will become quite the center of attention when he introduces a new card game known as poker.”

“Poker and the tango,” Preston murmured under his breath. “What other surprises does he plan to spring on the curious inhabitants of the Crescent City?”

Excitement shimmered in Chandra’s eyes. “I think that’s enough. The men will be caught up in the challenge of learning a new card game and the women either mesmerized or scandalized by the mysterious stranger. Can you imagine their reaction at the ball when Pascual presents himself to Josette, then leads her in a tango? It will be another one hundred years before women show their ankles, but more than an ankle will be on display that night. It will also be leg
and
thigh.”

“That is scandalous,” Preston concurred.

“Marie is mortified because she believes Pascual
has deliberately ruined Josette’s chance to become
plaçée
to the man she has chosen for her. But as the night progresses, she notices many of the mothers are scheming to get Pascual to notice their daughters.”

“Does he get to dance with the other young women?”

Chandra nodded. “Yes. But with them he is the perfect gentleman, mouthing the proper greetings and thanking them for permitting him to bask in their beauty. One minute he’s there, then as a rush of air comes into the ballroom, causing candles to flicker, he’s gone.”

Preston went completely still. He could see the scene being played out in his head. Chandra had just given him what he needed to set the stage for the all-important, very dramatic act two.

“When does Josette see him again?”

“He’s waiting in her bedroom when she returns from the ball. He hides behind a dressing screen while her maid enters the room to help her ready herself for bed. But Josette orders her out, saying she doesn’t need her assistance. After the woman leaves, Josette locks the door and closes the casement windows.

“Pascual emerges from behind the screen. He steps into the role as maid and seducer when he removes the pins from Josette’s hair, then removes her dress. This scene must be very sensual, Preston. The actors aren’t going to have sex onstage. However, they must give the illusion that they are making love. Perhaps this scene can take place where the audience views it through a sheer curtain as if peering through a bedroom window with a single candle for illumination. The lighting will become as much a character as Josette and Pascual.

“When the scene ends, there shouldn’t be a sound in the theater. It will be your test as the director that
your actors have hypnotized the audience. Every woman should want to be on the stage and in that bed with Pascual, and the same with every man, who is telling himself that he is
the one
seducing the beautiful young virgin. Once the lighting fades to black and there is stunned silence you’ll know immediately that you’ve hit the mark.”

Preston was hard-pressed not to make love to Chandra. The scene she’d just described was exactly as she had written in her journal. She’d prepared herself for bed and instead of a lamp, she’d lit a candle. The candle was about to burn out when her mysterious lover enters the room. Chandra had described the lovemaking scene so vividly that Preston felt not like a voyeur but a participant in the act.

“That’s not going to be an easy feat, because I’ve never directed a love scene.”

Chandra placed her fingertips over his mouth. “It’s not about the dialogue, darling. It’s all about what is visual, and therefore sensual. If I were sitting in the audience I would want to hear the sound of her hairpins when they fall to the floor and the whisper of fabric being removed as they undress.”

Capturing her wrist, Preston pulled the delicate hand away from his mouth. “Do you want to hear them make love?”

Chandra’s brow flickered with indecision. “No,” she said after a lengthy pause. “I think it would cheapen the scene. It’s not a porno flick, where the sounds are essential to the movie. I believe it would work better if Josette would gasp aloud when Pascual penetrates her. This will let the audience know that she is indeed a virgin. It could conclude with a sigh of satisfaction—
again making the audience aware that the lovemaking was wonderful.”

“You’ve missed your calling, Chandra.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never wanted to act.”

“I’m not talking about acting.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bringing her hand to his mouth, Preston pressed a kiss to the palm. “Writing.”

“Thanks for the compliment, but I’ve never been interested in writing. I prefer to read.”

Preston’s gaze narrowed when he saw dark clouds moving in from the west. He stood up, bringing Chandra up with him. “I think we better head back because it looks as if we’re in for some rain.” He pointed. “Look at those clouds.”

Chandra didn’t need a second warning when she saw how dark the sky had become. She forgot about the pain in her legs when she jogged alongside Preston when they headed in the direction of the house. She’d been so engrossed in talking about
Death’s Kiss
that she hadn’t noticed the weather had changed.

The wind had picked up, gusts swirling leaves and twigs. Rain had begun falling when the house came into view, then came down in torrents by the time they reached the back door. The wet clothes pasted to Chandra’s body raised goose bumps; her teeth were chattering when Preston unlocked the door and deactivated the security system.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she announced as she kicked off her soggy running shoes.

Preston, following suit, slipped out of his running shoes. He stripped off his shirt, jeans and underwear, dropping them in a large wicker basket in the space that doubled as a laundry and mudroom.

Walking on bare feet, he made his way into the half bath off the kitchen. Stepping in the shower stall, he turned on the water, gritting his teeth as icy pellets fell on his head. Then he adjusted the temperature to lukewarm. Preston lingered long enough to shampoo his cropped hair and wash his body.

His mind was a maelstrom of vivid images of what Chandra had suggested for the play’s second act as he stepped out and dried himself with a bath sheet. He hadn’t lied when he told her she should’ve been a writer. She was an untapped talent, her fertile mind lying fallow; all that was needed was a kernel of an idea to yield a harvest worthy of a literary feast.

He was Preston J. Tucker, the critically acclaimed dramatist who’d won awards, was the recipient of a McArthur genius grant and who had been compared to some of the most celebrated playwrights of the past century. However, when he compared what he’d written and produced to what he was currently collaborating on with Chandra, it paled in comparison.

Chandra had what he lacked: a highly developed sense of visualization. He relied on strong dialogue, characterization and simplistic costuming and stark sets to tell his message, while Chandra added the element of sensual visuals.

The big screen would be the perfect vehicle for
Death’s Kiss
. Love scenes could be performed without the limitations that usually went along with a stage production. Nudity on the stage wasn’t taboo, but Preston found it more a hindrance than an enticement to put theatergoers in seats. Once the initial shock of frontal nudity was assuaged—then what? He’d always asked himself whether the production would’ve stood
on its own merits without the nudity. If the answer was yes, then he deleted it.

Wrapping the terry cloth fabric around his waist, he walked out of the bath, heading toward his bedroom. The connecting door was ajar and he could hear Chandra opening and closing drawers. Preston would’ve suggested they share a shower, but he didn’t want a repeat of what had happened earlier that morning.

It took Herculean strength for him to pull out when he realized he was making love to Chandra without a condom. He’d pulled out when it had been the last thing he’d wanted to do, and he knew then he wasn’t the same person he’d been before meeting her.

Preston believed that he would eventually marry and father children, but
when
was the question. He’d celebrated his thirty-eighth birthday March seventeenth, and as he’d done since turning thirty-five, he went through a period of self-examination, asking himself if he was satisfied with what he’d accomplished, had he learned not to repeat past mistakes, did he like who he was and what he’d become and finally if he was ready to share himself and what he’d accomplished with someone with whom he would spend the rest of his life. All the questions yielded an affirmative. The exception was the last one.

His passion for writing had become paramount, and jealously guarded his privacy and his time. But that had changed with Chandra Eaton. It was as if he couldn’t get enough of her—in and out of bed. She hadn’t shocked him when she had taken him into her mouth. It was more of a surprise because he hadn’t expected it. He’d suspected she was capable of great passion because of what she’d written in her journal, but he still hadn’t known whether her dreams were real or imagined. That
no longer mattered because he wanted Chandra Eaton to be the last woman in his life.

Dropping the towel on the padded bench at the foot of the bed, he’d pulled on a pair of boxer-briefs, sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee when he heard a groan. Taking long strides, he crossed the room, opened the door wider to find Chandra writhing on the bed, clutching the back of her leg. She had on a bra and a pair of bikini panties.