Sweet Dreams (4 page)

“What do you teach?”

“How do you know I’m a teacher?”

Reaching for her hand, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Today you look and sound like a teacher. Besides, you didn’t deny it. By the way, are you on sabbatical or are you playing hooky?”

Chandra’s lips twitched as she tried not to smile. She
knew she had to remain alert with Preston. He probably processed everything she said within seconds. “I’m in between jobs.”

“Come with me to the kitchen. We can talk while I cook.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You write, direct and cook. I’m impressed. What other talents are you hiding?”

Throwing back his head, Preston let loose genuine laughter. He’d found Chandra Eaton cute and very talented. What he hadn’t counted on was that she could make him laugh.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me.”

“Maybe I should ask your girlfriend.”

Preston’s expression changed suddenly. He glared at her under hooded lids. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“What about a wife?” Chandra asked. Denise had said Preston was a bachelor, but she needed him to confirm his marital status.

“I also don’t have a wife.”

“Is it because you’re not romantic?” Chandra asked, knowing she was treading into dangerous territory. She really didn’t want to know any more about Preston than what Denise had told her. Whatever she would share with him was to be strictly business.

“Not being romantic has nothing to do with whether I’m married or involved with a woman.”

“Are you a misogynist?”

“Of course not.”

“Don’t look so put out, Preston. I’ve read about a lot of high-profile men who date women, but detest them behind closed doors.”

“Well, I’m not one of those down-low brothers.” He hadn’t lied to Chandra. It had taken many years and countless therapy sessions for him to let go of the enmity
between he and his father. “Women should be loved and protected, not physically or emotionally abused.”

“Spoken like a true romantic hero.”

“Give it up, Chandra. It’s not going to work.”

“What’s not going to work?”

“You’re not going to turn me into a romantic hero.”

She wrinkled her nose in a gesture Preston had come to appreciate. “You think not, Preston?”

“I know not, Chandra.”

“We’ll see,” she drawled.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you hatching in that very cute head of yours?”

Chandra ignored his referring to her being cute. “Wait until I develop Pascual’s character and you’re forced to breathe life into what will become a vampire who’s not only sexy but very romantic. You’ll be the one who has to come up with the dialogue whenever he interacts with his romantic lead.”

“We’ll see,” Preston said.

“Have you thought of a name for your new play?”

Taking a step, he dropped Chandra’s hand, pulling her to his chest. Lowering his head and fastening his mouth to the column of her scented neck, Preston pressed a kiss there. He increased the pressure, baring his teeth and stopping short of nipping the delicate flesh.

“Death’s Kiss,”
he whispered in her ear.

Chandra turned her head, her mouth inches from Preston’s, breathing in his warm, moist breath. “You can’t kill your heroine, Preston.” Her gaze caressed the outline of his mouth seconds before he kissed her cheek.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” he said, smiling.

“What would I have to do to convince you to include a happy ending?”

“I’ll think of something.”

Bracing her hands against Preston’s chest, Chandra sought to put some distance between them. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Preston winked at her. “Not to worry, Chandra. You’re safe with me.”

Chandra recoiled when his words hit her like a stinging slap. “The last man I was involved with said the very same words to me. But in the end I was left to fend for myself. Thanks, but no thanks, Preston. I can take care of myself.”

“Was he your husband?”

“No. Thank goodness we didn’t get that far. But we were engaged.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Not because I don’t want to. It’s just that I can’t.”

Preston dropped a kiss on her fragrant hair. “Then you don’t have to. Are you ready to eat?” he asked, changing the subject.

“What’s on the menu for brunch?”

Resting a hand at the small of her back, he escorted Chandra toward the kitchen. “You have a choice of fresh fruit, pancakes, waffles, an omelet or bacon, sausage, ham and grits. To drink, there’s herbal tea, regular and hazelnut coffee, orange, grapefruit or cranberry juice. As for cocktails you have a choice between a Bloody Mary and a mimosa.”

“I prefer a mimosa.” Chandra flashed an attractive pout. “I’m really impressed with you, Preston. I’ve never hung out with a guy who could cook.”

Preston gave Chandra a sidelong glance, his gaze lingering on the tumble of hair falling around her face.
“I’m no Bobby Flay or Chef Jeff, but I can promise you won’t come down with ptomaine poisoning.”

“I think I’m going to enjoy working with you.”

And I promise not to like you too much
, she added silently.

It was what Chandra told herself every time she met a man to whom she felt herself attracted. It’d worked in the past and she was certain it would work with Preston Tucker.

C
handra followed Preston into an expansive state-of-the art stainless-steel-and-black gourmet kitchen outfitted with Gaggenau appliances. “Very nice,” she crooned.

“Should I take that to mean you like my kitchen?” There was a note of pride in Preston’s voice, as if he were talking about one of his children who’d aced an exam.

She met his questioning gaze with a wide smile. “Did you think I was talking about you?”

“I was hoping you’d think I’m nice.”

Chandra sobered. “Does it matter what I think of you, Preston?”

“Of course it does. After all, we’re going to be collaborating.”

“Hold up, dark and brooding. First you want me to develop a paranormal character, and now you’re talking about collaboration.”

“Pascual is yours, beautiful, and that means we’ll have to collaborate to make him a powerful
and
memorable character. I need for him to mesmerize the audience the second he walks on stage. Even before he opens his mouth, he must pull them in and not let them go until the final curtain.”

“Are you going to include him in every scene?” Chandra asked.

“No. It would make it too intense. Whenever he’s offstage I want to build enough tension for the audience to look forward to his reappearance. Enough shoptalk. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to eat.”

Chandra was also ready to eat. Aside from the salad she’d eaten the day before, her only intake of food was a cup of coffee earlier that morning. “It looks as if you do some serious cooking in here.”

“It works whenever I host a dinner party. There’s more than enough room for a caterer and his staff to work without them bumping into one another.”

Preston’s kitchen was almost as large as the apartment she was renting from her cousin. It was furnished with top-of-the-line cookware and miscellaneous culinary gadgets suspended on hooks from an overhead rack.

“How often do you have dinner parties?” she asked, recalling Denise telling her that Preston usually kept a low profile.

“I always host one before the debut of a new play. I invite the entire cast and production staff.”

She watched as Preston rolled back his shirt cuffs, exposing muscular forearms before washing his hands in one of the double sinks. “How long does it usually take for you to write a play?”

He dried his hands on a towel. “It depends on the subject matter
and
my state of mind. My first one took
several years because I’d reworked it half a dozen times. However, there was one I completed in four weeks, but it took its toll on my health because I’d averaged about three hours of sleep each night. I took a couple of months off, checked into a resort and did nothing more strenuous than eat and laze around.”

Removing her suit jacket, Chandra hung it on a high-back stool pushed over to the slate-gray granite countertop. “You probably were burned out.”

“Probably? I was. It was another year before I was able to focus and write again.”

“How long do you project it will take for you to complete
Death’s Kiss?”
she asked.

Preston, resting his elbows on the countertop, gave her a long, penetrating stare. “That all depends on my collaborator’s availability.”

“And that depends on whether I can find a teaching position. I’ve applied to several schools with vacancies for Pre-K to 6. I’ll be available to you until I’m hired.”

The schools Chandra had applied to were in designated hard-to-staff districts. Belinda taught at a high school in those districts. Earlier that year one of Belinda’s students was arrested and expelled for discharging a handgun in her classroom. Fortunately the incident ended with no casualties.

Teaching in the public school system would be vastly different from what she’d experienced in the exclusive private school in Northern Virginia where the yearly tuition was comparable to private colleges. The most profound difference between the children who attended Cambridge Valley Prep, Philadelphia public schools and her former students in Belize was that the prep school students were the children of elected officials and foreign dignitaries.

Preston stood up straighter. “Where did you teach before?”

“The Peace Corps, and before that I taught at a private school in Virginia.”

“You really were in the Peace Corps?” There was a note of incredulity in his query.

“Yes,” Chandra confirmed.

“Where were you stationed?” he asked, continuing with his questioning.

“Belize.”

Preston never imagined that she had been a Peace Corps volunteer. There was something about Chandra Eaton that projected an air of being cosseted. Now that she’d revealed that she spent two years working in Central America he saw her in a whole new light.

“After you let me know what you want to eat, I want you to tell me about Belize, and if it is as beautiful as the photographs in travel brochures?”

Propping her elbow on the cool surface of the countertop, Chandra supported her chin on her heel of her hand. “I’d like an omelet.”

“Would you like a Western, Spanish or spinach?”

“Spinach.”

“Blue or goat cheese?”

“I prefer blue cheese.” Pushing back from the countertop, Chandra slipped off the stool. “Do you mind if I help you?”

Preston held up a hand. “No. Sit down and relax.”

She affected a frown. “I’m not used to sitting and doing nothing.”

Preston stared at the slender woman in business attire, realizing they were more alike than dissimilar. Even when he was in between writing projects he always found something to do. He usually retreated to his
Brandywine Valley home to catch up on his reading and watching movies from his extensive DVD collection. He also chopped enough wood to feed two gluttonous fireplaces throughout the winter months. And whenever he heard the stress in his sister’s voice from having to deal with her four sons—both sets of twins—he drove down to South Carolina to give her and his probation officer brother-in-law a mini vacation. He took his rambunctious nephews on camping excursions and deep-sea fishing. Last year they’d begun touring the many Sea Islands off the coast of Georgia, Florida and their home state.

Preston enjoyed spending time with the seven- and ten-year-olds, becoming the indulgent uncle, yet oddly had never felt the pull of fatherhood. He wasn’t certain if it was because of his own father or because he hadn’t met that special woman who would make him reexamine his life and bachelorhood status.

Chandra had thought him a misogynist when he was anything but. He liked women. He liked everything about a woman: her soft skin, the curves of her body and her smell. It was the smell of her skin and hair that was usually imprinted on his brain. Whenever he dated a woman, he was able to pick her out in a darkened room because of her scent.

He preferred working in the kitchen without assistance or interference but decided to relent and let Chandra help him. “Let me get you something to cover your clothes. If you want, you can cut up the fruit.”

Chandra flashed a dimpled smile. She needed to do more than sit and watch Preston. She wanted to discover what it was like to actually cook in a gourmet kitchen. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Preston pointed to a door at the opposite end of the
kitchen. “It’s the door on the right,” he said as Chandra headed toward the bathroom.

He stared at the roundness of her shapely hips until she disappeared from his line of vision.
I like her.
Preston liked everything there was to like about Chandra Eaton: her blatant femininity, natural beauty and the intelligence she made no attempt to hide.

When she’d mentioned the idea of writing a play using a vampire as the central character, it had started a flurry of ideas like a trickle of water that flowed into a stream, then into rapids and finally into a fast-flowing river. It reminded him of the Colorado River rushing through the Grand Canyon.

With his creative imagination going full throttle, he was able to outline the production, design the lighting, costumes and props. He could hear the slow drawling Southern cadence and Creole inflections that were as much a part of New Orleans as its cuisine.
Death’s Kiss
had come alive in his mind. All that remained was writing it once Chandra developed Pascual.

Preston had taken a package of frozen spinach, four eggs and a plastic container of blue cheese from the refrigerator/freezer as Chandra returned to the kitchen. She was barefoot and had twisted her hair in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. He smiled when he saw the bright red color on her toes.

Reaching into a drawer under the countertop, he pulled out a bibbed apron. “Come here,” he ordered.

Chandra approached Preston, turning so he could slip the apron over her head. He adjusted the length until it reached her knees, then looped the ties twice around her waist.

Shifting, she smiled up at him. “I’m ready, chef.”

Lowering his head, Preston kissed the end of her
nose. “Never have I had a more delicious-looking sous chef. If you look in the right side of the refrigerator, you’ll find fruit in the lower drawer.”

He left Chandra to take care of the fruit salad while he began the task of thawing the spinach in the microwave, placing it in a colander to drain before removing the remaining moisture by squeezing the chopped leaves in cheesecloth. Pausing, he opened an overhead closet and pushed a button on a stereo unit. The beautifully haunting sound of a trumpet filled the duplex.

Chandra shared a smile with Preston as she glanced up from peeling the fuzzy skin of a kiwi, revealing its vibrant green flesh. She found it ironic they had a similar taste in music. Before leaving for Belize, she’d loaded her iPod with music from every genre. Chris Botti’s
Night Sessions
had become a favorite.

“You have to have at least one romantic bone in your body if you like Chris Botti,” she said teasingly.

Preston stopped mincing garlic on the chopping board. “Okay. I’ll admit to having one,” he said, conceding.

He didn’t know what Chandra meant by being romantic. If it was about sending flowers, telling a woman she looked nice or buying her a gift for her birthday or Christmas, then he would have to say he was. But if a woman expected him to declare his undying love for her then she was out of luck.

He’d asked Elaine to marry him because they’d dated exclusively for three years. It just seemed like the right thing to do. But Elaine wanted more than the flowers, gifts and sex. She wanted his undivided attention whenever she didn’t have an acting role. It hadn’t mattered if he was working on a new play or directing one slated to go into production. She wanted what she wanted whenever she wanted it.

Preston opened the refrigerator, took out a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice and a bottle of chilled champagne from a wine storage unit and then returned to the cooking island. There was a soft popping sound when he removed the cork from the bubbly wine. Reaching for two flutes on a rack, he half filled the glasses with orange juice, topping it off with champagne before gently stirring the mixture.

Chandra arranged the fruit in glass dessert bowls. She started with melon balls, adding sliced kiwi, and topped them off with orange sections. The contrasting colors were soft, the fresh fruit inviting.

“Do you want me to set the table?” she asked Preston.

“That can wait until after we toast each other.” He handed her a flute, touching his glass to hers. “Here’s to a successful collaboration.” Their gazes met as they sipped the orange-infused champagne cocktail. She smiled over the rim of the flute.

Chandra let the sweet, tart liquid slide slowly down the back of her throat. “It’s delicious.”

Preston nodded.

Chandra set down her glass. She didn’t want to drink too much before she had a chance to eat. “Where are your dishes?”

“They’re in the cabinet over the sink.”

“What about coffee or tea?”

“I’ll have whatever you have,” he said.

“What about juice, chef?”

“I’m not a chef, Chandra.”

Preston turned and glared at Chandra, but he couldn’t stay angry with her when he saw the humor in her eyes. He was going to enjoy working with her. There was no
doubt she was a free spirit if she’d left the States to teach in Belize.

His gaze softened when Chandra swayed to the Latin-infused baseline beats of “All Would Envy” written by Sting and sung by Shawn Colvin.

He took three long strides and pulled her into a close embrace. She fit perfectly within the arc of his arms. They danced as if they’d performed the action countless times. Preston closed his eyes, listening to the words about a wealthy older man who was the envy of other men, old
and
young, because he’d convinced a beautiful young woman to marry him.

Everything about the woman in his arms seeped into him. She was becoming the heroine in
Death’s Kiss.
Chandra was right. The play had to have a happy ending. He knew very little about vampires, but he remembered stories about mortals who were bitten by vampires and needed to feed on human blood in order to stay alive.

“Pascual has to be an incredible dancer,” Chandra said softly.

“In other words, he must waltz.”

Leaning back, she smiled up at Preston. “Yes, but his dance of choice is the tango.”

“Where did he learn to tango?” Preston asked.

“In Argentina, of course.”

Inky-black eyebrows lifted a fraction. “So, your vampire is from South America?”

“Yes. He’s lived there for two centuries, hence his name. He’s the son of a noble Spanish landowner and an African slave. Although the tango did not become popular outside of the Argentine ghettos until the early years of the twentieth century, Pascual time travels from one century to another, establishing his reputation as a professional dancer.”

Preston angled his head. “I like that you made him mixed race.”

“Why’s that,” Chandra asked.

“Because Josette is also mixed race, and, like her mother, is a free woman of color. I’ve decided to make her a quadroon, because the character will be easier to cast when I begin auditions. Josette’s mother will present her at one of the balls the year she turns sixteen.”