Sweet Dreams (5 page)

“Isn’t she rather young?”

Preston twirled Chandra around and around in an intricate dance step. “Not at all. Josette’s mother, who is also
plaçée
, made certain her daughter was educated in France, so once she completes her education Josette will be ready to marry and set up her own household.”

“Will she meet Pascual at the ball?”

He pondered her question. “No. That would be too contrived. She’ll see him for the first time two weeks before the ball when she goes to her dressmaker for a final fitting of her gown. He’s there with another woman, who is also a vampire, whom Josette believes is his mistress. Then, she sees him again when she goes to the market with her maid to pick up flowers to decorate the house because her father is coming to share dinner with her mother.”

“What happens next, Preston?”

Dipping her low, Preston kissed the end of her nose and then straightened. “No more questions. You will see the play once I begin rehearsals.”

Chandra pouted the way she’d done as a child when she hadn’t gotten her way. “That’s not fair.”

He stared at her lush lips. What wasn’t fair was that he wanted so much to make love to her, but didn’t, because he didn’t want to send the wrong message. He’d asked Chandra to work, not sleep with him.

“What’s not fair is that you’re asking me questions I can’t answer because you haven’t given me enough information to breathe life into Pascual. You’ve told me he’s an Argentinian of mixed blood and an expert dancer.”

Tilting her chin and closing her eyes, Chandra thought of the fantasy man from her erotic dreams. He could’ve easily become Pascual, coming to her in the dark of the night to make the most exquisite love she’d ever experienced or imagined.

“What are you thinking about?” Preston asked in her ear.

Her eyes opened. “I was trying to imagine Pascual making love to Josette for the first time.”

“Before or after she becomes
plaçée?
”

A beat passed. “Would it add to the conflict if she offers him her virginity?” Chandra asked.

Preston gave Chandra a conspiratorial wink. “It would. But how is she going to convince her white Creole gentleman that she’s a virgin?”

“She will confide in her maid, who in turn will ask a voodoo priestess for help. Perhaps you can show a scene with Josette meeting with the voodoo woman. She has great disdain for the woman, but is forced to give up the priceless necklace she’s wearing in exchange for a potion that will cause one to fall asleep, and upon waking not remember anything.”

He was impressed. Chandra had come up with a credible rationalization for Josette to protect her reputation. After all, the play was to be set in New Orleans.

“Do you want Josette to continue to sleep with Pascual after she becomes
plaçée,
Chandra?” Preston asked.

Chandra scrunched up her nose. “I see where you’re going with this. I think I want Pascual to become her only lover.”

“What about her benefactor? Do you think the man will continue to consort with his
plaçée?
There’s no way he would be respected in his social circle if word got out that he’d been cuckolded by a woman of color.”

“A couple of drops of the potion in a glass of wine each time he comes to visit Josette will eventually take its toll on the poor man when he becomes an amnesiac.”

Preston stared at Chandra, and then burst out laughing. He didn’t give her a chance to react when he swept her up off the floor, fastening his mouth to hers in an explosive kiss that robbed her of her breath. Her arms went around his neck, she melting against his length when he deepened the kiss.

Chandra’s lips parted as she struggled to breathe, giving Preston the slight advantage he needed when the tip of his tongue grazed her palate, the inside of her cheek and curled around her tongue as he made slow, exquisite love to her mouth. The dreams that had plagued her within days of arriving in Belize came to life; she was unable to differentiate between her fantasy lover and Preston Tucker. The familiar flutters that began in her belly moved lower. If he didn’t stop, then she knew she would beg him to make love to her.

“Please! No more, Preston.”

Preston heard the strident cry that penetrated the sensual fog pulling him under with the force of a riptide. His head popped up, he staring down at Chandra as if seeing her for the first time. The sweep hand on a wall clock made a full revolution before he lowered her until her feet touched the floor.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

The skin around Chandra’s eyes crinkled when she smiled. “I’m not.”

Preston froze. “You’re not?”

Going on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “You have a very sexy mouth, P.J., and I’d wondered if you knew what to do with it.”

A shiver of annoyance snaked its way up his body. Chandra was the first woman who’d let it be known that she was testing his sexual skills.

“Did I pass?”

“Just barely.”

Preston’s mouth opened and closed several times, and nothing came out. “What did you say?” he asked after he’d collected his wits.

“I said you barely passed.” Chandra turned so he wouldn’t see her grin. She tried but was unsuccessful when her shoulders shook with laughter. “No!” she screamed when Preston lifted her again, this time holding her above his head as if she were a small child.

“Apologize, Chandra.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she chanted until he lowered her bare feet to the cool tiles.

Still smarting from her teasing, Preston’s expression was a mask of stone. “One of these days I’m going to show you exactly what my mouth can do.”

“Is that a threat, Preston?”

A smile found its way through his stern-faced demeanor. “No, baby. It was a warning that if you tease me again, then I’m going to expect you to bring it.”

His arms fell away and Chandra took a backward step. She didn’t know what had gotten into her. She’d
known girls who had teased boys they liked, but she hadn’t been one of them.

Why now?

And why Preston Tucker?

The questions nagged at her until she dropped her gaze. It’d taken only two encounters with the temperamental playwright to know that he didn’t like to be teased or challenged. That meant she had to tread softly and very carefully around him.

“Warning acknowledged.”

C
handra sat across the table from Preston in the kitchen’s dining area, enjoying an expertly prepared spinach and blue cheese omelet. Sautéed garlic, olive oil and butter enhanced the subtle flavor of the mild blue cheese, eggs and spinach. Preston had warmed a loaf of French bread to accompany the omelet.

She took a bite of the bread topped off with sweet basil butter. “You missed your calling, P.J.,” she said after swallowing. “You should’ve been a chef.”

Preston smiled, staring at Chandra under half-lowered heavy lids. His former annoyance with her teasing him was gone. There was something about her that wouldn’t permit him to remain angry. Perhaps it was her lighthearted personality that appealed to his darker, more subdued persona. He was serious, as were his plays which seemed to appeal to the critics. But for the first time since he’d begun writing he was considering one
that was fantasy-driven
and
a musical. Since when, he’d asked himself, had he thought of himself as an Andrew Lloyd Webber?

“I’d seriously thought about becoming a chef,” he admitted.

“Before you decided to become a playwright?” Chandra asked.

“No. I always wanted to write. I’d like it to be a second or backup career when I decide to give up playwriting.”

“Do you think you’ll ever stop writing?”

Preston traced the design on the handle of the knife at his place setting with a forefinger. Chandra had asked what he’d been asking himself for years. He loved the process of coming up with a plot and character development. It was sitting through casting calls, ongoing meetings with directors and producers and daily rehearsals before opening night that usually set his teeth on edge. He’d written, directed and produced his last play, thereby alleviating the angst that accompanied a new production.

“That’s a question I can’t answer, Chandra. I suppose there will become a time when the creative well will dry up.”

“Let’s hope it’s not for a very long time.”

“That all depends on my collaborator.”

He’d told himself that he would take the next year off and not write—but that was before he found Chandra Eaton’s journal in the taxi, and definitely before he met her.

Chandra studied the man sitting opposite her, recognizing an open invitation in his enigmatic dark eyes. “Are you referring to me?”

Preston leaned over the table. “Who else do you think I’m talking about?”

“Did you go to culinary school?” she asked, deftly shifting gears to steer the topic of conversation away from
them
as a couple.

What she and Preston shared was too new to predict beyond their current collaborative project. She’d returned to the States to teach, reestablish her independence and reconnect with her family, not become involved with a man, and especially if that man was celebrity playwright Preston Tucker.

“Why didn’t you answer my question, Chandra?”

“I’ve chosen
not
to answer it because I don’t have an answer,” she countered with a slight edge to her tone. “Did you go to culinary school?” she asked again.

Preston fumed inwardly.
The stubborn little minx
, he mused. She’d chosen not to answer his query not because she didn’t have an answer, but because she hadn’t wanted to answer it. He’d never collaborated with another person only because he hadn’t had to.
Death’s Kiss
was her idea, derived from her suggestion to use a vampire as a central character
and
from her erotic dreams. There was no doubt the play would cause a stir, not only because of the pervasive popularity of vampires in popular fiction, but also because it would be the first time his play would include a musical score.

He would write the play, produce and direct it, which would give him complete control. And if Hollywood wanted to option the work for the big screen then he would make certain his next literary agent would negotiate the terms on his behalf and adhere to his need for creative control.

“I didn’t attend culinary school in the traditional sense,” he said, answering Chandra’s query. “However,
I’ve taken lots of cooking courses. I spent a summer in Italy learning to prepare some of their regional dishes.”

Chandra touched a linen napkin to the corners of her mouth. “Do you speak Italian?”

Preston shook his head. “The classes were conducted in English. How about you? Do you speak another language?”

“I’m fluent in Spanish.”

“Did you learn it in Belize?”

“No. I took it in high school and college, and then signed up for a crash course before going abroad. English remains Belize’s official language, but Kriol, a Belizean Creole, is the language that all Belizeans speak.”

Preston took a sip of herbal tea, enjoying its natural subtle, sweet flavor. He’d enjoyed cooking for Chandra as much as he enjoyed her company. She appeared totally unaffected by his so-called celebrity status. What he’d come to detest were insecure, needy women who wanted him to entertain them, and the woman sitting across from him appeared to be just the opposite.

“What does Kriol sound like?”

“It’s a language that borrows words from English, several African languages, a smattering of Spanish and Maya and the Moskito Indian indigenous to the region.
Good morning
in Spanish is
buenas dias
. Creole would be
gud mawnin
. And African-based Garifuna is
buiti binafi
. If you visit the country you’ll also hear German and Mandarin.”

“It sounds like a real melting pot.”

“It is.” While staring at Preston, Chandra went completely still. The distinctive voice of Josh Groban filled the kitchen. “He sings beautifully in Spanish.”

Preston realized Chandra was listening to the song’s lyrics. “What is he saying?”

“Si volvieras a mi
, means
if you returned to me.
”

“Why do songs always sound so much better when sung in a foreign language?” Preston asked.

“Most songs sound better when you don’t understand the words. The love theme from the
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
sound track is more romantic sung in Chinese than English.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Chandra’s mind was churning with ideas. “Have your lyricist write at least one song for the play that will be sung in English and Spanish with only a guitar as an accompaniment.”

“Should it be a love song?”

She smiled. “But of course.

Preston realized he’d hit the jackpot when he found the journal containing Chandra’s erotic dreams.
Death’s Kiss
would be a departure from his plays about dysfunctional families and societal woes. He’d won a Tony for the depiction of a psychotic killer who morphs into a sympathetic, repentant character but is denied a stay of execution before the curtain comes down for the final act. Theater critics praised the acting and minimal set decoration, but took the playwright to task for his insinuation of political propaganda in the drama.

His gaze lingered on Chandra, roving lazily over her soft, shining hair to the sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. Her conservative attire artfully disguised a curvy body and a passion he longed to ignite. And there was no doubt Chandra Eaton was a passionate woman as gleaned from the accounts of her dreams. She’d numbered and dated each one, leaving him to ponder how many others she’d had and he hadn’t read.

He’d admitted to her that he wasn’t a romantic only because he wasn’t certain how she’d interpret the word. However, he’d read more than six months of dreams that he could draw upon to make Chandra’s vampire a passionate lover.

“How difficult is it to write a play?”

Chandra’s query pulled Preston from his reverie. “I thought we were talking about Belize.”

She waved a hand. “We can talk about Belize some other time. I want to know about scriptwriting.”

“Why? Do you plan on writing one?” he teased with a wide grin.

“Maybe one of these days I’ll try my hand at either writing a novel or a play—whichever is easier.”

Leaning back in his chair, Preston angled his head. “Anyone can be taught the mechanics of writing, but no one can give an aspiring writer an imagination.” He tapped his head with his forefinger. “You have to conjure up plots and characters in your head before you’re able to bring them to life on paper.”

Chandra thought she detected a hint of censure in Preston’s words. Had he believed she wanted to compete with him? “I am not your competition, Preston.” She’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

A shadow of annoyance hardened his features. “Do you actually believe I’d think of you as a competitor?”

“If not, then why all the secrecy about not telling me how to write a script?”

“There’s no secrecy. And as to competition, the only person I compete with is Preston Japheth Tucker, so don’t get ahead of yourself, Miss Eaton.”

Chandra sucked her teeth. “Don’t start with the bully attitude, P. J. Tucker, because I don’t scare easily. Now, are you going to tell me or not?”

Preston stared, unable to form the words to come back at Chandra. She was the complete opposite of any woman he’d ever interacted with. She was as strong and confident as she was beautiful.

“Well, if you put it that way, then I suppose I’d
better
tell you. There’s no way I’d be able to explain to my mother that I’d allowed a little slip of a woman to jack me up.”

A wave of heat stole its way across Chandra’s cheeks. “I wouldn’t hit you. In fact, I’ve never hit anyone in my life.” The seconds ticked, and her heart beat a rapid tattoo against her ribs as Preston glared at her.

A slow smile parted Preston’s lips, he pointing at her. “Gotcha!”

Pushing back her chair, Chandra came around the table, launching herself at him. He caught her in a split-second motion too quick for the eye to follow. She was sprawled over his knees when his head came down. Covering her mouth with his, Preston robbed her of her breath. The passionate, explosive kiss ended quickly, as quickly as it’d begun.

“Either you have a problem with your short-term memory or you want me to take you upstairs and show you just how romantic I can be. I’m not making an idle threat when I tell you that when I’m finished with you it won’t be today, tomorrow or even the next day. I will…” His words trailed off when the telephone rang.

“Excuse me,” Preston said as if nothing had passed between him and the woman in his arms.

He stood up, bringing Chandra with him. Instead of releasing her, he held on to her upper arm as he walked over to the wall phone; he tightened his grip when she attempted to extricate herself. Chandra wasn’t going anywhere until he settled something with her.

He picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“What’s up with you, P.J.?”

Preston took a deep breath, holding it until he felt a band of constriction across his chest. It had taken his agent four days to contact him. “That’s what I should be asking you, Cliff. Why the hell did you send me three thousand miles across the country when you knew I wouldn’t agree to what the studio heads were proposing? Stop wiggling,” he hissed at Chandra.

“Who are you talking to?” Clifford Jessup asked.

“None of your damn business. Now, answer my question, Clifford.”

There came a pause. “I thought you would change your mind when you heard what they were offering.”

“I thought I told you that the deal wasn’t about money, but creative control,” Preston said through clenched teeth. “I don’t have the time or the inclination to fly to the West Coast for BS. I pay you twenty-five instead of the prevailing fifteen and twenty percent as my literary agent to protect my interests. But apparently you haven’t this time. And if I were completely honest, then I’d have to say you haven’t looked after my interests in some time.”

“What the hell are you trying to say, P.J.?”

“I’m firing you as my literary agent, effective immediately. You’ll receive a letter in a few days confirming this. Good luck, Clifford.” He replaced the receiver in its cradle with a resounding slam. “What?” he asked Chandra when she stared him. Her mouth had formed a perfect O, and her breasts rose and fell heavily under the silk blouse.

“Are you always so diplomatic?”

“Don’t comment on something you know nothing about.”

“You’re pissed off with me, so you take it out on someone else.”

Preston exhaled a breath. “I’m not pissed off with you, Chandra.”

Her gaze shifted from his face to his hand clamped around her arm. “No? Then why the caveman grip on my arm, Preston?” He loosened his hold, but not enough for her to escape him.

“I don’t want to know anything about the men you’re used to dealing with,” Preston said in a soft voice that belied his annoyance, “but at thirty-eight I’m a little too old to play games. Especially head games.” He leaned in closer. “I like you, Chandra. And it’s not about you collaborating with me. You’re pretty and you’re smart—a trait I admire in a woman, and you’re sexy. Probably a lot more sexy than you give yourself credit for. I want to work with you
and
date you.”

Chandra couldn’t stop the smile stealing its way over her delicate features. “You don’t mince words, do you, P.J.?”

“Nope. Too old for that, too, C.E.”

Chandra didn’t know how to deal with the talented man whose moods ran hot and cold within nanoseconds. “Why should I date you, Preston?”

“Why?” he asked, seemingly shocked by her question. “Didn’t I tell you that I’m a nice guy?”

“So you say,” she drawled, deciding not to make it easy for him. She wanted to go out with Preston Tucker. In fact, she’d be a fool to reject him. It’d been a long time, entirely too long since she’d found a man with whom she could have an intelligent conversation without watching every word that came out of her mouth. Chandra knew she’d shocked Preston with her off-the-cuff remarks, but
she had to know how far she could push him before he pushed back.

It hadn’t been that way with Laurence Breslin. They’d dated for a year before he asked her to marry him. However, when she met his parents for the first time they were forthcoming when they expressed their disapproval. They’d always hoped that Laurence would eventually marry the daughter of a couple within their exclusive social circle. To add insult to injury, they’d demanded she return the heirloom engagement ring that had belonged to Laurence’s maternal grandmother. Laurence compounded the insult when he forcibly removed the ring from her finger.