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Sweet Dreams
Rochelle Alers
Chandra Eaton can't believe she left her journals—containing very private, very erotic dreams she's been having for the past two years—in a Philly taxicab.Her embarrassment turns to intrigue when Preston Tucker finds and returns them. The soulful playwright fires up Chandra's body and her mind. An irresistible combination, until she starts to suspect that he's just using her for creative inspiration. Preston has spent years running from relationships.Chandra's journals captivate his imagination, for sure, but it's the intelligent, sensual woman behind them who really fascinates him. Now he has to find a way to win back her trust before she brings the curtain down on their affair for good.


Preston stood up and untied his pajama pants, letting them fall down his waist and hips, pooling at his feet.
His gaze met and fused with Chandra’s as he stepped out of them. Her breath quickened and his erection pulsed when he noticed the outline of her hardened nipples against the white tank top.

He stared at her, wanting to commit to memory the cloud of dark hair around her face, breasts that were fuller than he’d expected and the look of indecision in the eyes staring back at him in anticipation.

The mattress dipped slightly when he placed one knee, then the other on the bed. Lying beside Chandra, Preston turned to face her. “How are you?”

A tentative smile trembled across her lips. “I’m good, Preston.”

He ran the back of his hand over her cheek. “Are you ready for this? If not, then we can sleep together without making love.”

Shifting slightly, Chandra draped her leg over his. “I’m ready.”
ROCHELLE ALERS
has been hailed by readers and booksellers alike as one of today’s most popular African-American authors of women’s fiction. With nearly 2 million copies of her novels in print, Ms. Alers is a regular on the Waldenbooks, Borders and Essence bestseller lists, and has been the recipient of numerous awards, including a Gold Pen Award, an Emma Award, a Vivian Stephens Award for Excellence in Romance Writing, an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award and a Zora Neale Hurston Literary Award. A native New Yorker, Ms. Alers currently lives on Long Island. Visit her Web site at www.rochellealers.com.
Books by Rochelle Alers
Kimani Romance

Bittersweet Love
Sweet Deception
Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams
Rochelle Alers



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is better than wine.
—The Song of Solomon 1:2
Dear Reader,

I would like to thank you for your enthusiastic response to the Eatons and their extended family. You were introduced to Belinda in Bittersweet Love and Myles in Sweet Deception. Now for those who want to revisit the
Eatons I give you Sweet Dreams, the latest installment in the miniseries.
All of us dream, but do we remember them upon waking? Not only does Chandra Eaton remember her sexy dreams but she also writes them down. Then the unspeakable happens when she misplaces her journal and none other than Preston Tucker, Philadelphia’s award-winning dramatist, finds and reads her erotic fantasies. They even become the plot for his latest play. More than sparks fly when she and Preston bring the dreams to life!

Look for Denise Eaton to take center stage in October 2010 when a former lover finds Temptation at First Sight.
Yours in romance,

Rochelle Alers

Prologue
The sound of labored breathing competed with the incessant whirring of the blades of the ceiling fan overhead. The crescendo of gasps and moans overlapped with the rhythmic thrum of the fan as it circulated the humid tropical night air coming through the screened-in jalousie windows.
It was a scene that had played out nightly countless times since Chandra Eaton had come to Belize to teach. Her right hand cupped her breast while the other fondled her mound, as she surrendered to the surging contractions rippling through her thighs. Arching her back, she exhaled as the last of the orgasm that had held her in the throes of an explosive climax left her feeling as if she’d been shattered into a million pieces.
She lay motionless, savoring the aftermath that made it almost impossible to move or draw a normal breath. When she did move, it was to reach over and turn on the lamp on the bedside table. The soft golden glow cast shadows over the sparsely decorated bedroom.
Biting her lip, Chandra sat upright and picked up the pen lying atop her cloth-covered journal. Unscrewing the top, she closed her eyes for several seconds. The tip of the pen was poised over a clean page before she sighed and collected her thoughts.
Dream #139—October 2
I could smell him, feel him, taste him, but as usual he wouldn’t let me touch his face.
His hand feathered over my leg, moving up slowly until it rested along my inner thigh. My breathing quickened, filling the bedroom with hiccuping sounds. I was so aroused that I hadn’t wanted prolonged foreplay. I’d screamed and pleaded for him to make it quick. His response was to place one hand over my mouth, while he used his free hand to guide his engorged erection inside me. The heat from his body, the rigid flesh moving in and out of my body made my heart stop beating for several seconds.
He was relentless, pushing and receding. And then, slowing just before I climaxed, I’d pleaded with him to make love to me and then I begged him to stop. I felt faint. But he didn’t stop. And I let go, abandoning myself to the pleasure of a sweet, explosive orgasm. Instead of lying beside me on the mattress, he got up and left. It was as if he knew it would be our last time together.
Chandra reread what she’d written, and then smiled. It was uncanny the way she was able to remember her dreams with vivid clarity. They’d begun the first week she arrived in Belize, and had continued for more than two years. They didn’t come every night. But when they did, they served to assuage the sexual tension that came from not sharing her body with a man in nearly three years.
The dreams came without warning. She had begun to see them as a release for her stress and frustration. She didn’t know who the man was who came to her when she least expected it, and she didn’t care as long as he provided the stimulation needed to give her the physical release so necessary for her sexual well-being.
Smiling, Chandra closed the journal, capped the pen, turned off the lamp and slid under the covers, lying on the pillow that cradled her head. Minutes later she closed her eyes. This time when she fell asleep, there were no erotic dreams to disturb her slumber.

Chapter 1
Chandra Eaton slumped against the rear seat in the taxi as the driver maneuvered away from the curb at the Philadelphia International Airport. She felt as if she’d been traveling for days. Her flight from Belize to Miami was a little more than two hours. But it was the layover in Atlanta that had lasted more than eight hours because of violent thunderstorms that left her out of sorts. All she wanted was a hot shower, a firm bed and a soft, fluffy pillow.
As a Peace Corps volunteer, she’d spent more than two years teaching in Belize. She’d returned to Philadelphia twice: once to attend the funeral of her eldest sister and brother-in-law, and three months ago to be a bridesmaid in the wedding of her surviving sister, Belinda. Now, at the age of thirty, she’d come home again. But this time it was to stay.
Her father called her his gypsy, and her mother said she was a vagabond, to which she had no comeback. What no one in her family knew, her parents in particular, was that she’d been running away from the tragedy that had befallen one of her students, followed by her own broken engagement.
Thankfully, her previous homecoming and this one would be more joyful occasions. Belinda had married Griffin Rice in June and two months ago her brother Myles had exchanged vows with Zabrina Mixon-Cooper after a ten-year separation. She also looked forward to meeting her nephew for the first time.
“What the…”
She opened her eyes and sat up straighter, her heart slamming against her ribs. The cabbie had swerved to avoid hitting another vehicle drifting into their lane. Her purse and leather tote slid off the seat and onto the floor with the violent motion, spilling their contents. Bending over, she retrieved her cell phone, wallet, passport and a pack of mints. Then she checked the tote to make certain her laptop was still there.
“Are you all right back there, miss?” the driver asked over his shoulder.
Chandra exhaled audibly. “I’m good,” she lied smoothly.
She wasn’t good. If she’d been a cat, she would’ve used up at least one of her nine lives. It was going to be some time before she would be able to adjust to the fast pace of a large urban city. Living in Philadelphia, even in one of its suburbs, was very different from living and teaching in a small town in Northern Belize.
The cabdriver took a quick glance in the rearview mirror. “Let me try and get around this clown before I end up in his trunk.”
Settling back again, Chandra closed her eyes. When she’d called her mother to tell her that her flight had been delayed, Roberta Eaton had offered to drive to the airport to pick her up. But she’d told her mother she would take a taxi to the subdivision where her parents had purchased a two-bedroom, two-bath town house. Aside from her purse and tote bag, she had checked only one piece of luggage. The trunk with most of her clothes was scheduled to arrive in the States at the end of the month.
It appeared as if she’d just fallen asleep when the motion stopped, and she opened her eyes. Chandra missed the six-bedroom, four-bath farmhouse where she’d grown up with her sisters and brother. She understood her parents’ need to downsize now that they were in their sixties. They didn’t want to concern themselves with having someone shovel snow or mow the lawn, or deal with the exorbitant expense of maintaining a large house.
What she’d missed most was opening the door leading from the main house and into the connecting space that had been Dr. Dwight Eaton’s medical practice. Her father didn’t schedule patients between the hours of twelve and one; the exception was in an emergency. It had been her time to have her father all to herself. Gathering her purse and tote, she paid the fare, opened the rear door and stepped out of the taxi as the driver came around to retrieve her luggage from the trunk, setting it on the front steps.
Roberta Eaton stood in the entryway. The smile that parted her lips caused the skin around her eyes to crinkle. She prayed that this homecoming would be Chandra’s last. She thought she knew all there was to know about her youngest child, but Chandra’s mercurial moods kept her guessing as to what she would do or where she would go next.
What she’d found so off-putting was that there was usually no warning. It was if her daughter went to sleep, then woke with a new agenda, shocking everyone with her announcements. First it was her decision not to attend the University of Pennsylvania, but Columbia University in New York City. Then she’d declined an offer to teach at a Philadelphia elementary school and instead taught at a private all-girls’ school in Northern Virginia. The most shocking, and what Roberta thought most devastating, was when Chandra announced she’d joined the Peace Corps and decided to teach in Belize. Although she’d become accustomed to her daughter’s independent nature, it was her husband, Dwight Eaton, who said his youngest daughter had caused him many sleepless nights.
Roberta approached Chandra with outstretched arms, the tears she’d tried vainly to hold back overflowed. “Welcome home, baby.”
Her mother calling her baby was Chandra’s undoing. She could deal with any and everything except her mother’s tears. Roberta was openly weeping—deep, heart-wrenching sobs that made Chandra unleash her own flood of tears.
Pressed closer to Roberta’s ample bosom, she tightened her hold around her mother’s neck, savoring the warmth of the protective embrace. “Mama, please don’t cry.”
Roberta’s tears stopped as if she’d turned off a spigot. “Don’t tell me not to cry when I’ve had too many sleepless nights and worn out my knees praying that you’d make it home safely.”
Easing back, Chandra stared at her mother. Roberta Eaton hadn’t changed much over the years. Her body was fuller and rounder, and there was more salt than pepper in her short natural hairstyle. Her face had remained virtually unchanged. Her dark brown complexion was clear, her skin smooth.
“I’m home, Mama.”
“You’re home, but for how long, Chandra Eaton? I was talking to your father last night, and we have a wager that you won’t hang around for more than three to six months before you start getting itchy feet again.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m home to stay.”
Roberta gave her a look that said I don’t believe you, but Chandra was too tired to get into an argument with her mother. She’d been up since two that morning for a 5:00 a.m. flight to Miami, with a connecting flight to Atlanta. Sitting in Hartsdale for hours had tried her patience, and that meant she had no intention of engaging in a conversation where she had to defend herself or convince her mother that she didn’t plan to leave home again. Once she’d completed her tour with the Peace Corps she’d promised herself that she would stop running away, that she would come home, face her fears and reconcile her past.
“May I please go into the house and shower before going to bed?”
As if she’d come out of a trance, Roberta leaned forward and kissed Chandra’s cheek. Within seconds she’d morphed into maternal mode. “I’m sorry, baby. You have to be exhausted. Did you eat?” she asked over her shoulder as she stepped into the spacious entryway.
“I ate something at the airport.”
Picking up her luggage, Chandra walked into the house and made her way toward the staircase to the second floor guest bedroom. Methodically, she stripped off her clothes, leaving them on the bathroom floor, and stepped into the shower stall. Her eyelids were drooping by the time she’d dried off. She searched through her luggage for a nightgown and crawled into bed. It was just after six. And even though the sun hadn’t set, within minutes of her head touching the pillow she was asleep.
Preston Tucker ducked his head as he got into the taxi and gave the driver the address to his duplex in downtown Philadelphia. He’d spent the past twenty-four hours flying to Los Angeles for a meeting that lasted all of ten minutes before returning to Philadelphia after flying standby from LAX.
He’d told his agent that he had reservations about meeting with studio executives who wanted to turn one of his plays into a movie with several A-list actors. But all Clifford Jessup could see were dollar signs. Preston knew if he sold the movie rights to his play he would have to relinquish literary control. But he was unwilling to do so at the expense of not being able to recognize his play, something he’d spent more than two years writing and perfecting, breathing life into the characters.
He was aware of Hollywood’s reputation for taking literary license once they’d optioned a work, but the suits he’d spoken to wanted to eviscerate his play. If he’d been a struggling playwright he probably would’ve accepted their offer. But fortunately for him, his days of waiting for a check so that he could pay back rent were behind him. What made the play even more personal is that it was the first play he’d written as a college student.
Slumping in the rear seat, he tried to stretch his long legs out to a more comfortable position under the seat in front of him. His right foot hit something. Reaching under the passenger seat, he pulled out a slim black ostrich-skin portfolio with the initials CE stamped on the front in gold lettering. Looking at the driver’s hack license, he noticed the man’s first and last names began with an M, so he concluded a passenger had left it in the taxi.
Preston debated whether to open it or give it to the taxi driver, who most likely would turn it in to Lost and Found or discard the contents and keep the expensive-looking portfolio for himself. He decided to unzip it and found a cloth-bound journal. Judging from the mauve color of the book, he knew it belonged to a woman.
His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the neat cursive writing on the inside front cover: “If found, please return to Chandra Eaton.” What followed was a telephone number with a Philadelphia area code and an e-mail address. Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he took out his cell phone to dial the number, but the first sentence on the first page caused him to go completely still.
Dream #9—March 3
I opened my eyes when I heard the soft creaking sound that told me someone had opened my bedroom door. Usually he came in through the window. I held my breath because I wasn’t certain if it was him. But who else would it be? I didn’t know whether to scream or reach under the bed for the flashlight I kept there in the event of a power failure. I decided not to move, hoping whoever had come would realize they were in the wrong room and then leave.
The seconds ticked off and I found myself counting slowly, beginning with one. By the time I’d counted to forty-three, there was no sound, no movement. I reached under the bed for the flashlight and flicked it on. I was alone in the bedroom, the sound of the runaway beating of my heart echoing in my ears and the lingering scent of a man’s cologne wafting in the humid tropical air coming in through the open windows. I recognized the scent. It was the same as the one I’d given Laurence for our first Christmas together. But, he’s gone, exorcised, so why did I conjure him up?
Preston slipped the cell phone back into his pocket as he continued to read. He was so engrossed in what Chandra Eaton had written that he hadn’t realized the taxi had stopped and his building doorman had opened the rear door.
“Welcome home, Mr. Tucker.”
His head popped up and he smiled. “Thank you, Reynaldo.”
Preston returned the journal to the leather case, paid the driver and then reached for his leather weekender on the seat next to him. He’d managed to read four of Chandra Eaton’s journal entries, each one more sensual and erotic than the one before it. As a writer, he saw scenes in his head before putting them down on paper, and he was not only intrigued but fascinated by what Chandra Eaton had written.
Clutching his weekender, he entered the lobby of the luxury high-rise, which had replaced many of the grand Victorian-style mansions that once surrounded Rittenhouse Square. He’d purchased the top two floors in the newly constructed building on the advice of his financial planner, using it as a business write-off. His office, a media room, gourmet kitchen, formal living and dining rooms were set up for work and entertaining. The three bedrooms with en suite bathrooms on the upper floor were for out-of-town guests.
There had been a time when he’d entertained at his Brandywine Valley home, but as he matured he’d come to covet his privacy. Lately, he’d become somewhat of a recluse. If an event wasn’t work-related, then he usually declined the invitation. His mother claimed he was getting old and crotchety, to which he replied that thirty-eight was hardly old and he wasn’t crotchety, just particular as to how he spent his time and more importantly with whom.
Preston was exhausted and sleep-deprived from flying more than six thousand miles in twenty-four hours. His original plan was to shower and go directly to bed, but Chandra Eaton’s erotic prose had revived him. He would finish reading the journal, then e-mail the owner to let her know he’d found it.
He didn’t bother to stop at the concierge to retrieve his mail, and instead walked into the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. The elevator doors glided closed. The car rose smoothly and swiftly, stopping at the eighteenth floor. The doors opened again and he made his way down a carpeted hallway to his condo.
It was good to be home. If he’d completely trusted Cliff Jessup to represent his interests, he never would’ve flown to L.A. What bothered him about his agent was that they’d practically grown up together. Both had attended Princeton, pledged the same fraternity, and he’d been best man at Cliff’s wedding. Something had changed. Preston wasn’t certain whether he’d changed, or if Cliff had changed, or if they were just growing apart.
Inserting the cardkey into the slot to his duplex, Preston pushed open the door and was greeted with a rush of cool air. He’d adjusted the air-conditioning before he left, but apparently the drop in the temperature outside made it feel uncomfortably chilly. It was mid-October, and the forecasts predicted a colder and snowier than usual winter.
He dropped his bag on the floor near a table his interior decorator had purchased at an estate sale. It was made in India during the nineteenth century for wealthy Indians and Europeans. It was transported from India to Jamaica at the behest of a British colonist who’d owned one of the largest sugarcane plantations in the Caribbean. Not only was it the most extravagant piece of furniture in the condo, but Preston’s favorite.
Emptying his pockets of loose change, he put the coins in a crystal dish on the table along with his credit card case and cardkey. Floor lamps illuminated the living room and the chandelier over the dining room table sparkled like tiny stars bathing the pale walls with a golden glow. Preston worked well in bright natural sunlight, so he’d had all of the lamps and light fixtures programmed to come on at different times of the day and night.
There was a time when he’d thought he had writer’s block, since he found it very difficult to complete a project during the winter months. It was only when he’d reexamined his high school and college grades that he realized they were much higher in the spring semester than the fall. When he mentioned it to a friend who was a psychologist, she said he probably suffered from SAD, or seasonal affective disorder. Knowing this, he developed a habit of beginning work on a new script in early spring.
Walking past the staircase leading to the upper level, he entered the bathroom that led directly into his office. He undressed, brushed his teeth, leaving his clothes on a covered bench before stepping into the shower stall. The sharp spray of icy-cold water revived him before he adjusted the water temperature to lukewarm. Despite his jet lag, Preston was determined to stay awake long enough to read more of the journal.
He didn’t know why, but he felt like a voyeur. But instead of peeking into Chandra Eaton’s bedroom, he had read her most intimate thoughts. He smiled. Either she had a very fertile imagination, or an incredibly active sex life.
After wiping the moisture from his body with a thick, thirsty towel, he slipped into a pair of lounging pants and a white tee from a supply on a shelf in an alcove in the bathroom suite. Fifteen minutes later, Preston settled onto a chaise lounge in his office with a large mug of steaming black coffee and the cloth-covered journal. It was after two in the morning when he finally finished reading. His eyes were burning, but what he’d read had been too arousing for him to go to sleep.
Turning on the computer, he waited for it to boot up. He e-mailed Chandra Eaton to inform her that he’d found her portfolio in a taxi and where she could contact him to retrieve it.

Chapter 2
Chandra opened one eye, then the other, peeking at the clock on the bedside table. It was after nine. She couldn’t believe she’d been asleep for more than twelve hours. It was apparent she was more exhausted than she’d originally thought. And there was no doubt her body’s time clock was off. If she were still in Belize she would’ve been in the classroom with her young students.
Stretching her arms above her head, she exhaled a lungful of air. Chandra was glad to be home and looked forward to reuniting with her family. Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the twin bed and walked into the bathroom. She had a laundry list of things to do before the weekend: get a complete beauty makeover—including a haircut, mani/pedi and a hydrating facial. Despite using the strongest sunblock and wearing a hat to protect her face, the rays of the Caribbean sun had dried out her skin. She also had to go online to search for public schools in the Philadelphia area. It was too late to be assigned a full-time teaching job, but she could find work as a substitute teacher. Her sister, Belinda, who’d moved to Paoli after she married Griffin Rice, still taught American history in one of the city’s most challenging high schools.
After a leisurely shower, Chandra left the bathroom to prepare for her day. It felt good not to have to shower within the mandatory three-minute time limit, to avoid using up the hot water for the next person. She’d gotten used to taking short, and sometimes cold, showers. But it wasn’t just soaking in a bathtub that made her aware of what she’d had to sacrifice when she’d signed up for the Peace Corps.
Her cousin Denise had offered to sublet her co-op to Chandra after she relocated to Washington, D.C. to accept a position as executive director of a child care center. Purchasing furniture for the co-op was another item on Chandra’s to-do list. But her list and everything on it would have to wait until she had something to eat. She knew she wouldn’t get to see her father, who had patients booked, until later that evening. Her mother divided her time between volunteering several days a week at a senior facility and quilting with several of her friends. The quartet of quilters had completed many projects for homebound and chronically ill children.
It was after eleven when Chandra returned to the bedroom to make the bed and clean up the bathroom. Bright autumn sunlight came in through the blinds when she sat down at the corner desk and opened her laptop. When she went online she saw e-mails from her sister, brother and her cousin Denise. Without reading them, she knew they were welcoming her home. There was another e-mail with an unfamiliar address and the subject: Lost and Found, that piqued her interest. She clicked on it:
Ms. Eaton,
I found your portfolio in a taxi. Please contact me at the following number to arrange for its return.
P. J. Tucker
Chandra stared at the e-mail, thinking it was either a hoax or spam. But how would the person know her name? And what portfolio was he referring to? She picked up her tote bag, searching through it thoroughly. The leather case her brother had given her as a gift for her college graduation wasn’t there.
“No!” she hissed.
P. J. Tucker must have found her journal. It had to have fallen out when the taxi driver swerved to avoid hitting another vehicle. The journal was the first volume of three others she’d filled with accounts of her dreams. She was certain she’d packed all of them in the trunk until she found one in a drawer under her lingerie. Mister or Miss P. J. Tucker had to open the journal to find out where to contact her. Chandra prayed that was all he or she had looked at. The reason she’d put the journals in the trunk, which was stowed on a ship several days before she left Belize, was that she hadn’t wanted custom agents to read it when they went through her luggage.
Reaching for her cell, she dialed the number in the e-mail. “May I please speak to Mister or Miss P. J. Tucker,” she said when a deep male voice answered.
“This is P. J. Tucker.”
Please don’t tell me you read my journal, she prayed. “I’m Chandra Eaton.”
“Ms. Eaton. No doubt you read my e-mail.”
“Yes, and I’d like to thank you for finding my portfolio.”
“It’s a very nice case, Ms. Eaton. Is it ostrich skin?”
Chandra chewed her lip. It was apparent P. J. Tucker wanted to talk about something other than the material her portfolio was made from. She wanted to set up a time and place, so that she could retrieve her journal.
“Yes, Mr. Tucker, it is. I’d like to pick up my portfolio from you. But of course, whenever it’s convenient for you.”
“I’m free now if you’d like to come and pick it up.”
“Where are you?” Reaching for a pen, Chandra wrote down the address. “How long are you going to be there?”
“All day and all night.”
She smiled. “Well, I don’t have all day or all night. What if I come by before noon?”
“I’ll be here.”
Her smile grew wider. “Goodbye.”
“Later.”
Chandra ended the call. She punched speed dial for a taxi, then quickly changed out of her shorts and T-shirt and into a pair of jeans that she paired with a white men’s-tailored shirt, navy blazer and imported slip-ons. There wasn’t much she could do with her hair, so she brushed it off her face, braided it and secured the end with an elastic band. She heard the taxi horn as she descended the staircase. Racing into the kitchen, she took the extra set of keys off a hook, leaving through the side door.
The address P. J. Tucker had given Chandra was a modern luxury condominium in the historic Rittenhouse neighborhood. One of her favorite things to do as a young girl was to accompany her siblings when their parents took them on Sunday-afternoon walking tours of Philadelphia neighborhoods, of which Rittenhouse was her personal favorite. It had been an enclave of upper-crust, Main Line, well-to-do families.
Dwight and Roberta Eaton always made extra time when they walked through Rittenhouse, lingering at the square honoring the colonial clockmaker, David Rittenhouse. Her father knew he had to be up on his history whenever Belinda asked questions about who’d designed the Victorian mansions, the names of the wealthy families who lived there and their contribution to the growth of the City of Brotherly Love.
Unlike her history-buff sister, Chandra never concerned herself with the past but with the here and now. She was too impulsive to worry about where she’d come from. It was where she was going that was her focus.
She paid the fare, stepped out of the taxi and walked into the lobby with Tiffany-style lamps and a quartet of cordovan-brown leather love seats. Although the noonday temperature registered sixty-two degrees, Chandra felt a slight chill. In Belize she awoke to a spectacular natural setting, eighty-degree temperatures, the sounds of colorful birds calling out to one another and the sweet aroma of blooming flowers, which made the hardships tolerable.
The liveried doorman touched the brim of his shiny cap. “Good afternoon.”
Chandra smiled at the tall, slender man with translucent skin and pale blue eyes that reminded her of images she’d seen of vampires. The name tag pinned to his charcoal-gray greatcoat read Michael.
“Good afternoon. Mr. Tucker is expecting me.”
“I’ll ring Mr. Tucker to see whether he’s in. Your name?”
“It’s Miss Eaton.”
Michael typed her name into the telephone console on a shelf behind a podium. Then he tapped in Preston Tucker’s apartment number. Seconds later ACCEPT appeared on the display. His head came up. “Mr. Tucker will see you, Miss Eaton. He’s in 1801. The elevators are on the left.”
Chandra walked past the concierge desk to a bank of elevators, entered one and pushed the button for the eighteenth floor. The doors closed as the elevator car rose smoothly, silently to the designated floor. When the doors opened she found herself staring up at a man with skin reminiscent of gold-brown toffee. There was something about his face that seemed very familiar, and she searched her memory to figure out where she’d seen him before.
A hint of a smile played at the corners of his generous mouth. “Miss Eaton?”
She stepped out of the car, smiling. “Yes,” she answered, staring at the proffered hand.
“Preston Tucker.”
Chandra’s jaw dropped. She stared dumbfounded, looking at the award-winning playwright whose critically acclaimed dramas were mentioned in the same breath as those of August Wilson, Eugene O’Neill and Tennessee Williams. She’d just graduated from college when he had been honored by the mayor of New York and earned the New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award for best play of the year. At the time, he’d just celebrated his thirtieth birthday and it was his first Broadway production.
Preston Tucker wasn’t handsome in the traditional way, although she found him quite attractive. He towered over her five-four height by at least ten inches and the short-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar, and faded jeans failed to conceal the power in his lean, muscular physique. Her gaze moved up, lingering on a pair of slanting, heavy-lidded, sensual dark brown eyes. There was a bump on the bridge of his nose, indicating that it had been broken. It was his mouth, with a little tuft of hair under his lower lip, and cropped salt-and-pepper hair that drew her rapt attention. She doubted he was forty, despite the abundance of gray hair.
She blinked as if coming out of a trance and shook his hand. “Chandra Eaton.”
Preston applied the slightest pressure on her delicate hand before releasing her fingers. Chandra Eaton was as sensual as her writings. She possessed an understated sexiness that most women had to work most of their lives to perfect. He stared at her almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, pert nose and lush mouth. Flyaway wisps had escaped the single plait to frame her sun-browned round face.
“Please come with me, Miss Eaton, and I’ll get your portfolio.” Turning on his heels, he walked the short distance to his apartment, leaving her to follow.
Chandra found herself staring for the second time within a matter of minutes when she walked into the duplex with sixteen-foot ceilings and a winding staircase leading to a second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows brought in sunlight, offering panoramic views of the city. The soft strains of classical music floated around her from concealed speakers.
Her gaze shifted to the magnificent table in the foyer. “Oh, my word,” she whispered.
Preston stopped and turned around. “What’s the matter?”
Reaching out, Chandra ran her fingertips over the surface of the table. “This table. It’s beautiful.”
“I like it.”
“You like it?”
“Yes, I do,” he confirmed.
“I’d thought you’d say that you love it, and because you didn’t I’m going to ask if you’re willing to sell it, Mr. Tucker?”
“Preston,” he corrected. “Please call me Preston.”
“I’ll call you Preston, but only if you stop referring to me as Miss Eaton.”
His eyebrows lifted. “What if I call you Chandra?”
She smiled. “That’ll do. Now, back to my question, Preston. Are you willing to sell the table?”
He smiled, the gesture transforming his expression from solemn to sensual. “Chandra,” he repeated. “Did you know that your name is Sanskrit for of the moon?”
“No, I didn’t.” A slight frown marred her face. “Why do I get the feeling you’re avoiding my question?”
Preston reached for her hand, leading her into the living room and settling her on a sand-colored suede love seat. He sat opposite her on a matching sofa.
“I’d thought you’d get the hint that I don’t want to sell it.”
Her frown deepened. “I don’t do well with hints, Preston. All you had to say was no.”
“No is not a particularly nice word, Chandra.”
She wrinkled her nose, unaware of the charming quality of the gesture. “I’m a big girl, and that means I can deal with rejection.”
Resting his elbows on his knees, Preston leaned in closer. “If that’s the case, then the answer is no, no and no.”
Chandra winked at him. “I get your point.” She angled her head while listening to the music filling the room. “Isn’t that Cavalleria Rusticana—Intermezzo from Godfather III?”
An expression of complete shock froze Preston’s face. He hadn’t spent more than five minutes with Chandra Eaton and she’d surprised him not once but twice. She’d recognized the exquisite quality of the Anglo-Indian table and correctly identified a classical composition.
“Yes, it is. Are you familiar with Pietro Mascagni’s work?”
“He’s one of my favorites.”
Preston gestured to the gleaming black concert piano several feet away. “Do you play?”
“I haven’t in a while,” Chandra admitted half-truthfully. She had played nursery rhymes and other childish ditties for her young students on an out-of-tune piano that had been donated to the school by a local church in Belize. Some of the keys didn’t work, but the children didn’t seem to notice when they sang along and sometimes danced whenever she played an upbeat, lively tune.
“Do you have any other favorites?” Preston asked.
“Liszt, Vivaldi and Dvorak, to name a few.”
“Ah, the Romantics.”
“What’s wrong with being a Romantic?” Chandra knew she came off sounding defensive, yet she was past caring. As soon as she retrieved her things, she would be on her way.
“Nothing.”
“If it’s nothing, then why did you make it sound like a bad thing?” she asked.
“It’s not a bad thing, Chandra. It’s just that I’m not a romantic kind of guy,” Preston countered with a wink.
She felt a shiver of annoyance snake its way up her spine. “Anyone can tell that if they’ve read or seen your plays. They’re all dark, brooding and filled with pathos.”
Preston realized Chandra Eaton had him at a disadvantage. She knew about him and he knew nothing about her, except what she’d written in her journal. And, he wasn’t certain whether she’d actually experienced what she’d written or if it was simply a fantasy.
“That’s because I’m dark and brooding.”
“Being sexy and brooding works if you’re a vampire,” Chandra shot back.
“You like vampires?”
“Yes. But only if they are sexy.”
“I thought all vampires were sexy, given their cinematic popularity nowadays.”
“Not all of them,” she said.
“What would make a vampire sexy, Chandra?”
“He would have to be…” Her words trailed off. She threw up a hand. “What am I doing? Why am I telling you things you probably already know?”
“You’re wrong, Chandra. I don’t know. Perhaps you can explain what the big fuss is all about.”
She stared, speechless. “Are you blowing smoke, or do you really want to know?”
Quickly rising from the sofa and going down on one knee, Preston grasped her hand, tightening his grip when she tried to pull free. “I’m begging you, Chandra Eaton. I need your help.” He was hard-pressed not to laugh when Chandra stared at him with genuine concern in her eyes. He didn’t need her help with character development as much as he wanted to know what motivated her to write about her dreams.
“You’re serious about this, Preston?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
“Get up, Preston.”
“What?”
“Get up off your knees. You look ridiculous.”
“I thought I was being noble.”
“Get up!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Preston came to his feet and sat down again.
Chandra rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not old enough to be a ma’am.”
“How old do you have to be?”
“At least forty,” she said.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask your age.”
“It’s not a deep, dark secret,” she said, smiling. “I’m thirty.”
“You’re still a kid.”
“I stopped being a kid a long time ago. Now, back to my helping you develop a sexy character. What are you going to do with the information?”
“Maybe I’ll write a play about two star-crossed lovers.”
“That’s already been done. Romeo and Juliet, Love Story and West Side Story.”
“Has it been done on stage as a musical with vampires and mortals?”
Unexpected warmth surged through Chandra as her gaze met and fused with Preston Tucker’s. She didn’t want to believe she was sitting in his living room, talking to the brilliant playwright.
“But you don’t write musicals.”
“There’s always a first time. It could be like Phantom of the Opera, or Evita.”
“Where would it be set?”
Closing his eyes, Preston stroked the hair under his lower lip. “New Orleans.” When he opened his eyes they were shimmering with excitement. “The early nineteenth-century French Quarter rife with voodoo, prostitution, gambling and opium dens and beautiful quadroons with dreams of becoming plaçées in marriages de la main gauche.”
Chandra pressed her palms together at the same time she compressed her lips. How, she thought, had he come up with a story line so quickly? Now she knew why he’d been awarded a MacArthur genius grant. The plot was dark, but with a cast of sexy characters and the mysterious lush locale, there was no doubt the play would become a sensation.
“Would you also write the music?” she asked Preston.
“No. I know someone who would come up with what I want for the music and lyrics.”
“What about costumes?”
“What about them, Chandra?”
“Women’s attire changed from antebellum-era ball gowns to the flowing diaphanous dresses of the Regency period. Are your characters going to be demure, or will they favor scandalous décolletage?”
Staring at the toes of his slip-ons, Preston pondered her question. “I’d like to believe the folks in the French Quarter didn’t always conform to the societal customs of the day. Remember, we’re talking about naughty Nawlins.”
“It sounds as if it’s going to be just a tad bit wicked.” When she smiled, an elusive dimple in her left cheek winked at him.
“Just a tad,” he confirmed. “When do you think we can get together to talk about developing a sexy vampire story?”
Chandra narrowed her eyes at Preston. Was he, she thought, blowing smoke, or was he actually serious about needing her input? “I’ll be in touch.” She wasn’t going to commit until she gave his suggestion more thought.
“You’ll be in touch,” Preston repeated. “When? How?” Chandra stood up, as did Preston.
“I have your e-mail address, so whenever I clear my calendar I’ll e-mail you.”
The seconds ticked as they stared at each other. “Okay. Let me go and get your portfolio.”
Walking over to the window, Chandra stood and stared down at the street. She couldn’t wait to tell her cousin Denise that she’d met Preston Tucker. After graduating from college, she and Denise had regularly traveled to New York to see Broadway plays. Every third trip they would check into a New York City hotel and spend the night. A few times they were able to convince their dates to accompany them, which worked out well since the guys always wanted to hang out at jazz clubs in and around Manhattan.
She turned when she heard footsteps. Preston had returned with her portfolio and handed it to her. Myles had given it to her along with a lesson plan book for her college graduation, and she had continued to use it while in Belize.
“Thank you for taking care of this for me,” she said. Chandra valued Myles’s gift as much as she did the contents of her journal.
Preston cupped her elbow and escorted her to the door. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “I think I can make it downstairs all right.”
“I’ll still go down with you, because I need to pick up my mail.”
Chandra and Preston rode the elevator in silence, parting in the lobby. She felt the heat from his gaze boring into her as she walked out into the bright autumn sunlight. She strolled along a street until she found a café with outdoor seating.
She ordered a salad Nicoise and a glass of white zinfandel and then called her cousin at the child care center. It rang three times before her voice mail switched on. “Denise, Chandra. Call me back tonight when you get home. I just met your idol. Later.”
She ended the call, smiling. If anyone knew anything at all about Preston Tucker, it was Denise Eaton. Chandra decided she would wait until she heard from her cousin before she agreed to meet Preston again.

Chapter 3
Preston silently chastised himself for forgetting his manners. He hadn’t offered Chandra Eaton anything to eat or drink. It was apparent that his annoyance with his agent sending him on a six-thousand-mile wild-goose chase had affected him more than he wanted to admit. If Clifford had been in the room with him during the negotiations, there was no doubt he would’ve fired the man on the spot. Wanting to avoid a fight, he decided to wait, wait until Clifford contacted him.
He retrieved his mail and then returned to the apartment. A smile tilted the corners of his mouth when he recalled his conversation with the young woman who’d recorded dreams so erotic, so sensual that he felt as if he’d actually entered the dream and it was he who’d made love to Chandra. He’d taken one shower, then hours later he was forced to take another one. Standing under the spray of ice-cold water was the antidote to an erection that had him thinking of doing what he hadn’t done since adolescence.
Preston hadn’t lied to Chandra when he told her he wasn’t romantic in the true sense of the word. Yet he’d never mistreated or cheated on any woman he was seeing. He’d grown up witnessing his father passively and aggressively abuse his mother until she’d become an emotional cripple. Craig Tucker had never raised his voice or hit him or his sister, Yolanda. But whenever he drank to an excess, he blamed his wife for his failures, of which there were a few. A two-pack-a-day cigarette habit and heavy drinking took its toll, and Craig suffered a massive coronary at forty.
Walking into his home office, Preston put the pile of letters and magazines on his desk. The idea of writing a dramatic musical was scary and exciting. And, although he’d mentioned using a vampire as a leading character, the truth was he knew nothing about them. Sitting in a leather chair, he reached for a pencil and a legal pad and began jotting down key words.
The sun had slipped lower in the sky, and long and short shadows filled the room when he finally glanced up at the clock on a side table. It was after five. He’d spent more than four hours outlining scenes for his untitled musical drama. What kept creeping into his head were the accounts of the dreams he’d read the night before.
A knowing smile softened the angles in his face. He suddenly had an idea for a plot.
Chandra spied her father’s car when the taxi driver maneuvered into the driveway. She hadn’t expected her father to come home so early. She paid the fare, and clutching the case to her chest, got out and walked to the door. It opened before she could insert her key into the lock.
She didn’t have time to react before her father held her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed his cheek. “Daddy, stop! You’re crushing my ribs.”
Dwight set his daughter on her feet. “I’m sorry about that, baby girl.”
Chandra smiled at the man against whom she measured every man she’d met in her life. Her father was soft-spoken, patient and benevolent—and that was with his patients. He was all that and then some to his children. He’d always been supportive, telling them they could do or be anything they wanted to be.
It was her father she’d gone to when she contemplated going into the Peace Corps. He encouraged her to follow her dream and her heart, while Roberta had taken to her bed, all the while complaining that her youngest was going to be the death of her.
She smiled at her father. He looked the same at sixty-three as he had at fifty-three. His dark face was virtually wrinkle-free and his deep-set brown eyes behind a pair of rimless glasses reminded her of chocolate chips. His thinning cropped hair was now completely gray.
“What are you doing home so early, Daddy?”
Dwight tugged at the thick braid falling midway down his daughter’s back. “My last two patients canceled, so I thought I’d come home early and take my favorite girls out to dinner.”
“Do you mind if we postpone it to another time?”
Eyes narrowing, Dwight led Chandra into the entryway. He cradled her face between his palms. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m well. It’s just that I stopped to eat a little while ago. I’m certain Mama would appreciate you taking her to a restaurant with dining and dancing.”
“You know your mother was quite the dancer in her day.”
“She still is,” Chandra said. Roberta had danced nonstop at Belinda and Griffin’s wedding. She kissed her father’s cheek. “I have to go online and look for a job.”
“I thought you were going to take some time off before you go back to teaching.”
“I’d really like to, Daddy, but I have to buy some furniture before I move into Denise’s co-op.”
“You should talk to Belinda before you buy anything. She told your mother that she has a buyer for her house, and expects to close on it before Halloween.”
Myles had stayed in Belinda’s house during the summer, and then returned to Pittsburgh where he taught constitutional law at Duquesne University School of Law. Despite the uncertainty in the real estate market, Belinda was fortunate enough to find a buyer for her house.
Chandra couldn’t see herself purchasing property at this time in her life. Although she’d told her parents she hadn’t planned to live overseas again, she still wasn’t certain of her future.
“I’ll call her later,” she said to her father. “You and Mama have fun, and if you two can’t be good, then be careful,” she teased.
He chuckled and was still chuckling as she climbed the staircase. She walked into her bedroom, slipped out of her shoes and blazer and then sat down at the desk. Turning on her laptop, Chandra searched the Philadelphia public schools Web site for openings. Surprisingly, she found ten—eight of which were in less-than-desirable neighborhoods. Her heart rate kicked into high gear. Instead of substituting she would apply for a full-time position. The one school that advertised for a Pre-K, third and fifth grade teacher was about a mile from Denise’s co-op and close to Penn’s Landing and to public transportation.
Chandra was so engrossed in copying down the names of the schools, their addresses and principals that she almost didn’t hear her cell phone. She retrieved it from her handbag, glancing at the display. “Hello, cousin.”
“Hello, yourself. When did you get back?”
“Yesterday. I called you because I had the pleasure of meeting Preston Tucker today.” She held the phone away from her ear when a piercing scream came through the earpiece. “Denise! Calm down.”
“You’ve got to tell me everything, and I do mean everything, Chandra.”
Settling down on the bed, she told her cousin about leaving her portfolio in the taxi and Preston e-mailing her to let her know he’d found it. She was forthcoming, leaving nothing out when she related the conversation between her and the playwright, including that he wanted her to work with him to develop a vampirelike character for a new play.
“Are you going to do it?” Denise asked, her sultry contralto dropping an octave.
“That’s why I called you. What do you know about him?”
“He’s brilliant, but you probably know that. And he’s never been married. There were rumors a little while back that he was engaged to marry an actress. But the tabloids said she ended it. He rarely gives interviews and manages to stay out of the spotlight. I’ve seen every one of his plays, and if I were given the chance to work with him, I’d jump at it.”
“I’m flattered that he asked for my help, but why, Denise? Why me?”
“Maybe he likes you.”
Chandra shook her head.
“I don’t think so.”
“What did you say to him?”
“What are you talking about, Denise?”
“You had to say something to Preston for him to ask you to develop a character for his next play.”
A beat passed. “I told him that all his plays were dark and brooding, and he admitted that he was dark and brooding. I suppose when I said brooding works if he were a vampire, he took it as a challenge.”
“There you go, Chandra. You just said the operative word—challenge. Preston Tucker’s bound to have an ego as large as the Liberty Bell, so he expects you to put your money where your mouth is.”
“It’s either that or…”
“Or what?” Denise asked when she didn’t finish her statement.
“Nothing.”
Chandra had said nothing, although there was the possibility that Preston had read her journal. He hadn’t mentioned that he’d read it, and she didn’t want to ask because she didn’t want to know if he had. The only way she would be able to find out was to work with him.
“I’m going to do it, Denise. I’m going to help the very talented P. J. Tucker develop a vampire character for his next play.”
“Hot damn! My cousin’s going to be famous.”
“Yeah, right,” Chandra drawled. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.”
“You better,” Denise threatened. “I’d love to chat longer, but I have a board meeting in ten minutes.”
“Are you coming up to Paoli this weekend?”
“I plan on being there. I’ll see you in a couple of days. Later.”
“Later,” Chandra repeated before she ended the call.
She sat, staring at the sheers billowing in the cool breeze coming through the open windows. To say she was intrigued by Preston Tucker was an understatement. Something told her that he didn’t need her or anyone’s help with character development. Did he, as Denise claimed, like her?
Chandra shook her head as if to banish the notion. She knew she hadn’t given off vibes that said she was interested in him. After her yearlong liaison with Laurence Breslin she had sworn off men. Whenever she affected what could best be described as a “screw face” most men kept their distance. The persistent ones were greeted with, “I’m not interested in men,” leaving them to ponder whether she didn’t like them or she was only interested in a same-sex liaison. She liked men—a lot. It was just that she wasn’t willing to set herself up for more heartbreak.
She went back to the task of researching schools. All she had to do was update her résumé and submit the applications online. Flicking on the desk lamp, she scrolled through her old e-mails until she found the one from Preston, her fingers racing over the keys:
Hi Preston,
I’m available to meet with you Friday. Please call or e-mail to confirm.—CE
She didn’t have to wait for a response when his AIM popped up on the upper left corner of the screen.
PJT: Hi CE. Friday is good with me. What time should I pick you up?
CE: You don’t have to pick me up. I’ll take a taxi to your place.
PJT: No, CE. You tend to lose things in taxis.
CE: You didn’t have to go there.
PJT: Sorry.
CE: Apology accepted.
PJT: Will call tomorrow to let you know when driver will pick you up.
CE: O.K. I’ll see you Friday. Meanwhile, think of a name for your vampire.
PJT: He’s not my vampire, but yours. So, you do the honor.
CE: O.K. Good night.
PJT: Good night.
Chandra logged off. She mentally checked off what she had to do before meeting with Preston. She still had to unpack, call her sister Belinda and update her résumé. During lunch she’d called the salon and was given an appointment for Thursday at eleven. The Eatons had planned a get-together at Belinda and Griffin’s for Saturday to celebrate Sabrina’s and Layla’s thirteenth birthday. She wasn’t certain what her nieces wanted or needed, but decided to give them gift cards. Then, there was her ten-year-old nephew whom she would meet for the first time. Aunt Chandra would have to buy him something, too.
Chandra waited for the driver to come around and open the rear door for her. As promised, Preston had arranged for a driver to bring her to his apartment building. He’d also arranged for them to have brunch.
She gave the doorman her name and three minutes later she came face-to-face with Preston Tucker for the second time when the doors to the elevator opened.
Preston stared, completely surprised. He almost didn’t recognize Chandra. She’d changed her hair. The braid was gone, replaced by a sleek style that framed her face and floated over her shoulders. It made her look older, more sophisticated.
“You look very nice.”
Chandra couldn’t stop the pinpoints of heat pricking her face. She’d lightly applied a little makeup and changed outfits twice before deciding on a tailored charcoal-gray pantsuit, white silk blouse and black patent leather pumps.
“Thank you.”
Preston not only looked good, she thought, but he also smelled good. He wore a pair of black slacks and matching shirt and the stubble on his chin gave him a slightly roguish look. He’d admitted to being dark and brooding and his somber attire affirmed that. She didn’t have to go very far to find the inspiration for her vampire. Preston Tucker was the perfect character.
“Have you come up with a name for your vampire?” Preston asked as he led Chandra down the hallway and into his apartment.
“I have,” she admitted.
He closed the door and turned to stare at her. “What is it?”
“Pascual.”
Preston angled his head. “Pascual or Paschal?”
“Pascual. It’s Spanish and Hebrew for Passover. The name is somewhat exotic and implies that he’s passed through a portal from another world to ours.”
“If the setting is New Orleans, shouldn’t you give him a French name?”
Chandra drew in a breath, held it and then let it out slowly. They hadn’t even begun to work together and already he was questioning her. “I thought you said Pascual is my vampire.”
“He is, Chandra.”
“Then, please let me develop him the way I want, Preston. And that includes giving him a name that’s Spanish. Remember, France lost control of New Orleans to Spain, then regained it before it was sold to the U.S.”
Preston looked sheepish. “Unfortunately, history and languages weren’t my best subjects.”
“I have you at a disadvantage because my sister teaches American history to high school students.”
“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.

Chapter 4
Chandra 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 cook ware 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.

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