Reaching into a drawer under the countertop, he pulled out a bibbed apron. “Come here,” he ordered.
Chandra approached Preston, turning so he could slip the apron over her head. He adjusted the length until it reached her knees, then looped the ties twice around her waist.
Shifting, she smiled up at him. “I’m ready, chef.”
Lowering his head, Preston kissed the end of her nose. “Never have I had a more delicious-looking sous chef. If you look in the right side of the refrigerator, you’ll find fruit in the lower drawer.”
He left Chandra to take care of the fruit salad while he began the task of thawing the spinach in the microwave, placing it in a colander to drain before removing the remaining moisture by squeezing the chopped leaves in cheesecloth. Pausing, he opened an overhead closet and pushed a button on a stereo unit. The beautifully haunting sound of a trumpet filled the duplex.
Chandra shared a smile with Preston as she glanced up from peeling the fuzzy skin of a kiwi, revealing its vibrant green flesh. She found it ironic they had a similar taste in music. Before leaving for Belize, she’d loaded her iPod with music from every genre. Chris Botti’s Night Sessions had become a favorite.
“You have to have at least one romantic bone in your body if you like Chris Botti,” she said teasingly.
Preston stopped mincing garlic on the chopping board. “Okay. I’ll admit to having one,” he said, conceding.
He didn’t know what Chandra meant by being romantic. If it was about sending flowers, telling a woman she looked nice or buying her a gift for her birthday or Christmas, then he would have to say he was. But if a woman expected him to declare his undying love for her then she was out of luck.
He’d asked Elaine to marry him because they’d dated exclusively for three years. It just seemed like the right thing to do. But Elaine wanted more than the flowers, gifts and sex. She wanted his undivided attention whenever she didn’t have an acting role. It hadn’t mattered if he was working on a new play or directing one slated to go into production. She wanted what she wanted whenever she wanted it.
Preston opened the refrigerator, took out a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice and a bottle of chilled champagne from a wine storage unit and then returned to the cooking island. There was a soft popping sound when he removed the cork from the bubbly wine. Reaching for two flutes on a rack, he half filled the glasses with orange juice, topping it off with champagne before gently stirring the mixture.
Chandra arranged the fruit in glass dessert bowls. She started with melon balls, adding sliced kiwi, and topped them off with orange sections. The contrasting colors were soft, the fresh fruit inviting.
“Do you want me to set the table?” she asked Preston.
“That can wait until after we toast each other.” He handed her a flute, touching his glass to hers. “Here’s to a successful collaboration.” Their gazes met as they sipped the orange-infused champagne cocktail. She smiled over the rim of the flute.
Chandra let the sweet, tart liquid slide slowly down the back of her throat. “It’s delicious.”
Preston nodded.
Chandra set down her glass. She didn’t want to drink too much before she had a chance to eat. “Where are your dishes?”
“They’re in the cabinet over the sink.”
“What about coffee or tea?”
“I’ll have whatever you have,” he said.
“What about juice, chef?”
“I’m not a chef, Chandra.”
Preston turned and glared at Chandra, but he couldn’t stay angry with her when he saw the humor in her eyes. He was going to enjoy working with her. There was no doubt she was a free spirit if she’d left the States to teach in Belize.
His gaze softened when Chandra swayed to the Latin-infused baseline beats of “All Would Envy” written by Sting and sung by Shawn Colvin.
He took three long strides and pulled her into a close embrace. She fit perfectly within the arc of his arms. They danced as if they’d performed the action countless times. Preston closed his eyes, listening to the words about a wealthy older man who was the envy of other men, old and young, because he’d convinced a beautiful young woman to marry him.
Everything about the woman in his arms seeped into him. She was becoming the heroine in Death’s Kiss. Chandra was right. The play had to have a happy ending. He knew very little about vampires, but he remembered stories about mortals who were bitten by vampires and needed to feed on human blood in order to stay alive.
“Pascual has to be an incredible dancer,” Chandra said softly.
“In other words, he must waltz.”
Leaning back, she smiled up at Preston. “Yes, but his dance of choice is the tango.”
“Where did he learn to tango?” Preston asked.
“In Argentina, of course.”
Inky-black eyebrows lifted a fraction. “So, your vampire is from South America?”
“Yes. He’s lived there for two centuries, hence his name. He’s the son of a noble Spanish landowner and an African slave. Although the tango did not become popular outside of the Argentine ghettos until the early years of the twentieth century, Pascual time travels from one century to another, establishing his reputation as a professional dancer.”
Preston angled his head. “I like that you made him mixed race.”
“Why’s that,” Chandra asked.
“Because Josette is also mixed race, and, like her mother, is a free woman of color. I’ve decided to make her a quadroon, because the character will be easier to cast when I begin auditions. Josette’s mother will present her at one of the balls the year she turns sixteen.”
“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.”
Chapter 5
Chandra 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 culinar
y 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.”
Sweet Dreams Page 5
