Sweet Dreams

by Rochelle Alers

  “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, whe
n 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.

  “Okay, Preston,” she said, smiling, “I’ll go out with you.”

  His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Why does it sound as if you’re doing me a favor?”

  “Don’t let your ego get the best of you, P.J.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re probably not used to women turning you down.”

  “Whatever,” he drawled.

  “Yes or no, Preston?”

  “I’m not going to answer that.”

  Standing on tiptoe, Chandra touched her lips to Preston’s. “You don’t have to,” she whispered, “but there’s one question I do expect you to answer for me.”

  “What’s that?” Preston asked, as his lips seared a sensual path along the column of her neck.

  Baring her throat, she closed her eyes, reveling in the warmth of his mouth on her skin. “Can I trust you?”

  Preston froze as if someone had unexpectedly doused him with cold water. His arms fell to his sides as he glared at Chandra. “You think I’m going to be with you and another woman at the same time?”

  “I’m not talking about infidelity.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She stared at a spot over his broad shoulder before her gaze returned to meet his questioning one. “It’s about you not lying to me.”

  “I’d never—”

  “Don’t say what you won’t do,” she interrupted. “Just don’t do it, Preston.”

  A beat passed. Preston knew without asking that something had occurred between Chandra and her former fiancé that caused her not to trust him and probably all men. He hadn’t slept with so many women that he couldn’t remember their names, but whenever they parted it was never because they didn’t trust him, and it wouldn’t be any different with Chandra.

  A sensual smile tilted the corners of his mouth upward. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’d like to take you out to Le Bec-Fin tomorrow night.”

  Chandra lashes fluttered as she tried to bring her fragile emotions under control. Maybe he likes you. Denise’s words came back with vivid clarity. Maybe Preston did like her, and not because she was collaborating with him. And despite his literary brilliance and celebrity status she wasn’t ready to completely trust him.

  Dating Preston Tucker openly would no doubt thrust her into the spotlight for newshounds and the paparazzi, and she had to prepare herself for that. Denise had also revealed that Preston tended to keep a low profile, yet he wanted to take her to a restaurant long considered the best in fine dining. Being seen with him at a fancy, four-star Philadelphia restaurant was hardly what she would consider maintaining a low profile.

  “Would you mind if we go another time?”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” he said. “We’ll go whenever it’s convenient for you.”

  Chandra decided to flip the script. “How would you like to go out with me tomorrow?”

  Preston’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you weren’t available?”

  “I can’t have dinner with you because I have a prior engagement. I’m going to Paoli to join my family in celebrating my twin nieces, Sabrina’s and Layla’s thirteenth birthday.”

  “You want me to go to a teenage birthday party?”

  “No, Preston. You just fired your literary agent, which means you’re going to have to replace him. I just thought if you talk to my brother-in-law, perhaps he’ll consider representing you.”

  The impact of his firing his friend and agent weighed heavily on Preston. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but Cliff had left him no alternative. If his friend was having personal problems, then he should’ve confided in him. After all, there were few or no secrets Preston kept from his agent.

  But, on the other hand, business was business, and he’d entrusted Clifford to handle his career without questioning his every word or move. Unfortunately, the man had screwed up—big-time and with dire consequences.

  “Who is your brother-in-law?”

  Chandra flashed a sexy moue, bringing Preston’s gaze to linger on her lips. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You expect me to go with you on a whim?”

  “Is that how you see me, Preston?” she spat out. “Now I’m a whim?”

  “No, no, no! I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

  Crossing her arms under her breasts, Chandra pretended to pout. “Well, it did.”

  “I’m sorry, Chandra.”

  She bit back a smile. “Say it like you mean it, Preston.”

  Preston took a step and pulled her into the circle of his embrace. “I’m sorry, baby.” His mellifluous voice had dropped an octave.

  Why, Chandra asked herself, hadn’t she noticed the rich, honeyed quality of his voice before? It was the timbre of someone trained for the stage.

  “Apology accepted. I don’t want to tell you my brother-in-law’s name because I want you to trust me.”

  “So, we’re back to the trust thing?”

  She smiled. “It will always be the trust thing, Preston.”

  “I thought most women concerned themselves about the love thang,” he said, teasingly.

  “Not with you, P.J. Why would I take up with a man who professes not to be romantic? Women don’t need sex from a man as much as they want romance and courtship.”

  “Maybe I’m going to need a few lessons in that department.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Chandra asked. “You’re thirty-eight years old and you don’t know how to romance a woman?”

  “What I’m not is romantic,” he retorted.

  Lowering her arms, she rested her hands on his chest. “Porbrecito.”

  “Which means?”

  “You poor thing,” she translated.

  Preston winked at her. “Now, don’t you feel sorry for me?”

  “Only a little. However, I’m willing to bet if you follow Pascual’s lead you’ll do quite well with the ladies.”

  He wanted to tell Chandra that he was only interested in one lady: her. Not only had she intrigued him but also bewitched him in a way no other woman had. “What time do we leave for Paoli tomorrow?”

  “Everyone’s expected to arrive around three.”

  “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

  “I’ll pick you up at two,” Chandra said. Her father would drive her mother in his car, and she would take her mother’s car.

  “Okay. I want you to relax while I clean up the kitchen. Then we’ll go to the office and talk about the play.”

  “Wouldn’t it go faster if I help you?”

  Preston glared at Chandra. He’d learned quickly that she wanted to control situations. Well, she was in for a rude awakening. When it came to control of his work he’d unquestionably become an expert.

  “Sit down and relax.”

  She held up her hands. “Okay. You didn’t have to go mad hard,” she whispered under her breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Chandra mumbled.

  She walked around Preston and sat down at the table. She knew working with him wasn’t going to be easy, especially if, without warning, his moods vacillated from hot to cold. What she didn’t intend to become was a punching bag for his domineering and controlling personality.

  Chandra Eaton was not the same woman who’d left her home and everything familiar and comfortable to work with young children in a region where running water was a priceless commodity.

  She’d promised Preston she would help him with his latest play, and she would follow through on her promise—that is until he pushed her to a po
int where she would be forced to walk away and not look back. It’d happened with a man she’d loved without question, and it could happen again with a man she had no intention of loving.

  Chapter 6

  Chandra sat between Preston’s outstretched legs on a soft leather chaise in a soft butter-yellow shade, wishing she’d worn something a lot more casual. He’d changed into his work clothes: jeans, T-shirt and sandals.

  When he’d led her into the home/office Chandra was taken aback with the soft colors, thinking Preston would’ve preferred a darker, more masculine appeal. Instead of the ubiquitous black, brown or burgundy, the leather sofa, love seats and chaise were fashioned in tones of pale yellow and orange, reminiscent of rainbow sherbet. The citrus shades blended with an L-shaped workstation in a soft vanilla hue with gleaming cherrywood surfaces.

  Two walls of floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases in the same vanilla bean hue were stacked with novels, plays, pamphlets and biographies. Several shelves were dedicated to the many statuettes and awards honoring Preston’s theatrical achievements. She smiled when she saw two Tony awards.

  The third wall, covered with bamboolike fabric, was filled with framed citations, diplomas and academic degrees. The last wall was made of glass, bringing in the natural light and panoramic views of the Philadelphia skyline.

  Reclining against Preston’s chest seemed the most natural thing to do as he explained the notations he’d put down on a legal pad. Chandra squinted, attempting to read his illegible scrawl.

  She pointed. “What is that word?”

  Preston pressed a kiss to the hair grazing his chin. “You got jokes, C.E.?”

  Tilting her chin, Chandra smiled at him over her shoulder. “I’m serious, Preston. I can’t decipher it.”

  He made a face. “She can’t decipher conflict,” he said sarcastically.

  “Hel-lo, P.J. It looks like confluent to me.”

  “I can assure you it is conflict. Writing a play is no different from writing a novel or a script for a film or television. It all begins with an idea or premise, a sequence of events, characters and conflict. As the writer I must touch upon all of these elements not only to entice theatergoers to come to see the stage production, but keep them in their seats until the final curtain.”