Sweet Dreams

by Rochelle Alers

  “Are you upset because I took the initiative in making love to you?”

  Closing the distance between them, Preston stood over her like an avenging angel. “Do you really hear yourself? Did I tell you that I was upset? Do I look upset?”

  “I don’t know, Preston.”

  “Well, I’m not. It’s not about who initiates what. For me it’s about enjoying making love with you. Now if you’re talking about unprotected sex, then that’s something we can discuss. If I do father a child, then I want it to be by mutual consent. When I asked you whether you want marry or have children, your response was you do, but it can’t be now. And to me, that translates into my protecting you.”

  There was something about the way Preston was looking at her that made Chandra feel as if he could read her mind. “I understand.”

  “No, you don’t understand, baby. You truly have no idea what you are doing to me.”

  With wide eyes, she asked, “What am I doing to you?”

  “You’re turning me into a madman. Whenever we’re apart I find myself obsessing about you, while trying to come up with any excuse to bring us together. You’re beautiful and you’re smart. I love the way you smell, how you taste and your feistiness. And I love the fact that you’re a tad bit wicked in bed.”

  Chandra took a step, resting her head on Preston’s shoulder. She longed to tell him that she loved everything about him, yet was reluctant because she didn’t want a repeat of what she’d had with Laurence. She’d been the first one to bare her soul, confessing that she was in love with him. Only after their breakup did she realize he’d never professed to loving her. He wanted her, adored her, was proud of her, but the dreaded four-letter word was never a part of his verbal repertoire.

  “Just a tad?” she whispered in the fabric of his shirt.

  Resting his chin on the top of Chandra’s head, Preston smiled. “Is there more?”

  Easing back, she stared into the velvety dark eyes of the man who made her feel things she didn’t want to feel and made her do “naughty” things to him. “There’s a lot more.”

  Attractive lines fanned out around Preston’s eyes when his smile grew wider. “I can assure you that you won’t get a complaint from me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Should I be afraid of you, C.E.?”

  She patted his chest. “No. P.J. I just want you to enjoy it.”

  “And I promise you, I will.” His eyes caressed her face seconds before he grasped her hand and led her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

  A cool breeze wafted through screens at the quartet of windows spanning one wall. Roberta Eaton claimed that the kitchen was the heart of any home, and judging from Preston’s it wasn’t only the heart but also its lifeblood. The generously proportioned space combined classic materials with practical up-to-date amenities.

  White cabinetry, stainless steel appliances, black granite countertops afforded the kitchen the appearance of those in the grand estates of a bygone era. A third sink fitted in an oversize island was ideal for several cooks to work at the same time.

  Her smile was dazzling. “I like it.”

  Preston dropped a kiss on Chandra’s hair. She liked his kitchen and what he felt for her went far beyond a casual liking. He wondered how Chandra would react if she knew he wanted a commitment from her—that they would see each other exclusively.

  After he and Elaine mutually decided to go their separate ways, he’d almost become a serial dater. He’d dated women he liked and the ones he tolerated were there to fill up the empty spaces when he wasn’t writing. It took a great deal of soul-searching for him to realize he didn’t need to see a different woman every other week, or sleep with a different one every couple of months. Preston knew some of the women wanted more, but he refused to offer more. His work had become a jealous mistress he didn’t want to give up.

  Whenever he began a new project, he wrote in seclusion, averaging four hours of sleep and eating one meal a day. He’d shower, but wouldn’t bother to shave. It was during his marathon writing sessions that he refused all social invitations. With Chandra Eaton he could have both: writing and the woman.

  “Will you help me prepare dinner?”

  Chandra was caught off guard by the query. The last time she’d offered to help Preston he’d snarled at her before relenting. “Of course I’ll help you. What’s on the menu?”

  “I’ve planned to roast a rack of lamb with an herb crust, couscous, glazed carrots and homemade ice cream.”

  “How would you like to be my personal chef?”

  “I think we can work out something?”

  “How much are you going to charge me?” she asked.

  “We’ll begin with one kiss three times a day for the first week. Then we’ll increase it to two, three times a day, for the following week.”

  “What happens the third week?”

  “Why three, three times a week, and so on and so on.”

  Chandra flashed a sensual moue. “It sounds as if I’m going to have to hand out a lot of kisses.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, beautiful. I have to charge you something.”

  Going on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around Preston’s neck. “Can’t I at least get the family discount?”

  Preston’s lids came down, hiding his innermost feelings. This was the Chandra Eaton he’d come to look for: soft, sexy and teasing.

  “You can’t get a family discount until you officially become family.”

  Chandra knew in which direction the conversation was going, and she wanted no part of it. Fortunately, the distinctive chime from his cell phone preempted her reply.

  Preston leaned in closer. “To be continued.” Turning on his heels, he walked over to the cooking island to answer the phone, glancing at the name on the display. “Good morning, Ray.”

  “That it is, P.J.,” Raymond Hardy shouted, followed by a gravelly chuckle. “Beth just gave birth to a baby girl!”

  “Congratulations! How are Beth and the baby?”

  “Paige is doing well, but Beth’s going to be in the hospital longer than she’d expected. She had to undergo a Cesarean.”

  A slight frown creased Preston’s forehead when Chandra opened and closed drawers in the island. He knew she was looking for pieces for place settings. She exuded a nervous energy that wouldn’t permit her to sit and relax.

  “It’s going to be a while before she’s going to feel like doing anything around the house, I’m giving you guys a gift of a cleaning service for the next month.”

  There was silence before Ray spoke again. “Thanks, man. That’s really going to come in handy, because my bank account is hovering around zero after I had to pay my lawyer to sue my sonofabitch ex-collaborator for selling my songs to that slimy record producer.”

  Preston knew Ray and his wife were strapped for cash, and paying for a cleaning service was his way of lessening their burden. He’d done the same for his sister after she delivered each of her two sets of twins. He’d also paid for a nanny with the second set, only because Yolanda was overwhelmed having to care for four young boys under the age of four.

  Preston nodded although Ray couldn’t see him. “There’s no need to thank me. I know you can’t boil water, and Beth is a little obsessive when it comes to having a clean house.” The expression “One hand washes the other and both hands wash the face” came to mind. He’d asked Ray to pen the music and lyrics for Death’s Kiss, not to offer the man a generous commission but because he was one of the best in the business.

  “I’m glad you said it, because whenever I mention it she goes off on me,” Ray said, laughing. “As soon as Beth is up and moving around without too much difficulty, I’ll call you and we can set up another time to meet.”

  “Don’t rush it, Ray.”

  “I know you, P.J. Once you get something in your head, you’re like a dog with a bone. You just won’t let go. Now, if you’re stepping out of your comfort zone to come up with a musical drama,
I know it’s going to be spectacular. Tell me a little about it and I’ll begin working on something on this end.”

  Preston gave him a brief overview of the plot. “I need music for a ball and a voodoo ritual.” There was a moment of silence, and he knew Ray’s mind had shifted into overdrive.

  “Early nineteenth-century music and dance would include the Cotillion, English Country Dance and perhaps a Quadrille.”

  “Throw in a waltz and tango and you’ve covered all the dances.”

  “I can understand a waltz, because it had become quite a dance phenomena about 1790, but the tango didn’t become popular outside of the ghettos of Argentina until the early twentieth century.”

  The reason Preston had selected Raymond Hardy to write the score was not only because the man was a musical genius but also a music history expert. He’d appeared in several documentaries chronicling the history of musical genres.

  “Pascual is a vampire who originated in Argentina.”

  “So, he’s a time-traveler,” Ray said. The excitement in his voice was evident.

  “You’ve got it,” Preston confirmed.

  “This is very interesting, P.J. What if I write a love theme in Spanish, French and English?”

  “You’re a musical genius, Ray.” He hadn’t told the composer about Chandra’s suggestion to have a song sung in English and Spanish. Adding French would be in keeping with early nineteenth-century multicultural and multilingual New Orleans.

  “You’ve given me a lot to work with, P.J. Let me see what I can come up with. By the way, when do you project auditioning and rehearsals?”

  “Not until the spring.” It would take him that long to complete and fine-tune the dialogue. “I’ve decided to go local with this production. In other words, I want local raw talent. If I’m going to direct and produce, then I’ll have a much smaller budget from which to work. And if Beth decides to go back to work, then I’d like her to design the sets.”

  “I’m sure she’ll do it, even if she has to ask her mother to come up and watch Paige while she’s working.”

  “I don’t want to infringe on her time with your daughter, but she is my first choice.”

  “I’ll ask her, and then e-mail you Beth’s response. P.J.,” he said after a pause, “you’ve got yourself another winner.”

  Preston stared at Chandra as she moved around the kitchen in an attempt to find what she needed to set the table in the dining area. Instead of sitting around and waiting for him to wait on her, she’d assumed a take-charge approach.

  “Thanks, Ray. Give Beth my best and give Paige a kiss from her Uncle P.J.”

  Ray laughed again. “Will do. Later, buddy.”

  Preston ended the call. He’d wanted to tell Ray that he never would’ve come up with the premise for the play if it hadn’t been for Chandra Eaton’s erotic dreams and her taunt that all of his work was tragically brooding. With ethereal romantic period costumes, historically correct set decorations and star-crossed lovers, Death’s Kiss was certain to become a stunningly visual feast, just like the sexy woman moving confidently around the kitchen.

  His gaze lingered on the shapely roundness of her hips in the fitted jeans. Her conservative style of dress had artfully concealed a curvy lush body that sent his libido into overdrive.

  “Thank you for setting the table. It looks very nice.”

  Chandra turned to face Preston. She hadn’t heard him when he’d come up behind her. “You’re very welcome.”

  “I usually don’t use a tablecloth, but it does add a nice touch,” he admitted.

  She suspected he probably took his meals at the cooking island rather than the table, but held her tongue, because she didn’t like verbally sparring with Preston. Debating an issue was one thing, but arguing over inane issues tended to upset her emotional equilibrium.

  “I suppose you overheard my conversation with Ray. His wife had the baby, so it’s just going to be the two of us.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Preston’s expressive eyebrows lifted a fraction before settling into place. “If you don’t have anything on your to-do list, I’d like you to hang out here with me for a few days so we can flesh out the second act.” He was anxious to finalize the plotting process so he could begin the actual writing process.

  “I can’t commit until tomorrow.”

  Belinda had promised Chandra she would let her know when a moving company would deliver the bedroom, living room and kitchen furniture, and she wanted to be available if or when a school district contacted her for an interview.

  “No problem.” Resting his hands on her shoulders, Preston steered Chandra to the cooking island. “I want you to sit down and relax.” He settled her on a tall stool. “After breakfast we’ll go on a walking tour of the valley.” Resting his elbows on the granite surface, he smiled at the young woman who’d managed to fill the empty spaces in his solitary life. “Do you like blueberry buttermilk pancakes?”

  Her eyes brightened like a young child’s on Christmas morning. “You’ve got to be kidding. They’re my favorite.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who told you I like blueberry pancakes?”

  “No one.”

  Chandra sat up straighter. “I don’t believe you. Someone in my family had to tell you.”

  “Okay, baby, I’ll tell you. It was your mother.”

  Heat seared her cheeks as if someone had placed a lighted match to her face. “You told my mother I was staying over with you?”

  “She wanted to know if we were coming back to Paoli for brunch, so I had to tell her we were going to Kennett Square. Does my telling her upset you?”

  “No.”

  At thirty, Chandra didn’t have to rely on her parents for financial support, but she was living at home—even if it was only temporarily. If she didn’t come home she didn’t have to call and give an account of her whereabouts. Yet she still didn’t want to advertise when she was spending the night with a man.

  “I assured your mother that you were safe with me.”

  “Why? Because you’re a nice guy?”

  “Being a nice guy has nothing to do with it. It’s just that I would never consciously hurt you.”

  The seconds ticked as Chandra’s gaze met and fused with Preston’s. He’d claimed he would never consciously hurt her and she suspected that neither did Laurence. But it happened. Laurence had to have known of his parents’ biases, yet he’d pursued her relentlessly until she finally agreed to go out with him. Her ex-fiancé hadn’t hurt her as much as he’d deceived her.

  “That’s nice to hear,” she drawled.

  “You still don’t trust me, do you, Chandra?”

  “I’ll trust you until you give me cause not to.”

  Preston ran a finger down the length of her nose. “Let’s hope that never happens.”

  Chandra flashed a smile she didn’t feel. I pray it never happens, she mused. She knew she had to shake off the sense of distrust or she would never enjoy her relationship with Preston. Pulling back her shoulders, she exhaled a breath as her heart swelled with an emotion she’d thought she would never feel again. Despite her decision not to—she knew she was falling in love with Preston Tucker.

  Chapter 12

  Chandra came to a complete stop. She didn’t want to believe she was that tired. Her calves were aching. After a breakfast of the most incredibly delicious pancakes she’d ever eaten, she had retreated to her bedroom where she’d put on a pair of running shoes and joined Preston as he led her on a walking tour.

  The exterior of his home was as exquisite as the interior. The boxwood garden, covering a quarter acre, was a riot of exotic ferns and flowers. She’d recognized late-blooming roses, hydrangea in hues ranging from deep purple to snow white, dahlia in various colors and sizes and chrysanthemum—some that were six inches in diameter. There were sections with all white, yellow, pink and red flowers in different varieties she didn’t recognize, and if she could she wouldn’t be able to pronounce.

  A shed several hun
dred feet from the rear of the house was filled with cords of firewood, while two dozen stumps that would eventually become firewood were covered with a clear plastic tarp. Preston revealed he chopped wood during the winter months and worked out in his building’s health club whenever he stayed over in Philadelphia to keep in shape. She’d had her answer to how he’d maintained a slender, toned physique.

  Lowering her head, she rested her hands on her knees. “We’re going to have to stop while I rest my legs before we start back.”

  Preston looped an arm around her waist. “Let’s get off the road and sit down under that tree.” Of the twenty miles of rolling hills and country roads that made up the Brandywine Valley, they’d covered more than five miles.

  They sat down under the sweeping branches of a towering oak tree with leaves of brilliant autumnal colors in orange and yellow. The midmorning temperatures were at least ten to fifteen degrees cooler than they’d been the day before. Preston wondered whether summer was about to take its last curtain call. The next weekend would also signal the end of daylight saving time, and with it came fewer hours of daylight. He wanted to complete his first draft of Death’s Kiss before Thanksgiving and that would give him the winter months to edit and reedit to his critical satisfaction.

  Chandra, sitting between Preston’s outstretched legs, rested the back of her head against his shoulder. The view from where they sat was awe-inspiring, ethereal.

  “I can’t believe I’ve lived in Pennsylvania most of my life, yet I’ve never visited this part of the state.”

  Winding several strands of Chandra’s hair around his forefinger, Preston rubbed the pad of his thumb over its softness; he released it, watching as it floated into a corkscrew curl.

  “You’ve never been to Longwood Gardens?”

  She shook her head. “Unfortunately I haven’t.”

  “Most Philadelphia schoolchildren visit the gardens at least once during a class trip.”

  Tilting her chin, Chandra smiled at him staring down at her. “Well, I must have had a deprived childhood.”