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“Are you always so diplomatic?”
“Don’t comment on something you know nothing about.”
“You’re pissed off with me, so you take it out on someone else.”
Preston exhaled a breath. “I’m not pissed off with you, Chandra.”
Her gaze shifted from his face to his hand clamped around her arm. “No? Then why the caveman grip on my arm, Preston?” He loosened his hold, but not enough for her to escape him.
“I don’t want to know anything about the men you’re used to dealing with,” Preston said in a soft voice that belied his annoyance, “but at thirty-eight I’m a little too old to play games. Especially head games.” He leaned in closer. “I like you, Chandra. And it’s not about you collaborating with me. You’re pretty and you’re smart—a trait I admire in a woman, and you’re sexy. Probably a lot more sexy than you give yourself credit for. I want to work with you and date you.”
Chandra couldn’t stop the smile stealing its way over her delicate features. “You don’t mince words, do you, P.J.?”
“Nope. Too old for that, too, C.E.”
Chandra didn’t know how to deal with the talented man whose moods ran hot and cold within nanoseconds. “Why should I date you, Preston?”
“Why?” he asked, seemingly shocked by her question. “Didn’t I tell you that I’m a nice guy?”
“So you say,” she drawled, deciding not to make it easy for him. She wanted to go out with Preston Tucker. In fact, she’d be a fool to reject him. It’d been a long time, entirely too long since she’d found a man with whom she could have an intelligent conversation without watching every word that came out of her mouth. Chandra knew she’d shocked Preston with her off-the-cuff remarks, but she had to know how far she could push him before he pushed back.
It hadn’t been that way with Laurence Breslin. They’d dated for a year before he asked her to marry him. However, when she met his parents for the first time they were forthcoming when they expressed their disapproval. They’d always hoped that Laurence would eventually marry the daughter of a couple within their exclusive social circle. To add insult to injury, they’d demanded she return the heirloom engagement ring that had belonged to Laurence’s maternal grandmother. Laurence compounded the insult when he forcibly removed the ring from her finger.
“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 point 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.”
“What’s the difference between writing a script for the screen and one for the stage?” Chandra asked.
“Stage plays are much more limited when it comes to the size of the cast, number of settings and the introduction of characters. Whereas with films there can be many, many characters and locales. I try and keep the page count on my plays around one hundred.”
“Have you ever exceeded that number?”
“Yes,” Preston replied. “But it should never go beyond one hundred twenty pages. The story should concentrate on a few major characters who reveal themselves through dialogue, unlike a film actor who will utilize dialogue and physical action.”
Shifting slightly, Chandra met Preston’s eyes. “When do you know if your premise is a play or a film?”
“The key word is physical action. If I imagine a story and I see it as frames of images, then it’s a play. But, if the images are filled with physical action, then it’s a film script.”
“So, you see Death’s Kiss as a play?”
“It can go either way. As a film it probably would be darker, more haunting, the characters of Pascual and Josette more complex, and there would be more physical action than on the stage.”
“What would the rating be if you wrote the screenplay?”
“Probably a PG-13,” he said.
His response surprised Chandra. “Why not an R rating?”
“An R rating would be at the studio’s discretion. I always believe you can sell more tickets with a PG-13 rating than one that’s rated R or NC-17.”
“Is that why you insist on literary control?” she asked, continuing with her questioning.
Preston nodded. “That’s part of it. What you and I have to decide on is the backstory for Death’s Kiss.”
“Would I need a backstory for a mythical character?”
“Do you want Pascual to feed on blood in order to survive? If not, then what are his family background, education, social and political beliefs? Is he in favor or opposed to slavery?”
A look of distress came over Chandra’s face. “I don’t want the play to focus on slavery, because it’s a too-painful part of our country’s history.”
“It will not focus on slavery, but a peculiar practice germane but not limited to New Orleans and the descendants of gens de couleur. I’ve done some research,” Preston continued, “uncovering that it was acceptable behavior for a white man to take a slave as young as twelve as his lover. It would prove beneficial to the woman if she produced children. She would be emancipated along with their offspring. Josette’s mother is a free woman of color, thereby making her free.”
“Where does Josette’s father live?”
“Etienne Fouché has a plantation twenty miles outside of New Orleans where he lives with his white family, and he also has an apartment within the city where he entertains his friends. Then, there’s a Creole cottage he’d purchased for his plaçée and Josette only blocks from his apartment. He will spend a few months with his legitimate wife, but most of his time will be spent within the city.
“France has declared its independence and the Louisiana territory has been ceded to the United States. The first act will open with Josette returning to the States from France and her mother telling her she must prepare for the upcoming ball. However, the Josette who returns at sixteen isn’t the same naive and cosseted girl who’d cried incessantly when she boarded a ship to take her to Paris four years before. She is also educated, while it was illegal to teach blacks to read and write in the States. She doesn’t believe in plaçage, wants to choose her own husband, and her opposition results in conflict because her mother has promised her to the son of one of the largest landowners in the region. Within minutes of the opening act...”
Preston’s words trailed off when he saw that Chandra had closed her eyes, while her chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. “Chandra,” he said softly, “did you fall asleep on me?”
“No. I was listening to you. Champagne always makes me drowsy.”
“We can stop now if you want to.”
Chandra smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. “Do you mind if we don’t move?”
Shifting slightly, he settled her into a more comfortable position. “We can stay here all night if you want.”
She opened her eyes. “No, Preston. I’m not ready to sleep with you.”
Preston twirled several strands of her hair around his finger. “I wasn’t suggesting we sleep together. The bedrooms on the second floor are for my guests.”
“Where do you sleep?” Chandra asked quickly, hoping to cover up her faux pas. Preston had kissed her twice and she’d assumed that he wanted to sleep with her. If she could have, at that moment she would’ve willed herself totally invisible.
“Here on the chaise. The sofa converts into a bed, but half the time I end up sleeping on it instead of in it.”
“I hope you have a chiropractor.” Preston’s height exceeded the length of the sofa by several inches.
“I happen to have one on speed dial. Sitting for hours in front of a computer takes a toll on the neck, back and shoulders.”
“You should practice yoga or tai chi,” Chandra suggested. “I find it works wonders whenever I have trouble sleeping.”
Preston was hard-pressed not to smile. Chandra had just given him the opening he needed to delve into her dreams without letting her know he’d read and committed to memory what she’d written in the journal he’d found.
“What would keep you from sleeping?” he asked.
“It’s usually anxiety or a very overactive imagination.”
“What do you have to be anxious about, Chandra?”
She exhaled an audible sigh. “A couple of weeks before I was scheduled to leave for Belize, I discovered I couldn’t sleep. I’d go to bed totally exhausted, but couldn’t sleep more than one or two hours. My dad, who is a doctor, offered to write a scrip for a sedative, but I refused because I didn’t want to rely on a controlled substance that could possibly lead to dependency.
“I was losing weight and when I ran into a friend from college I told her about my problem. She was on her way to a yoga class so I went along just to observe. I joined the class the following day, and also signed up for tai chi.”
“How long did it take for you to get rid of your insomnia?”
Chandra stared at the vivid color on her toes. “It took about two weeks. By the time I’d arrived in Belize I was sleeping soundly, but then something else happened.”
Lowering his head, Preston pressed his nose to her hair, inhaling the sweet fragrance. “What happened?”
The seconds ticked, bringing with them a comfortable silence. “I began dreaming.”
The admission came from a place Chandra hadn’t known existed. Her dreams were a secret—a secret she never planned to divulge to anyone. She’d recorded her dreams in journals, believing she would one day reread them. She’d thought about publishing them under a pseudonym, because some of them were more than sensual. They were downright erotic.
“Were they dreams or nightmares?”
“Oh, they were dreams.”
Preston smiled. Her dreams had become his nightmares because they’d kept him from a restful night’s sleep. “How often did you dream?”
“I had them on average of two to three a week.”
“Whenever I dream I usually don’t remember what they were,” Preston admitted.
“It’s different with me,” Chandra said. “Not only do I remember, but they were so vivid that I was able to write them down.”
“What do you think triggered your dreams?”
“I don’t know, Preston.”
“Are your dreams different, or all along the same train of thought?”
Chandra didn’t know how much more she could divulge about her dreams before Preston realized that she was sexually frustrated, that it had been years since she’d slept with a man. And she didn’t need a therapist to tell her that she’d used her dreams to act out her sexual fantasies.
“They were the same,” she finally admitted.
“That sounds boring, C.E.”
She rolled her eyes. “My dreams were hardly boring, P.J.”
“Do you want to tell me about them?” Preston whispered in her ear.
“No!”
Preston fastened his mouth to the side of her neck. “Why not?”
Chandra shivered slightly when Preston increased the pressure along the column of her neck. A slight gasp escaped her parted lips with the growing hardness pressing against her hips. It took Herculean strength not to move back to experience the full impact of Preston’s erection.
“What are you doing, Preston?” Chandra questioned, not recognizing the strangled voice as her own.
Closing his eyes while swallowing a groan, Preston tried to think about any and everything except the soft crush of Chandra’s buttocks pressed intimately to his groin.
“I’m committing your scent to memory.”
Chandra closed her eyes. “I’m not talking about you nibbling on my neck.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Pascual would never hump Josette.”
“I’m not humping you, baby. This is humping.” Preston gyrated back and forth, pushing his erection against her hips.
Waves of desire swept over Chandra like a desert sirocco, stealing the breath from her lungs and stopping her heart for several seconds. The sensations holding her in an erotic grip were similar to what she’d experienced in her dreams. Her breasts were heavy, the area between her thighs moist and throbbing with a need that screamed silently to be assuaged.
The man who came to her in her dreams was a fantasy, a nameless, faceless specter she’d conjured up from the recesses of her overactive imagination, but Preston Tucker was real, as real as his heat and arousal.
“Please don’t move.” Chandra was pleading with him, but she was past caring, because if he didn’t stop then she would beg him to make love to her. It was one thing to fantasize about making love with a faceless specter and another to have an actual live, red-blooded man simulating making love to her.
Preston went still, but there was little he could do to still the pulsing sensations in his groin. He didn’t know what it was about Chandra Eaton that had him so lacking in self-control. He’d wanted to rationalize and tell himself it was because of her erotic dreams, but he would be lying to himself. He’d told Chandra that he liked her. The truth was he liked her and wanted her in his bed; however the notion of sleeping with Chandra was shocking and totally unexpected.
“What were we talking about before you decided to hump me, Preston?”
The soft, dulcet voice broke into his reverie. “We were talking about your dreams.”
“Even before that,” Chandra said in an attempt to change the topic. Preston had asked what she’d dreamed about, and how could she tell him that her dreams were all about sex, that they were continuous frames of R-and X-rated films with her in the leading role.
“We were discussing Josette’s father.”
“Will he have legitimate children?”
Wrapping an arm around Chandra’s waist, Preston shifted her to a more comfortable position. His erection had gone down and her body was more relaxed, pliant. “No. His wife gave him a daughter, but she died from a fever before she turned two. Since then she has had several miscarriages, thereby leaving him without a legitimate heir.”
“Is Etienne Fouché wealthy?”
“Very,” Preston confirmed. “He’d bought out a neighboring planter and is now the owner of the largest sugarcane plantation in St. Bernard parish.”
“How is Etienne’s relationship with his wife?” Chandra asked.
“They’re cordial. Theirs is a marriage of convenience. Madame Fouché is what one could call homely, so her father offered Etienne a sizable dowry to marry his daughter. Madame Fouché, who has an aversion to sex, is overjoyed when her doctor tells her that her husband must not share her bed again. She spends most of her free time entertaining the wives of other planters and/or spending the summers in Europe to escape the heat and fevers that claim thousands of lives each year.”
Sitting up straighter, Chandra turned to stare up at Preston. “You’ve made Etienne a gentleman farmer who derives his wealth from slaves who grow and process white gold.”