Читать книгу Always an Eaton: Sweet Dreams - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 14

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 culinary 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.”

“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 pointed 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, 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.