Always an Eaton: Sweet Dreams

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.?”