Sweet Dreams

“Preston,” he corrected. “Please call me Preston.”

“I’ll call you Preston, but only if you stop referring to me as Miss Eaton.”

His eyebrows lifted. “What if I call you Chandra?”

She smiled. “That’ll do. Now, back to my question, Preston. Are you willing to sell the table?”

He smiled, the gesture transforming his expression from solemn to sensual. “Chandra,” he repeated. “Did you know that your name is Sanskrit for of the moon?”

“No, I didn’t.” A slight frown marred her face. “Why do I get the feeling you’re avoiding my question?”

Preston reached for her hand, leading her into the living room and settling her on a sand-colored suede love seat. He sat opposite her on a matching sofa.

“I’d thought you’d get the hint that I don’t want to sell it.”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t do well with hints, Preston. All you had to say was no.”

“No is not a particularly nice word, Chandra.”

She wrinkled her nose, unaware of the charming quality of the gesture. “I’m a big girl, and that means I can deal with rejection.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, Preston leaned in closer. “If that’s the case, then the answer is no, no and no.”

Chandra winked at him. “I get your point.” She angled her head while listening to the music filling the room. “Isn’t that Cavalleria Rusticana—Intermezzo from Godfather III?”

An expression of complete shock froze Preston’s face. He hadn’t spent more than five minutes with Chandra Eaton and she’d surprised him not once but twice. She’d recognized the exquisite quality of the Anglo-Indian table and correctly identified a classical composition.

“Yes, it is. Are you familiar with Pietro Mascagni’s work?”

“He’s one of my favorites.”

Preston gestured to the gleaming black concert piano several feet away. “Do you play?”

“I haven’t in a while,” Chandra admitted half-truthfully. She had played nursery rhymes and other childish ditties for her young students on an out-of-tune piano that had been donated to the school by a local church in Belize. Some of the keys didn’t work, but the children didn’t seem to notice when they sang along and sometimes danced whenever she played an upbeat, lively tune.

“Do you have any other favorites?” Preston asked.

“Liszt, Vivaldi and Dvorak, to name a few.”

“Ah, the Romantics.”

“What’s wrong with being a Romantic?” Chandra knew she came off sounding defensive, yet she was past caring. As soon as she retrieved her things, she would be on her way.

“Nothing.”

“If it’s nothing, then why did you make it sound like a bad thing?” she asked.

“It’s not a bad thing, Chandra. It’s just that I’m not a romantic kind of guy,” Preston countered with a wink.

She felt a shiver of annoyance snake its way up her spine. “Anyone can tell that if they’ve read or seen your plays. They’re all dark, brooding and filled with pathos.”

Preston realized Chandra Eaton had him at a disadvantage. She knew about him and he knew nothing about her, except what she’d written in her journal. And, he wasn’t certain whether she’d actually experienced what she’d written or if it was simply a fantasy.

“That’s because I’m dark and brooding.”

“Being sexy and brooding works if you’re a vampire,” Chandra shot back.

“You like vampires?”

“Yes. But only if they are sexy.”

“I thought all vampires were sexy, given their cinematic popularity nowadays.”

“Not all of them,” she said.

“What would make a vampire sexy, Chandra?”

“He would have to be…” Her words trailed off. She threw up a hand. “What am I doing? Why am I telling you things you probably already know?”

“You’re wrong, Chandra. I don’t know. Perhaps you can explain what the big fuss is all about.”

She stared, speechless. “Are you blowing smoke, or do you really want to know?”

Quickly rising from the sofa and going down on one knee, Preston grasped her hand, tightening his grip when she tried to pull free. “I’m begging you, Chandra Eaton. I need your help.” He was hard-pressed not to laugh when Chandra stared at him with genuine concern in her eyes. He didn’t need her help with character development as much as he wanted to know what motivated her to write about her dreams.

“You’re serious about this, Preston?”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“Get up, Preston.”

“What?”

“Get up off your knees. You look ridiculous.”

“I thought I was being noble.”

“Get up!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Preston came to his feet and sat down again.

Chandra rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not old enough to be a ma’am.”

“How old do you have to be?”

“At least forty,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask your age.”