Sweet Dreams. Rochelle Alers
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you don’t write musicals.”
“There’s always a first time. It could be like Phantom of the Opera, or Evita.”
“Where would it be set?”
Closing his eyes, Preston stroked the hair under his lower lip. “New Orleans.” When he opened his eyes they were shimmering with excitement. “The early nineteenth-century French Quarter rife with voodoo, prostitution, gambling and opium dens and beautiful quadroons with dreams of becoming plaçées in marriages de la main gauche.”
Chandra pressed her palms together at the same time she compressed her lips. How, she thought, had he come up with a story line so quickly? Now she knew why he’d been awarded a MacArthur genius grant. The plot was dark, but with a cast of sexy characters and the mysterious lush locale, there was no doubt the play would become a sensation.
“Would you also write the music?” she asked Preston.
“No. I know someone who would come up with what I want for the music and lyrics.”
“What about costumes?”
“What about them, Chandra?”
“Women’s attire changed from antebellum-era ball gowns to the flowing diaphanous dresses of the Regency period. Are your characters going to be demure, or will they favor scandalous décolletage?”
Staring at the toes of his slip-ons, Preston pondered her question. “I’d like to believe the folks in the French Quarter didn’t always conform to the societal customs of the day. Remember, we’re talking about naughty Nawlins.”
“It sounds as if it’s going to be just a tad bit wicked.” When she smiled, an elusive dimple in her left cheek winked at him.
“Just a tad,” he confirmed. “When do you think we can get together to talk about developing a sexy vampire story?”
Chandra narrowed her eyes at Preston. Was he, she thought, blowing smoke, or was he actually serious about needing her input? “I’ll be in touch.” She wasn’t going to commit until she gave his suggestion more thought.
“You’ll be in touch,” Preston repeated. “When? How?” Chandra stood up, as did Preston.
“I have your e-mail address, so whenever I clear my calendar I’ll e-mail you.”
The seconds ticked as they stared at each other. “Okay. Let me go and get your portfolio.”
Walking over to the window, Chandra stood and stared down at the street. She couldn’t wait to tell her cousin Denise that she’d met Preston Tucker. After graduating from college, she and Denise had regularly traveled to New York to see Broadway plays. Every third trip they would check into a New York City hotel and spend the night. A few times they were able to convince their dates to accompany them, which worked out well since the guys always wanted to hang out at jazz clubs in and around Manhattan.
She turned when she heard footsteps. Preston had returned with her portfolio and handed it to her. Myles had given it to her along with a lesson plan book for her college graduation, and she had continued to use it while in Belize.
“Thank you for taking care of this for me,” she said. Chandra valued Myles’s gift as much as she did the contents of her journal.
Preston cupped her elbow and escorted her to the door. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “I think I can make it downstairs all right.”
“I’ll still go down with you, because I need to pick up my mail.”
Chandra and Preston rode the elevator in silence, parting in the lobby. She felt the heat from his gaze boring into her as she walked out into the bright autumn sunlight. She strolled along a street until she found a café with outdoor seating.
She ordered a salad Nicoise and a glass of white zinfandel and then called her cousin at the child care center. It rang three times before her voice mail switched on. “Denise, Chandra. Call me back tonight when you get home. I just met your idol. Later.”
She ended the call, smiling. If anyone knew anything at all about Preston Tucker, it was Denise Eaton. Chandra decided she would wait until she heard from her cousin before she agreed to meet Preston again.
Chapter 3
Preston silently chastised himself for forgetting his manners. He hadn’t offered Chandra Eaton anything to eat or drink. It was apparent that his annoyance with his agent sending him on a six-thousand-mile wild-goose chase had affected him more than he wanted to admit. If Clifford had been in the room with him during the negotiations, there was no doubt he would’ve fired the man on the spot. Wanting to avoid a fight, he decided to wait, wait until Clifford contacted him.
He retrieved his mail and then returned to the apartment. A smile tilted the corners of his mouth when he recalled his conversation with the young woman who’d recorded dreams so erotic, so sensual that he felt as if he’d actually entered the dream and it was he who’d made love to Chandra. He’d taken one shower, then hours later he was forced to take another one. Standing under the spray of ice-cold water was the antidote to an erection that had him thinking of doing what he hadn’t done since adolescence.
Preston hadn’t lied to Chandra when he told her he wasn’t romantic in the true sense of the word. Yet he’d never mistreated or cheated on any woman he was seeing. He’d grown up witnessing his father passively and aggressively abuse his mother until she’d become an emotional cripple. Craig Tucker had never raised his voice or hit him or his sister, Yolanda. But whenever he drank to an excess, he blamed his wife for his failures, of which there were a few. A two-pack-a-day cigarette habit and heavy drinking took its toll, and Craig suffered a massive coronary at forty.
Walking into his home office, Preston put the pile of letters and magazines on his desk. The idea of writing a dramatic musical was scary and exciting. And, although he’d mentioned using a vampire as a leading character, the truth was he knew nothing about them. Sitting in a leather chair, he reached for a pencil and a legal pad and began jotting down key words.
The sun had slipped lower in the sky, and long and short shadows filled the room when he finally glanced up at the clock on a side table. It was after five. He’d spent more than four hours outlining scenes for his untitled musical drama. What kept creeping into his head were the accounts of the dreams he’d read the night before.
A knowing smile softened the angles in his face. He suddenly had an idea for a plot.
Chandra spied her father’s car when the taxi driver maneuvered into the driveway. She hadn’t expected her father to come home so early. She paid the fare, and clutching the case to her chest, got out and walked to the door. It opened before she could insert her key into the lock.
She didn’t have time to react before her father held her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed his cheek. “Daddy, stop! You’re crushing my ribs.”
Dwight set his daughter on her feet. “I’m sorry about that, baby girl.”
Chandra smiled at the man against whom she measured every man she’d met in her life. Her father was soft-spoken, patient and benevolent—and that was with his patients. He was all that and then some to his children. He’d always been supportive, telling them they could do or be anything they wanted to be.
It was her father she’d gone to when she contemplated going into the Peace Corps. He encouraged her to follow her dream and her heart, while Roberta had taken to her bed, all the while complaining that her youngest was going to be the death of her.
She smiled at her father. He looked the same at sixty-three as he had at fifty-three. His dark face was virtually wrinkle-free and his deep-set brown eyes behind a pair of rimless glasses reminded her of chocolate chips. His thinning cropped hair was now completely gray.
“What