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