Sweet Dreams Read online

  “Welcome home, Mr. Tucker.”

  His head popped up and he smiled. “Thank you, Reynaldo.”

  Preston returned the journal to the leather case, paid the driver and then reached for his leather weekender on the seat next to him. He’d managed to read four of Chandra Eaton’s journal entries, each one more sensual and erotic than the one before it. As a writer, he saw scenes in his head before putting them down on paper, and he was not only intrigued but fascinated by what Chandra Eaton had written.

  Clutching his weekender, he entered the lobby of the luxury high-rise, which had replaced many of the grand Victorian-style mansions that once surrounded Rittenhouse Square. He’d purchased the top two floors in the newly constructed building on the advice of his financial planner, using it as a business write-off. His office, a media room, gourmet kitchen, formal living and dining rooms were set up for work and entertaining. The three bedrooms with en suite bathrooms on the upper floor were for out-of-town guests.

  There had been a time when he’d entertained at his Brandywine Valley home, but as he matured he’d come to covet his privacy. Lately, he’d become somewhat of a recluse. If an event wasn’t work-related, then he usually declined the invitation. His mother claimed he was getting old and crotchety, to which he replied that thirty-eight was hardly old and he wasn’t crotchety, just particular as to how he spent his time and more importantly with whom.

  Preston was exhausted and sleep-deprived from flying more than six thousand miles in twenty-four hours. His original plan was to shower and go directly to bed, but Chandra Eaton’s erotic prose had revived him. He would finish reading the journal, then e-mail the owner to let her know he’d found it.

  He didn’t bother to stop at the concierge to retrieve his mail, and instead walked into the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. The elevator doors glided closed. The car rose smoothly and swiftly, stopping at the eighteenth floor. The doors opened again and he made his way down a carpeted hallway to his condo.

  It was good to be home. If he’d completely trusted Cliff Jessup to represent his interests, he never would’ve flown to L.A. What bothered him about his agent was that they’d practically grown up together. Both had attended Princeton, pledged the same fraternity, and he’d been best man at Cliff’s wedding. Something had changed. Preston wasn’t certain whether he’d changed, or if Cliff had changed, or if they were just growing apart.

  Inserting the cardkey into the slot to his duplex, Preston pushed open the door and was greeted with a rush of cool air. He’d adjusted the air-conditioning before he left, but apparently the drop in the temperature outside made it feel uncomfortably chilly. It was mid-October, and the forecasts predicted a colder and snowier than usual winter.

  He dropped his bag on the floor near a table his interior decorator had purchased at an estate sale. It was made in India during the nineteenth century for wealthy Indians and Europeans. It was transported from India to Jamaica at the behest of a British colonist who’d owned one of the largest sugarcane plantations in the Caribbean. Not only was it the most extravagant piece of furniture in the condo, but Preston’s favorite.

  Emptying his pockets of loose change, he put the coins in a crystal dish on the table along with his credit card case and cardkey. Floor lamps illuminated the living room and the chandelier over the dining room table sparkled like tiny stars bathing the pale walls with a golden glow. Preston worked well in bright natural sunlight, so he’d had all of the lamps and light fixtures programmed to come on at different times of the day and night.

  There was a time when he’d thought he had writer’s block, since he found it very difficult to complete a project during the winter months. It was only when he’d reexamined his high school and college grades that he realized they were much higher in the spring semester than the fall. When he mentioned it to a friend who was a psychologist, she said he probably suffered from SAD, or seasonal affective disorder. Knowing this, he developed a habit of beginning work on a new script in early spring.

  Walking past the staircase leading to the upper level, he entered the bathroom that led directly into his office. He undressed, brushed his teeth, leaving his clothes on a covered bench before stepping into the shower stall. The sharp spray of icy-cold water revived him before he adjusted the water temperature to lukewarm. Despite his jet lag, Preston was determined to stay awake long enough to read more of the journal.

  He didn’t know why, but he felt like a voyeur. But instead of peeking into Chandra Eaton’s bedroom, he had read her most intimate thoughts. He smiled. Either she had a very fertile imagination, or an incredibly active sex life.

  After wiping the moisture from his body with a thick, thirsty towel, he slipped into a pair of lounging pants and a white tee from a supply on a shelf in an alcove in the bathroom suite. Fifteen minutes later, Preston settled onto a chaise lounge in his office with a large mug of steaming black coffee and the cloth-covered journal. It was after two in the morning when he finally finished reading. His eyes were burning, but what he’d read had been too arousing for him to go to sleep.

  Turning on the computer, he waited for it to boot up. He e-mailed Chandra Eaton to inform her that he’d found her portfolio in a taxi and where she could contact him to retrieve it.

  Chapter 2

  Chandra opened one eye, then the other, peeking at the clock on the bedside table. It was after nine. She couldn’t believe she’d been asleep for more than twelve hours. It was apparent she was more exhausted than she’d originally thought. And there was no doubt her body’s time clock was off. If she were still in Belize she would’ve been in the classroom with her young students.

  Stretching her arms above her head, she exhaled a lungful of air. Chandra was glad to be home and looked forward to reuniting with her family. Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the twin bed and walked into the bathroom. She had a laundry list of things to do before the weekend: get a complete beauty makeover—including a haircut, mani/pedi and a hydrating facial. Despite using the strongest sunblock and wearing a hat to protect her face, the rays of the Caribbean sun had dried out her skin. She also had to go online to search for public schools in the Philadelphia area. It was too late to be assigned a full-time teaching job, but she could find work as a substitute teacher. Her sister, Belinda, who’d moved to Paoli after she married Griffin Rice, still taught American history in one of the city’s most challenging high schools.

  After a leisurely shower, Chandra left the bathroom to prepare for her day. It felt good not to have to shower within the mandatory three-minute time limit, to avoid using up the hot water for the next person. She’d gotten used to taking short, and sometimes cold, showers. But it wasn’t just soaking in a bathtub that made her aware of what she’d had to sacrifice when she’d signed up for the Peace Corps.

  Her cousin Denise had offered to sublet her co-op to Chandra after she relocated to Washington, D.C. to accept a position as executive director of a child care center. Purchasing furniture for the co-op was another item on Chandra’s to-do list. But her list and everything on it would have to wait until she had something to eat. She knew she wouldn’t get to see her father, who had patients booked, until later that evening. Her mother divided her time between volunteering several days a week at a senior facility and quilting with several of her friends. The quartet of quilters had completed many projects for homebound and chronically ill children.

  It was after eleven when Chandra returned to the bedroom to make the bed and clean up the bathroom. Bright autumn sunlight came in through the blinds when she sat down at the corner desk and opened her laptop. When she went online she saw e-mails from her sister, brother and her cousin Denise. Without reading them, she knew they were welcoming her home. There was another e-mail with an unfamiliar address and the subject: Lost and Found, that piqued her interest. She clicked on it:

  Ms. Eaton,

  I found your portfolio in a taxi. Please contact me at the following number to arrange fo
r its return.

  P. J. Tucker

  Chandra stared at the e-mail, thinking it was either a hoax or spam. But how would the person know her name? And what portfolio was he referring to? She picked up her tote bag, searching through it thoroughly. The leather case her brother had given her as a gift for her college graduation wasn’t there.

  “No!” she hissed.

  P. J. Tucker must have found her journal. It had to have fallen out when the taxi driver swerved to avoid hitting another vehicle. The journal was the first volume of three others she’d filled with accounts of her dreams. She was certain she’d packed all of them in the trunk until she found one in a drawer under her lingerie. Mister or Miss P. J. Tucker had to open the journal to find out where to contact her. Chandra prayed that was all he or she had looked at. The reason she’d put the journals in the trunk, which was stowed on a ship several days before she left Belize, was that she hadn’t wanted custom agents to read it when they went through her luggage.

  Reaching for her cell, she dialed the number in the e-mail. “May I please speak to Mister or Miss P. J. Tucker,” she said when a deep male voice answered.

  “This is P. J. Tucker.”

  Please don’t tell me you read my journal, she prayed. “I’m Chandra Eaton.”

  “Ms. Eaton. No doubt you read my e-mail.”

  “Yes, and I’d like to thank you for finding my portfolio.”

  “It’s a very nice case, Ms. Eaton. Is it ostrich skin?”

  Chandra chewed her lip. It was apparent P. J. Tucker wanted to talk about something other than the material her portfolio was made from. She wanted to set up a time and place, so that she could retrieve her journal.

  “Yes, Mr. Tucker, it is. I’d like to pick up my portfolio from you. But of course, whenever it’s convenient for you.”

  “I’m free now if you’d like to come and pick it up.”

  “Where are you?” Reaching for a pen, Chandra wrote down the address. “How long are you going to be there?”

  “All day and all night.”

  She smiled. “Well, I don’t have all day or all night. What if I come by before noon?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Her smile grew wider. “Goodbye.”

  “Later.”

  Chandra ended the call. She punched speed dial for a taxi, then quickly changed out of her shorts and T-shirt and into a pair of jeans that she paired with a white men’s-tailored shirt, navy blazer and imported slip-ons. There wasn’t much she could do with her hair, so she brushed it off her face, braided it and secured the end with an elastic band. She heard the taxi horn as she descended the staircase. Racing into the kitchen, she took the extra set of keys off a hook, leaving through the side door.

  The address P. J. Tucker had given Chandra was a modern luxury condominium in the historic Rittenhouse neighborhood. One of her favorite things to do as a young girl was to accompany her siblings when their parents took them on Sunday-afternoon walking tours of Philadelphia neighborhoods, of which Rittenhouse was her personal favorite. It had been an enclave of upper-crust, Main Line, well-to-do families.

  Dwight and Roberta Eaton always made extra time when they walked through Rittenhouse, lingering at the square honoring the colonial clockmaker, David Rittenhouse. Her father knew he had to be up on his history whenever Belinda asked questions about who’d designed the Victorian mansions, the names of the wealthy families who lived there and their contribution to the growth of the City of Brotherly Love.

  Unlike her history-buff sister, Chandra never concerned herself with the past but with the here and now. She was too impulsive to worry about where she’d come from. It was where she was going that was her focus.

  She paid the fare, stepped out of the taxi and walked into the lobby with Tiffany-style lamps and a quartet of cordovan-brown leather love seats. Although the noonday temperature registered sixty-two degrees, Chandra felt a slight chill. In Belize she awoke to a spectacular natural setting, eighty-degree temperatures, the sounds of colorful birds calling out to one another and the sweet aroma of blooming flowers, which made the hardships tolerable.

  The liveried doorman touched the brim of his shiny cap. “Good afternoon.”

  Chandra smiled at the tall, slender man with translucent skin and pale blue eyes that reminded her of images she’d seen of vampires. The name tag pinned to his charcoal-gray greatcoat read Michael.

  “Good afternoon. Mr. Tucker is expecting me.”

  “I’ll ring Mr. Tucker to see whether he’s in. Your name?”

  “It’s Miss Eaton.”

  Michael typed her name into the telephone console on a shelf behind a podium. Then he tapped in Preston Tucker’s apartment number. Seconds later ACCEPT appeared on the display. His head came up. “Mr. Tucker will see you, Miss Eaton. He’s in 1801. The elevators are on the left.”

  Chandra walked past the concierge desk to a bank of elevators, entered one and pushed the button for the eighteenth floor. The doors closed as the elevator car rose smoothly, silently to the designated floor. When the doors opened she found herself staring up at a man with skin reminiscent of gold-brown toffee. There was something about his face that seemed very familiar, and she searched her memory to figure out where she’d seen him before.

  A hint of a smile played at the corners of his generous mouth. “Miss Eaton?”

  She stepped out of the car, smiling. “Yes,” she answered, staring at the proffered hand.

  “Preston Tucker.”

  Chandra’s jaw dropped. She stared dumbfounded, looking at the award-winning playwright whose critically acclaimed dramas were mentioned in the same breath as those of August Wilson, Eugene O’Neill and Tennessee Williams. She’d just graduated from college when he had been honored by the mayor of New York and earned the New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award for best play of the year. At the time, he’d just celebrated his thirtieth birthday and it was his first Broadway production.

  Preston Tucker wasn’t handsome in the traditional way, although she found him quite attractive. He towered over her five-four height by at least ten inches and the short-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar, and faded jeans failed to conceal the power in his lean, muscular physique. Her gaze moved up, lingering on a pair of slanting, heavy-lidded, sensual dark brown eyes. There was a bump on the bridge of his nose, indicating that it had been broken. It was his mouth, with a little tuft of hair under his lower lip, and cropped salt-and-pepper hair that drew her rapt attention. She doubted he was forty, despite the abundance of gray hair.

  She blinked as if coming out of a trance and shook his hand. “Chandra Eaton.”

  Preston applied the slightest pressure on her delicate hand before releasing her fingers. Chandra Eaton was as sensual as her writings. She possessed an understated sexiness that most women had to work most of their lives to perfect. He stared at her almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, pert nose and lush mouth. Flyaway wisps had escaped the single plait to frame her sun-browned round face.

  “Please come with me, Miss Eaton, and I’ll get your portfolio.” Turning on his heels, he walked the short distance to his apartment, leaving her to follow.

  Chandra found herself staring for the second time within a matter of minutes when she walked into the duplex with sixteen-foot ceilings and a winding staircase leading to a second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows brought in sunlight, offering panoramic views of the city. The soft strains of classical music floated around her from concealed speakers.

  Her gaze shifted to the magnificent table in the foyer. “Oh, my word,” she whispered.

  Preston stopped and turned around. “What’s the matter?”

  Reaching out, Chandra ran her fingertips over the surface of the table. “This table. It’s beautiful.”

  “I like it.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yes, I do,” he confirmed.

  “I’d thought you’d say that you love it, and because you didn’t I’m going to ask if you’re willing to sell
it, Mr. Tucker?”

  “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.”