Sweet Dreams Read Online Free

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 traditionalway, 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