Sweet Dreams. Rochelle Alers

had thought him a misogynist when he was anything but. He liked women. He liked everything about a woman: her soft skin, the curves of her body and her smell. It was the smell of her skin and hair that was usually imprinted on his brain. Whenever he dated a woman, he was able to pick her out in a darkened room because of her scent.

      He preferred working in the kitchen without assistance or interference but decided to relent and let Chandra help him. “Let me get you something to cover your clothes. If you want, you can cut up the fruit.”

      Chandra flashed a dimpled smile. She needed to do more than sit and watch Preston. She wanted to discover what it was like to actually cook in a gourmet kitchen. “Where’s your bathroom?”

      Preston pointed to a door at the opposite end of the kitchen. “It’s the door on the right,” he said as Chandra headed toward the bathroom.

      He stared at the roundness of her shapely hips until she disappeared from his line of vision. I like her. Preston liked everything there was to like about Chandra Eaton: her blatant femininity, natural beauty and the intelligence she made no attempt to hide.

      When she’d mentioned the idea of writing a play using a vampire as the central character, it had started a flurry of ideas like a trickle of water that flowed into a stream, then into rapids and finally into a fast-flowing river. It reminded him of the Colorado River rushing through the Grand Canyon.

      With his creative imagination going full throttle, he was able to outline the production, design the lighting, costumes and props. He could hear the slow drawling Southern cadence and Creole inflections that were as much a part of New Orleans as its cuisine. Death’s Kiss had come alive in his mind. All that remained was writing it once Chandra developed Pascual.

      Preston had taken a package of frozen spinach, four eggs and a plastic container of blue cheese from the refrigerator/freezer as Chandra returned to the kitchen. She was barefoot and had twisted her hair in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. He smiled when he saw the bright red color on her toes.

      Reaching into a drawer under the countertop, he pulled out a bibbed apron. “Come here,” he ordered.

      Chandra approached Preston, turning so he could slip the apron over her head. He adjusted the length until it reached her knees, then looped the ties twice around her waist.

      Shifting, she smiled up at him. “I’m ready, chef.”

      Lowering his head, Preston kissed the end of her nose. “Never have I had a more delicious-looking sous chef. If you look in the right side of the refrigerator, you’ll find fruit in the lower drawer.”

      He left Chandra to take care of the fruit salad while he began the task of thawing the spinach in the microwave, placing it in a colander to drain before removing the remaining moisture by squeezing the chopped leaves in cheesecloth. Pausing, he opened an overhead closet and pushed a button on a stereo unit. The beautifully haunting sound of a trumpet filled the duplex.

      Chandra shared a smile with Preston as she glanced up from peeling the fuzzy skin of a kiwi, revealing its vibrant green flesh. She found it ironic they had a similar taste in music. Before leaving for Belize, she’d loaded her iPod with music from every genre. Chris Botti’s Night Sessions had become a favorite.

      “You have to have at least one romantic bone in your body if you like Chris Botti,” she said teasingly.

      Preston stopped mincing garlic on the chopping board. “Okay. I’ll admit to having one,” he said, conceding.

      He didn’t know what Chandra meant by being romantic. If it was about sending flowers, telling a woman she looked nice or buying her a gift for her birthday or Christmas, then he would have to say he was. But if a woman expected him to declare his undying love for her then she was out of luck.