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
