For my own real live Kaseybelle—my daughter, Kim, who brings the magic of imagination into all our lives.
And for Susann Brailey, my editor, who knows the special joy of being the mother of her own little girl, Tara.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
The Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s Along Came Trouble
Excerpt from Sharon Cullen’s The Notorious Lady Anne
Excerpt from Linda Cajio’s Unforgettable
One
At the top of the mountain the castle loomed black against the moon, like a pen-and-ink drawing of the majestic Paris Opera House on a theater program.
Shannon didn’t know what she’d expected of Jonathan Dream’s hideaway, searchlights and dancing girls, perhaps, certainly not the eerie splendor of turrets against the North Carolina sky.
The snow swirled outside the limo window. It seemed an eternity had passed as they climbed steadily, rounding curving mountain roads in silence. She had begun to feel like a woman in some Gothic novel. There was even an iron gate that had to be unlocked, and locked again once they entered.
It was no place for Shannon Summers, shy advertising artist, to be. And she wouldn’t have been there if it hadn’t been for Kaseybelle and the Kissy Chocolate Company. The threat of seeing her dearest friend hurt had forced her to answer Jonathan Dream’s summons.
Moments later the limo came to a stop. “Don’t let the building get to you, Ms. Summers,” the driver said as he helped her out of the car.
There wasn’t even a Christmas wreath on the door to welcome them. “Why would anyone build such a place up here?” she asked.
“The castle was started in the twenties by a nostalgic Frenchman who eventually lost everything in the Depression. Jonathan only finished it.”
The driver carried her overnight bag into the brightly lit foyer and up the grand staircase.
“All Mr. Dream needs are a few sword-bearing members of the Garde Républicaine wearing white buckskin trousers and helmets and standing at attention,” Shannon stated.
“I see you know about the real Place de l’Opéra.”
“Yes, and I’ve seen Andrew Lloyd Webber’s play and read the book from which it was adapted.”
Shannon was overwhelmed by the grandeur of the second-floor gallery, complete with arches and marble. It literally could have been copied from the Paris Opera House. Willie hadn’t prepared her for this.
“Shame on you, Lawrence.” A small, gray-haired woman appeared from the other end of the gallery. She took the bag and gave the driver a frown. “This poor girl looks frozen. Come along, Miss Summers. You have the tower suite.” She darted to her right and up a smaller set of circular stairs to the top of the tower, where she pushed open the door to a room that filled the entire turret.
“I’m Mrs. Butter. Well, not really. My name is Butterfield, but DeeDee shortened it to Butter and that’s what everyone calls me now. You must be hungry. I can’t imagine why Mr. Jonathan didn’t get you a flight that arrived at a decent hour.”
“Neither can I,” Shannon said under her breath as she tried to restore some kind of order to a mass of fine blond hair that defied control.
“I’ve already laid out a carafe of hot cocoa and a plate of sandwiches. If you need anything else, just ask.”
Shannon might have asked where Mr. Dream was, if she’d been given a chance. But short of blowing a time-out whistle, Shannon could see that she wasn’t going to be able to interrupt.
Mrs. Butter plumped up the pillows, laid Shannon’s case on the bed, and unfastened it. “I’ll just put away your things. Lawrence will be up with the rest of your luggage shortly.”
“There is no more luggage,” Shannon said softly, overwhelmed by the motherly, take-charge manner of the woman who appeared to be the housekeeper.
“But surely you brought—I mean, you’ll be needing more than just a nightgown, won’t you. Mr. Dream said you’d be here for—some time.”
“He did? Well, he’s mistaken. I came, but I can’t stay. I’ll only be here the night.”
“Never mind. I suppose it won’t matter. He’ll supply whatever you need. He always keeps the drawers stocked with lingerie for guests even if we don’t have many outsiders anymore. There was a time when—well, never mind. We’re going to enjoy having you here. You’ll find sleepwear in the bureau.”
“I brought my own sleepwear.”
Mrs. Butter held up Shannon’s pink flannel nightgown and smiled. “That you did. And sensible sleepwear it is, not at all what I expected. Well, if there’s nothing else you need, I’ll leave you now.”
“There is one thing,” Shannon said, stopping the housekeeper in the doorway. “Does Mr. Dream play an organ?”
Mrs. Butterfield looked confused as she answered.
“Play an organ? Not Jonathan. Goodness, no. And his name’s really Jonathan Drew. He just calls himself Jonathan Dream because of those clothes he sells. He said to tell you that he’ll see you tomorrow. You have a snack and get a good night’s sleep. And in the morning you’ll meet DeeDee. She’s going to love you. Oh, yes. I think you’re going to do just fine. Good night.”
She was leaving. The only welcoming note Shannon had seen since she’d left Atlanta was closing the door and leaving her. “Wait!”
But she was already gone.
“Phoo on you, too, Willie Hicks!” Shannon said as she slammed the door and clicked the lock. “If you weren’t my boss and if I didn’t totally adore you, I’d mail you a letter bomb and completely obliterate the offices of Expressions Advertising from Atlanta, Georgia’s, famous Peachtree Street.
No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t refuse Willie. For she owed Willie everything. Even the television company producing the Kaseybelle Kartoons couldn’t believe that she elected to stay with Willie rather than join their production staff.
If if hadn’t been for Willie, Shannon Summers, the little-known daughter of the late screen star, Sofia Summers, would still be an introverted art student. And Kaseybelle would still be her imaginary childhood playmate instead of the trademark for Kissy Chocolates.
It was Jonathan Dream she ought to be blaming. He was the one who’d coerced her into coming by promising Willie a multimillion-dollar advertising account if Shannon represented the firm in person.
Jonathan Dream. Every supermarket tabloid was fascinated by the story of the former international playboy, owner of NightDreams Lingerie, who six years earlier had turned into a mysterious recluse. And every newspaper gave its own fictitious account of the reason why. He’d lost his mind. He’d contracted some terrible disease. He’d developed a people phobia and refused to leave the house.
Idly, Shannon glanced around, wondering if anyone knew the truth. She might complain about her travel schedule, but she couldn’t complain about her room. It was bathed in a soft golden light that fell from somewhere beneath the molding along the lower edge of the ceiling. Though the wind whistled against the brick turret, she felt as if she were being infused with warmth.
A canopy bed, draped with gauzy hangings, filled a section of the curved wall. Several large, undraped windows made squares of charcoal on either side of a door framing the darkness and the moon.
On the wall beside the door they’d entered, Shannon found a knob that dimmed the lights almost to darkness. Now she could see the balcony outside, and the huge evergreen trees with their limbs d
rooping gracefully to the ground from the weight of the snow. Though it was only late November, winter had come to the Carolina mountains.
Moonlight turned the view from her window into an early Christmas card, reminding Shannon of the time she’d accompanied Sofia to Austria. It must have been the winter before her mother had married the count who had become husband number three. The snow there had been deep and white and scary to a child. Only Kaseybelle had understood Shannon’s fear. Only Kaseybelle had been there to comfort her when her mother had grown tired of trying to amuse the child she barely knew and abandoned her to a staff who hardly spoke English.
Now another self-centered celebrity was doing the same thing, taking her someplace she didn’t want to go and abandoning her. Except now she was an adult.
Shannon peered down the mountainside. There was movement, a wild animal perhaps. Only a flitting smear of shadow on the white, then nothing. There, she saw it again. Intrigued, she opened the door and stepped outside into the icy night.
Folding her arms across her chest, she stood, rubbing herself vigorously as she watched. There was something eerie about the quiet, broken only occasionally by a plop of falling snow. Then she saw him, the man standing at the edge of the precipice. Dressed in some kind of boots and a thick jacket, he was very tall and so still that she could see the little puffs of frosty air making a halo around him when he breathed.
In the moonlight he was simply a silhouette against the snow, a dark apparition. Yet there was a tension in his stance, a stance that suggested he wore the weight of loneliness like a heavy cloak. For a long time he stood without moving, then he turned and looked up at the house, catching her in the potency of his gaze.
She couldn’t see his eyes. She couldn’t even see his face. All she saw was a shape that suggested long hair and the lean, hungry look of a predator. She should have been apprehensive, but she wasn’t. A sensation of danger mixed with anticipation jabbed her nerve endings like Morse code. Shannon’s breath quickened and she took an involuntary step backward.
If he was Jonathan Dream, she could believe all the tales of ruthless persistence, of power and success. Even from across a courtyard, the connection between them was so intense that she could feel the breathless skip of her heart. It had to be the setting, not the man that mesmerized her. But as she stood, she could almost hear him call out to her. And her lips parted to answer.
Shannon whirled around and darted back inside to escape the overwhelming sensation. She’d take care of her business first thing in the morning and go home. If she’d wanted to live her life on the edge, taking on the world of the rich and famous, she’d have done so long ago.
Her simple little life at the advertising agency was exactly what she wanted. It was comfortable, pleasant, and she had no intention of leaving it for anybody, certainly not a man who didn’t even show her the courtesy of a personal welcome. No, she didn’t owe him more than a brief explanation that she was not the person to discuss his advertising campaign. She only worked with the Kissy Chocolate Company. He’d made a mistake in demanding that she represent Expressions Advertising.
Shannon pulled out Kaseybelle, the look-alike fairy doll she’d designed and brought to life as the trademark for Kissy Chocolates, and studied her creation. The doll she held had been the prototype and had been hugged so often that it was beginning to fray around the edges.
She let out a deep breath and poured herself a cup of the hot cocoa. With the sweet liquid she ate one of Mrs. Butter’s sandwiches, forcing herself to override the pull that drew her back to the window. Whoever the man outside was, he was a threat—not physically, for Mrs. Butter had told her she had nothing to fear, but on some deeper level.
No, it was more than that. Shannon had the feeling that coming to this place would unsettle her in a different way. And she already knew change in her life was to be avoided. When things changed, she lost control, and it had taken her most of her life to gain it.
Quickly Shannon removed her suede skirt and boots, donned her pink flannel nightgown, and slid under the covers. She’d leave the lights on dim. “Kaseybelle would like that,” she whispered, tucking the doll into the curve of her arm, and the fairy she represented into the secret part of her mind, where Shannon had kept her as a child.
From somewhere in the house the deep, melodic chime of a grandfather clock announced the hour.
Midnight. No time for an interview anyway. Neither was it time for a stroll in the moonlight. Except the man hadn’t been strolling. He’d been waiting.
Waiting?
Shannon closed her eyes and forced herself to think of the story treatment she was working on for the television program that Kissy Chocolate sponsored. She’d suggest an episode where Kaseybelle spent the night in a strange castle. The television writers would do the actual script. Shannon only did the advertising art and assisted in creating Kaseybelle’s adventures.
Kaseybelle would wish she were back home, Shannon thought, where she’d be safe. Just as she was falling asleep, she remembered Mrs. Butter’s words: “In the morning you’ll meet DeeDee.” Shannon wondered who DeeDee was.
Jonathan had known she was there before he’d turned and seen her watching him. For a moment he’d been tempted to cover his face, then he’d realized that she couldn’t see him and wondered why he cared. He’d brought her to his mountain. Sooner or later he’d have to face her and explain what he wanted her to do. He hadn’t expected to be drawn to the woman.
Twice before in his life he’d allowed himself to care about someone, and each time tragedy had occurred. Now his face was his punishment and his isolation his penance. The mountain was his sanctuary. He’d fostered the image and maintained the isolation, until he’d had no choice. If he were wise, he would keep his distance from the woman. For he knew the cost of allowing himself to care.
Still, for that one moment as their gazes melded in the moonlight, he’d felt a connection so intense that he tried to sever it. Then he’d remembered DeeDee’s big eyes when he’d explained that Kaseybelle was coming for a visit. Bringing a smile to his daughter’s face made anything bearable.
“Come on, Hap, let’s go inside.”
From woods beyond, a large dark gray and white Malamute appeared, dancing around Jonathan’s feet. After giving a yelp of pleasure, he ran toward the castle, zigzagging back and forth as if he were connecting invisible dots to form a rope of tinsel on a Christmas tree.
Jonathan forced himself to relax his shoulders, then followed. He’d intended to see her that night, make all the arrangements, and put it behind him. But her plane had been late and he’d deliberately taken himself away from the house, alibiing his lack of courage by saying that he wanted to wait for DeeDee’s reaction before he explained why he’d sent for Ms. Shannon Summers.
He stamped the snow from his feet and slipped inside the castle, listening. Satisfied that all was quiet, he went toward the kitchen in search of Mrs. Butterfield.
“She asked where you were, Mr. Jonathan.”
“Did you deliver my message?”
“I did, but I just want you to know that I don’t approve. This girl is not one of those—those floozies who used to follow after you. This is a sweet, nice girl, and she deserves to be treated properly. And don’t go pretending that you’re your own assistant like you do when you’re doing business.”
“John Drew doesn’t have to explain his scars, Butter. Jonathan Dream would. As for Ms. Summers, any woman who is as successful as she is isn’t likely to be a sweet, nice girl. Do you realize that singlehandedly from that little local three-person advertising agency she turned the Kissy Chocolate Company into a household world and helped create the hottest children’s program on television?”
“Maybe, but I think she’s nice, and it wouldn’t do you any harm to remember that there are some old-fashioned girls left in the world. Just be honest with her.”
“And let her know who Jonathan Dream is?”
“You’re the same man you al
ways were, Jonathan.”
“No, I’m not, Butter. I’m not the same man at all. Did you show her the lingerie?”
“I told her it was there, but I don’t think she’ll wear any of it.”
“And you’ll be wrong. There isn’t a woman in the world who’ll turn down satin and lace if it’s offered. Women are all alike in their secret minds.”
“You’ll see.”
And two hours later he did.
The lights in the turret were still burning low. The woman was asleep. With hair like a splotch of spun gold against the pillow, she looked like some princess waiting to be kissed awake. He stood in the shadows, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, waiting for her to move, to lower the blanket so that he could see which of his NightDreams she’d chosen.
Over the years Jonathan Dream had done thorough research. The women who picked the burgundy satin and lace most often saw themselves as the subject of an old-world master painter. They were romantic and reserved. The white-silk wearers portrayed themselves as desirable and virginal. And then there were the women who wore black. They needed no cataloging. Their purpose and desires were universal.
He couldn’t tell about Shannon Summers. She looked like a child, snuggled beneath the covers. For a moment he had the absurd thought that he’d like to be there with her, resting his head on her breasts, feeling that glorious hair tickle his face. The thought seemed to connect with a fine thread of heat that began to spin steadily downward until he felt the lurch between his legs. He shifted his position and willed the unwelcome thought away.
Women had been his inspiration, accounting for his monumental success and wealth. One had inspired a poor young boy to success beyond his wildest dreams and the other had caused him to turn away from it. Now a six-year-old child was forcing him to reach out again.
His guest let out a little sound and moved. The blanket slid down across one shoulder as she folded her arm behind her head, revealing a long-sleeved, pink flannel nightgown.
Night Dreams Page 1