Read an Excerpt

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 drooping 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.