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"Mmm," Catherine said, and rolled onto her belly.
"Damn you, Cat. Open your eyes!"
* * *
The voice was coming from a long way off.
It was harsh and angry, and the last thing Kathryn wanted to do was respond to it. But it persisted, and at last her eyes flickered open.
"Kathryn," the voice said...
"Oh my god!"
Kathryn shot up in bed, clutching the blanket to her throat.
She had gone to sleep in a bedroom that looked like the overblown set of an old Dracula movie. The velvet draperies had hung from the windows in tatters and the room had been bare, except for this bed and a rickety armoire. And the only thing on the walls, aside from patches of damp, had been the faded rectangles and ovals that showed where paintings had once hung.
Now, a soft spill of moonlight illuminated a room that was as elegant as it must have been when Charon's Crossing was new.
A pair of slipper chairs were angled towards a small settee; an elegant armoire graced one wall. Opposite it, a milk-glass kerosene lamp stood on a small round table. Crimson draperies framed the windows, the sheer curtains beneath billowing softly in the night breeze from the sea. A painting of what looked like an English village hung on one wall; smaller landscapes and a pair of oval-framed portraits were arranged on the wall across from the bed.
Kathryn swallowed dryly.
This is just a dream, she told herself. It's a dream.
Her heart gave an uneasy thud. Was it? If you thought you were dreaming, then you couldn't be dreaming.
Could you?
She took a deep breath. Of course you could. That was the thing about dreams. Anything was possible, when you were—
"Good evening, Cat."
Kathryn shrieked.
A man had stepped from the shadows. He was tall, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and long, muscular legs. His clothing was old-fashioned: a frilled white shirt, opened almost to the waist; black, skin-tight trousers and high leather boots...
She knew him. She knew him! He was the man she had dreamed about yesterday morning.
"I'm dreaming," she said in a shaky voice.
Of course she was. She had to be. That was why the room looked so different, why the man walking slowly towards her was the man from her dream.
But if she was dr
eaming, why could she smell the flower-scented night air? Why could she feel the faint abrasiveness of the blanket she clutched in her trembling hands?
He paused beside the bed and looked at her. She stared back, the sound of her own frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears. It took all her energy and willpower just to keep her teeth from chattering.
"You aren't real," she said.
He laughed. "I am real enough."
"You aren't. This is just a dream."
His smile turned silky. "Shall I prove that it isn't?"
She thought of what had happened the last time she'd dreamed of him, and she shrank back against the pillows.
