Some are saying that Mr. Knight-Snow’s secretive persona is what currently fuels the mania for all things JKS—Jack Knight-Snow—
Still sleepwalking, Chiara punched the power button on the remote, drowning the room in instant silence.
And then she collapsed on the couch, body curling around pink Mr. Chuffy, fast asleep.
NINE
Chiara
My dream was a chaotic mess. Lightning flashes and weird voices chased me down dark hallways. I ran and ran, desperate to get away but seemingly stuck in place, until abruptly, the scene morphed.
I found myself standing at the end of a long medieval portico—marble walls on one side and a series of stone archways on the other. At some point, the arches had been glassed in, turning the portico into a sunroom. The arches overlooked the rolling Tuscan countryside, blooming in glorious spring. Cicadas buzzed in the warm sun.
The frantic fluttering of wings drew my eyes upward. A sparrow was trapped inside the portico-turned-sunroom. The poor thing fluttered up and down, pecking at the glass, trying to escape to the hills beyond.
I stepped forward, intent on opening the window and freeing the bird from this place in between, when a woman appeared.
She stood halfway down the portico, face in profile, looking out over the countryside.
The bird momentarily forgotten, I walked closer to her. She didn’t see me, didn’t react. I was a ghost, hovering beside her.
Details filtered in.
Her dress, for starters—Empire-waist muslin, dropping in soft white folds to the floor. Dark hair piled high atop her head, curls escaping to frame her face. All loosely styled . . . like a modern messy-bun, but not quite. Hands clasped primly in front of her.
Of course. Regency era, cause why not? Jack had been on my mind, after all.
And that’s when realization hit me in a spine-tingling jolt.
The woman looked just like me.
Same heart-shaped face. Same Italian coloring—dark hair and eyes, olive-toned skin. Same petite height.
It was like walking into Madame Tussuad’s and finding a wax figure of myself. Only living and breathing.
Herexpression, however, was not mine.
She stared out the window with unseeing intensity, her face void of expression. As if every emotion were tightly reeled in, tucked carefully away behind a firewall.
Unlike myself, this woman would always carefully filter her thoughts and feelings.
I leaned a shoulder against one of the archways, my eyes darting to her and then back to the poor bird trying to escape. Did the woman not see the bird? Did she not care?
Man, my subconscious was doing a doozy on this dream. What did all this mean? I was scared to analyze it too much.
Silently, I berated my subconscious.Make this more interesting or I’m outta here.
And bless my brain, because for once in my life, it listened to my pleading.
A man suddenly appeared, walking down the portico toward the woman, his head in shadow.
My first impression of him was strength, determination. Here was aGentleman.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he exuded confidence. Of course, the clothing helped . . . tightly tailored green jacket, silver striped waistcoat, clinging buff breeches tucked into glossy boots.
Excellent. Finally something worth dreaming about.
I allowed my eyes to devour him, lingering on the thigh muscles rippling underneath his skin-tight breeches, contemplating the strength in his long-fingered hands, the way my body would fit perfectly into the curve of his chest.
