Nights In White Satin

But no. Dermott was a straight arrow. As steady as a rock. And he never got sick. Deciding the bell was broken, she rapped her knuckles on the door. A second later, it swung open, and as the chain caught, pulling taut, she heard a soft curse and saw the flash of a male hand.

“Who is it?” he muttered, reshutting the door long enough to slip back the chain before opening the door wide enough to see her.

“Me. Sorry.” Bridget parted her pink-lipsticked lips in mild offense as her hands settled on her hips. “I’ve been trying to call you for weeks.”

“Bridge,” he said simply.

Her slackened lips parted another fraction as she registered a number of unusual things simultaneously. A half-buttoned shirt barely covered his chest, his shoes were off and he was hopping on one foot. Right before he finished pulling on a pair of fancy dress pants, she glimpsed muscular legs flashing between the shirttails and slacks.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

He shook his head. “Uh…no.”

He was lying. Her eyes scanned over his shoulder, taking a cursory view of the familiar modern loft; open living, dining and kitchen areas were encircled by floor-to-ceiling windows. Then she registered a chocolate box on the counter of the kitchen island, a bowl of fresh strawberries and a vase of flowers.

She should have known! Dermott was as lonely as she. Had he gone so far as to get himself Valentine gifts? Once, on her birthday, when none of her friends were available, Bridget had taken herself to dinner, then ordered her own birthday cake before stopping by Dermott’s to find he was throwing her a surprise party.

“I should have called,” she murmured in apology, but she’d waited until the last moment, feeling sure that an attorney she’d met at an art opening in Chelsea might phone with an alternative Valentine offer. A smile played on her lips as she watched her best bud button his shirt. He’d gotten a tan on a recent trip to L.A., his dark hair was sticking straight up as if he had a Mohawk, and his five-o’clock stubble was shadowy enough that she decided the growth was probably intentional, which meant a lot had happened for him in the past weeks, also. “Are you growing a beard?”

“A little Fu Manchu thing,” he admitted.

She’d seen the look in a lot of magazines, and it made sense, since he’d just spent time in L.A. “I like it. Very Ethan Hawke.”

“Thanks.”

“Muggy,” she suddenly exclaimed, as the pug ran past her feet and into the room. “Mug! Mu—” Stopping in midword, Bridget realized they weren’t alone. A dark-haired woman, wearing a long, fancy, strapless dress, was on the other side of the kitchen island, her back to Bridget.

A woman?

What was a woman doing getting something from Dermott’s refrigerator? Bridget’s eyes widened as she got the picture. Oh, at first glance and without glasses, Bridget had thought the visitor was wearing a strapless dress, but now she recognized the brown-and-burgundy diamond-patterned fabric. It was a sheet from Dermott’s bed, one Bridget had given him for Christmas.

Since it was hardly the time to analyze the lump in her throat, Bridget swallowed around it. When had Dermott gotten a girlfriend? And why hadn’t he told her? Because he was career-obsessed, always taping sounds which he sold to producers of sound tracks for movies and television, or working short-term in studios with directors, mixing sound tracks, his girlfriends never lasted, and if they did for any length of time, he’d always been cagey about discussing them. If the truth be told, Bridget had never minded, since she rather liked having him to herself. Besides, her own romantic failures had provided them with plenty to talk about.

“Mug!” she repeated, knowing it was too late. “C’mere!”

Hunkering on his front paws, the dog caught a tail of the sheet between sharp teeth and tugged. Just as the woman turned, the sheet—the end of which had been tucked into ample cleavage—fell away, and Bridget found herself gaping at a naked woman holding a bottle of uncorked bubbly. Because she had trouble seeing things unless they were far in the distance, Bridget fumbled in a pocket for her glasses while the other woman wrestled the sheet from Mug who put up a fight. As Bridget slid black-framed rectangular glasses onto her nose, a figure much better-endowed than her own came into too-sharp focus. Bridget was not into women, but she had to admit the huge breasts, nipped-in waist and flaring hips were damn impressive.

After whisking the sheet from Mug and refashioning it, this time into an over-the-shoulder sarong, the other woman lifted her chin, and Bridget bit back a gasp. Just when she’d thought things couldn’t get any worse, she realized she’d met this woman before.

“Carrie,” she managed. As if to punctuate Bridget’s pit-of-the-stomach foreboding, a hard, driving rain continued slashing against the windows and lightning flashed. Suddenly, she felt as if she was losing her grip and her own life was slipping away.

Yep. It was definitely Carrie Masterson, the most gorgeous, talked-about, perfect girl in New York. Bridget just couldn’t believe this. In two weeks, she and Dermott would be walking down the aisle as attendants for their best friends, Allison and Kenneth. Everybody had been shocked when the couple asked Bridget’s sister, Edie, to plan a wedding. No one knew the two of them were sleeping together, much less pregnant or buying real estate. Because Kenneth was an architect, he was building Allison the perfect home, and Bridget just knew their babies were going to be beautiful and that Allison was going to be successful in her career. Now Dermott was in bed with Carrie Masterson.

Life was steamrollering ahead for everyone but her. Oh, she wasn’t about to be self-pitying, and she didn’t mind working at Tiffany’s, and she loved designing rings in her spare time, but she’d only recently been promoted from clerk to floor manager. By contrast, Carrie was from a wealthy prominent political family. Slender and busty where Bridget was on the flat side, dark-haired where Bridget was blond. While Bridget had been toiling at Parsons, Carrie had been busy getting a Harvard M.B.A. simply because she enjoyed the classes, and then she’d ditched all that to become a gown designer. Word had it that her father was helping her open her own shop near Stella McCartney’s in the refurbished meat-packing district. Bridget sighed. She’d hoped Allison would chose her mother, seamstress Vivian Benning to make gowns and suits for Allison and Kenneth, but Allison had used Carrie instead, since they’d been friends for years.

Somehow, she found her tongue. “Sorry to…uh…interrupt.”

Not bothering to hide her displeasure, Carrie sent Dermott a long-suffering glance, as if to say “I told you so,” then turned on her heel and strode on long, fabulous legs toward the bedroom, calling in a lilting voice, “Good to see you, Bridget.”

“You, too,” Bridget managed, then added, “Muggy,” in an insistent tone, since the pug was charging after the satin sheet, as if he were a tiny bull following a red cape. “C’mere, cutie.”

Mug turned, his dark liquid eyes full of pleading, and she shook her head. “C’mere.” When she whistled, he came running, and her heart flooded with more relief than she wanted to analyze as she scooped him into her arms. Cuddling him against her chest, she felt comforted by his heart, which was beating every bit as rapidly as hers. Ducking her chin, she smothered him with kisses.

And then she looked at Dermott again. Somehow, the apology in her mind didn’t make it to her lips. With her glasses on, she certainly understood why Carrie was interested. She sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling as if she were losing her mind. She’d seen Dermott half-dressed many times, but all at once, his body had an entirely new effect. Her pulse was racing, her knees felt weak and with a jolt, she realized jealousy was coursing through her blood.

Oh, she’d always known Dermott was good-looking, with a long, rectangular face, dark, brooding eyes and thick eyebrows, but Bridget didn’t think of Dermott that way. They’d lived next door to each other as kids, at least until Dermott’s father, an actor, had gotten his big Hollywood break, and they spent plenty of time together now when Dermott wasn’t in L.A. where he maintained another residence. But…

She simply couldn’t believe Carrie’s possessive glance. What was going on? How long had they been together? “Look,” she began. “I’m sorry, Derm. I didn’t know…” That you were getting naked with Carrie.

“No problem.” Clearing his throat as if that might help him get a better handle on the situation, Dermott squinted. “I thought you went upstate with the girls, skiing.”

“Is that why you haven’t called?”

The pause lasted a beat too long. “Uh…yeah.”

He was lying, but why? She lunged into the story of the share mixup, then quickly said, “Are you mad at me?”

He shook his head. “No. What can I do for you?”

What can I do for you? He was talking as if they were strangers! Her throat constricted in panic. “Uh…it’s nothing,” she assured.

“It must be something, Bridge, or you wouldn’t have come all the way to South Ferry in the rain.”

He had a point, but she was starting to feel like a fool. Her friends were moving on in life, and somehow, in a way she’d couldn’t quite define, she seemed stuck. Marissa’s curse, no doubt! But was she really so self-absorbed that Dermott had quit telling her secrets? She hated feeling out of the loop. “Really,” she managed. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

His eyebrows knitted. “Is something wrong, Bridge?”

Yes. No. Nothing. Everything. She’d just felt a rush of sexual attraction toward Dermott—and well, that seemed very wrong. So did the explosion of jealousy. Especially since she had no claim on Dermott except that he was her best friend. The boy next door. The man she’d come to rely on for constant consultation about her life.

“Bridget?”

She was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. She’d seen him with women other than Carrie, of course, and it had never bothered her, but Carrie Masterson was…

Perfect. One of the city’s hot babes. New York magazine had even done an article about her. “Huh?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” Except she couldn’t fight this feeling that her whole world had turned upside down. Was he serious about Carrie? Was she was going to lose her best friend? Deep down, she heard a little voice say, Carrie’s the first woman he’s been with whom he’d leave me for. Except he couldn’t leave Bridget, not really. They’d never even been together, not like that. Her eyes drifted slowly downward, and she was stunned to feel twinges in all her secret places. He really was a fine specimen of a man, sexy, with heavily lidded dark eyes that made him look as if he’d just stepped from bed.

Which he had, she reminded herself. With Carrie. But had they really slept together yet? Was this their first night together? Or had they been together a while?

He was peering at her. “Your family’s okay?”

“Fine.”

He almost smiled, and nothing more than the familiar wry upturn of his lips warmed her, taking the chill from the February storm and Carrie’s cool reception. “Why are you not convincing me, Bridge?”

As she smiled back, Mug relaxed in her arms. “Really,” she said. “Mom and Pop are great. Edie’s wedding planning business lost some clients because people found out it was Marley, not her, who was on the Rate the Dates show, and apparently they’re going to announce on national TV that the Bennings are victims of a wedding curse.”

“Huh?”

Quickly, she filled him in on the details, that her sisters had switched places on a TV reality show, and then been discovered. “But don’t worry,” she added quickly. “Edie’s surviving. And Marley’s still dating Cash Champagne. It looks like it might be serious, but…”

“But?”

The curse was in the way. “Marley doesn’t really believe things will work out between her and Cash because…well, nothing ever does for us Bennings.” Experiencing an uncharacteristic chin-quiver, Bridget clamped her jaw tightly, keeping her gaze trained on Dermott’s, hardly wanting to let her eyes drift, just in case they landed again on Carrie’s accoutrements: chocolates, strawberries and flowers. Not that fixing her eyes on Dermott’s was any better. She realized his eyes were so dark, inky, liquid…

She blew out a shaky breath. The only saving grace was that Carrie had taken the champagne.

“Hmm. So, is this about the wedding curse thing again?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “But it’s a long story, and you’re busy.”

Something in the way he glanced over his shoulder drew her eyes to his shoulder. Why had she never noticed how broad Dermott’s shoulders were before this moment—when he was checking on Carrie Masterson’s movements in his apartment? His skin looked very smooth and touchable, and Bridget almost shivered when the citrus scent of it reached her. She couldn’t help but say, “Have you been using that lotion I gave you? You know, the stuff I got you in Chinatown?”

As he turned toward her again, she found it both difficult to swallow and to suppress the jealous feelings she had no right to be experiencing. He nodded. “Uh…yeah.”

It was probably why his skin looked so incredibly toned.

He looked torn. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Obviously, she wasn’t welcome, at least by Carrie, but she had come all the way downtown, and Dermott wanted to know, so… “Remember when we talked a couple of weeks ago, and I told you Granny Ginny was visiting?”

He nodded slowly, probably visualizing the woman he’d met so many times. She was five feet tall, nearing ninety, and she’d shown up on this trip dressed in a fur-collared pink coat with a matching pillbox hat.

Willfully forgetting that a naked woman was waiting in his bedroom, Bridget ducked her chin to nuzzle Mug. “She’s going to be in town for a few days, so maybe you’ll get a chance to see her. She just loves you.”

Dermott grunted noncommittally.

In case Dermott had forgotten any details of the family history, Bridget quickly reminded him of how her own father, Jasper Hartley, had gotten drunk, fallen from a pedestal table in the Hartley House parlor and met his death, and how, during the war, Miss Marissa Jennings had remained at Hartley House with a housekeeper named Lavinia, waiting for her fiancé’s return, prefiguring the moment when, on the night they were to marry, she’d seen Forrest killed. Lavinia had been swept away by the water’s currents in the swamp where she’d been hiding, and Miss Marissa had been shot.

When she was finished, Dermott said, “No offense, Bridget, but I really never understood how anybody could have known about the curse, since Miss Marissa was supposedly alone in the swamp when she uttered it.”

“Granny Ginny always mentions that discrepancy,” Bridget admitted, loving that Dermott had always been such an apt listener. “And to tell you the truth, even she’s not really sure of the answer. All we know is the story’s been handed down through generations, and that Hartley women have definitely had trouble with their love lives. Granny Ginny did say that she’d heard a distant relative called in a psychic medium once, though, who confirmed that there was a curse.” Bridget paused. “And don’t forget, the house is haunted.”

Dermott looked at her a long moment. Seemingly deciding not to pursue that line of thought, he said, “Okay. We’ll assume there’s really a curse. You also said Miss Marissa got shot, but then you’ve said she was hit by a cannonball.”

“Granny Ginny always mentions that, too,” Bridget quickly said. “I guess there’s some debate as to whether she was killed by a bullet or cannonball. All that’s really known is that she probably died in the swamp, and Granny says that when she haunts the house, there’s sometimes blood on her wedding dress.” She paused. “But not all the time.”

Dermott considered. “Well, unless the Union army was advancing on the property and facing a bunch of Confederates, I don’t think they would have used a cannon.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” agreed Bridget, glad he understood. “It’s more likely she died from a bullet wound. Still, Granny says that when she haunts Hartley House, she sometimes carries a cannonball, but maybe that’s just because it’s symbolic of war, and—” Pausing, she realized Dermott was staring at her. “Hmm?”

He said, “You don’t believe this, do you?”

“Nights like this make it seem possible,” she offered.

As her gaze shifted to the windows, she felt uncomfortable. For years, they’d talked about how the World Trade Center buildings marred the view from Dermott’s high-rise. Now, both wished they’d never said such a thing. Bridget had realized too late that she’d taken the buildings for granted, too. She’d rarely visited them, and they’d been such a familiar part of the landscape since her childhood that it was hard to visualize them now. She should have paid more attention, but she’d thought the buildings would always be standing, tall and proud.

Tears stung her eyes, and she wondered what on earth was wrong with her tonight. Dermott’s voice pulled her from her reverie. “You really do believe all this, huh, Bridge?”

She shrugged again. “You know I do. And anyway, Granny Ginny’s a good storyteller, so whenever she talks, she makes it seem real. The main thing is—” She paused. “Did you get my voice mail?”

He nodded.

“Well, like I said, I had another talk with Granny. Now she says the curse will end if the Hartley diamond’s found, and…” She held up her hand, displaying the bauble on her right ring finger. Her voice quickened. “You have to admit all this is strange, Dermott.”

He eyed the bunched cluster of cubic zirconias. “Did your grandmother really say that was a replica of the engagement ring Forrest Hartley gave Marissa Jennings?”

“Not only that, but she says there’s proof. A painting in the parlor of Marissa in her wedding gown, wearing this exact ring.”

“And you’re sure you never saw it?”

Bridget shook her head. “I haven’t been there since I was a baby. When I saw the painting, I wasn’t even a year old. I couldn’t have remembered the ring.” She surveyed Dermott. “Oh…you think she’s lying.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe she is,” Bridget continued, “but all we have to do is go look. She says the portrait’s right there, hanging in the parlor. And I know I used to sleep on the pedestal table when I was a baby, under the chandelier, so I guess I was thinking…”

“That the Hartley diamond is hidden in the chandelier?”

She’d have to see the chandelier to know, of course, but… “Isn’t it possible the prisms in the chandelier look enough like this ring—” she held up her hand again “—that the original ring was hidden there?”

He looked skeptical. No…his was definitely not the excited let’s-pack-our-bags-and-go-look Bridget had been hoping for. “And you saw the ring when you were under a year old, which enabled you to reproduce it when you were twenty-eight?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said defensively.

“If the original ring was hidden in the chandelier, Bridge, don’t you think the Yankees would have found it? Not to mention everyone else who looked, such as your grandmother?”

That was the thing about Dermott, he always made such excellent points. “Still, you’d think the Yankees would have removed the chandelier, but they didn’t do that, either, and no one knows why.”

“And your guess is?”

Ducking to sprinkle Mug with more kisses, she said, “Granny Ginny said Miss Marissa and Lavinia probably tried to take down the chandelier, so they could hide it, but it wouldn’t budge.” Her voice dropped, becoming hushed, just as Granny Ginny’s did whenever she told the story. “It was as if the chandelier grew a mind all its own,” she repeated, using Granny Ginny’s words. “Granny Ginny said it decided not to leave Hartley House.”

Now his lips were twitching. “Hmm. A chandelier that makes decisions. Bridge, you really can’t believe this place is haunted.”

“Granny swears ghosts keep her up all night.”

“She’s old. Maybe her mind’s going.”

“She’s as sharp as a tack,” Bridget assured. The woman was smart enough to fake swoons any time she didn’t get her way, which proved she was lucid, but Bridget was worried. What if someone was trying to harm her relative? Some things Granny Ginny had said suggested people were trying to run her off her property by pretending to haunt it. Bridget suddenly sighed. “I guess I just thought you might help end the curse.”

“So your love life will turn around?”

“You don’t have to say it quite so bluntly.”

He chuckled softly now, and she smiled in response to the familiar sound. “It’s no secret. It’s the overriding complaint of your life, Bridge.”

“True.” More than once, Dermott had pretended to be her boyfriend to dissuade Mr. Wrongs who still thought they were Mr. Rights, and at this year’s Christmas party at Tiffany’s, he’d even pretended they were hot and heavy, since her boss favored women with active personal lives, and she’d been in line for the promotion from clerk to floor manager, which she’d gotten. It had been a remarkable performance. All night, it had seemed as if Dermott really was her boyfriend. Everything had seemed perfect, with him in a suit, and her in a perfect black dress, and with him pouring her another glass of champagne—of exactly the brand he was supposed to be drinking with Carrie right this minute.

Her eyes slid to the bedroom door, then returned to Dermott. He really was handsome. The V of his shirt exposed thick black chest hair, and even though he’d buttoned the shirt, he hadn’t done so before she’d trailed her gaze all the way down to the waistband of his slacks.

She startled. “Uh,” she began quickly, pulling herself back to the matter at hand. “I was thinking, since I’m already off work all week and since I’m not going skiing…”

Dark eyes that had never looked so good before this moment widened in disbelief. “You’re thinking of flying to Florida, to see if you can find the ring?”

“Well,” she admitted slowly. “Maybe not flying.” She wasn’t proud of it, but she’d been afraid to fly since 9/11. She glanced once more toward the windows through which the Twin Towers had been visible.

“Oh.” His jaw slackened. “Now, I get it.”

She winced. “It was just a thought,” she assured, the cubic zirconias flashing as she held out a staying hand. “Honestly, Dermott, I had no idea you were so busy. I wouldn’t have come.”

“You want me to drive you,” he guessed.

“You were talking about taking vacation time,” she defended. “And more than anyone, you have intimate knowledge of my abysmal date failures, not to mention family quirks. You’ve met Granny, and you’re skeptical about the family myths, so I thought that might keep me in check.”

His eyes were unreadable. “If you start seeing ghosts?”

“I remembered you saying you wanted to record sounds for a movie sound track,” she said, rushing on, still trying not to contemplate what the sight of him, nearly naked, had done to her erogenous zones. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she let her fingers linger, then tugged on her earlobe, as if that might help her hear her inner voice and jog recall. “You know, the movie that’s set in the South.”

He nodded. “It’s a Civil War picture.”

“And I was thinking…” Her words quickened. “What if there really are ghosts, Dermott, just the way Granny Ginny says? I’ve heard about them so often, I guess I do believe in them, but still, it’s hard to imagine seeing them. What if we really heard…” She paused. “All those gunshots, cannonballs and horses…”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Dermott flatly.

“Of course you don’t,” Bridget assured. “But I was just thinking…well, it might be fun to play ghost-busters. Granny Ginny says she always smells my father’s whiskey and the cigars Mom made him quit smoking, and that he tracks mud and leaves the doors open.” She blew out a short, determined breath. “I’ve been skiing before a thousand times, but I’ve never searched an old plantation for a ring. I just want to take one good look at the portrait and the chandelier. And like I said, wouldn’t it be great if you caught sounds of real ghosts on your equipment?” Dermott owned an SUV outfitted with state-of-the-art sound equipment.