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Nights In White Satin
Jule McBride


Bridget Benning has been on more bad dates than any woman in New York–thanks to the family wedding curse. Why, she's even applied to list her dating disasters in the Guinness Book of World Records! Luckily she has one man she can count on–best buddy Dermott Brandt.He always has a strong, sexy shoulder to cry on. He's even willing to help her break the crazy curse by snooping around the family home, which is supposedly haunted.Neither expect to end up in bed together, but they can't deny their long-simmering attraction. Can friends who become lovers deal with the changes? More important, will the wedding curse kill any chances of a stroll down the aisle?









“I want to sleep with you,” Bridget murmured


Words were forming before Dermott thought them through. If the truth be told, he’d waited just as many years to speak them as he’d waited to have her beneath him in bed. “You’re not going to play with my emotions, Bridge. Not now. Not at this stage of the game.”

She looked crushed, her face falling. “Game?” she managed to say. “Its just sex….”

He couldn’t believe how hot she looked for it, either, as she offered the half lift of a bare shoulder that seemed so silky, smooth and delicious that his mouth watered. “Aren’t you even curious?” she asked.

That was the problem. He had been for years. He’d dropped plenty of hints about them winding up between the sheets. Now he tried to look unaffected, even though he was painfully aroused. “You’re the one who always said no.”

“That was then.”

He leaned closer. Her breath was on his cheek, his lips and in his hair. “And this is now?”

Nodding, she whispered, “Just sex.”

But they both knew it was more than that.


Dear Reader,

Manhattan aside, the American rural South is my favorite place to write about. No one can ignore the pull of the environment—the slow, sexy drawls of Southern men, the mysterious woods thick with ancient, moss-hung cypress trees, the ambling quality of life, not to mention the lure of so much living history.

So welcome to the second installment of BIG APPLE BRIDES! I hope you’ll have a blast with middle sister Bridget Benning as she joins her buddy Dermott and flies off to battle ghosts on a plantation, determined to end the wedding curse holding her back!

In May 2005 watch for I Thee Bed…, the last book in the BIG APPLE BRIDES miniseries.

Writing romance for the past decade has been a great delight of my life, as has reading so many upbeat love stories designed to lift our spirits, feed our souls, make us laugh and nurture our faith in the lighter side of life—love!

Happy reading!

Jule McBride


Nights in White Satin

Jule McBride






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


Prologue (#u57176f0f-249c-581f-8e94-8c7ecc7228fe)

Chapter 1 (#u36d8620f-2281-5f70-918b-d3e960526f33)

Chapter 2 (#u88262401-9813-535f-afa2-cef612881f6c)

Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


Big Swamp, Florida,

a dark stormy February night in the late 1860s…

“HURRY, Miss Marissa! We must run!”

“Don’t you tell me what to do, Lavinia,” returned Miss Marissa Jennings in a hushed, terrified drawl as thick as cold molasses. She cast the Creole housekeeper a furious look, her green eyes glistening with tears, then she glanced around the parlor of her fiancé’s plantation, her pale fingers clutching the skirt of the wedding dress she’d waited so long to wear, her mind barely able to process that she might not marry Forrest tonight as planned. Surely, he and Reverend George were on their way, she thought, her fingers tightening around the gown’s white satin. Lifting the hem above her ankles, she exposed a pair of white slippers, preparing to do as Lavinia had said—run! The gorgeous cluster of diamonds Forrest had given her sparkled when she glanced down. It seemed centuries ago that she’d been given the ring, centuries since her slippers had been hand-beaded by her mama, long before the war drew near and they’d all blissfully envisioned the Jenningses and Hartleys gathering at Hartley House for the wedding.

“Hurry!” Lavinia urged as lightning flashed, her voice scarcely audible over cannonballs, rifle fire and the shouts of looting Yankees as they circled nearer, some on foot, some whipping neighing horses into a frenzy. “We’ve got to hide in the swamp!”

“We can’t go out there, Lavinia!” The gale-force wind would sweep them from their feet, killing them before any Yankees could. “What if Forrest comes?”

“He’ll find us.”

Another lie. A deafening boom sounded, and a flash of fire lit the sky in bright white light that threw the parlor into bas relief. For a second, Marissa could see Lavinia clearly—a small-boned woman who wore her hair plaited in tidy rows—before they were plunged into near-darkness again. Only a lit taper in the housekeeper’s hand illuminated the fear in her eyes, the flickering, wind-tossed flame tinting her skin with a red glow like that which burned beyond the windows.

Marissa’s eyes blurred with tears, her heart beating in terror for her groom. Surely he was on his way! She’d sooner die than leave this home they were to share! How could she abandon things her beloved Forrest had worked so hard to attain? How could she let all this beauty be pawed by crass, looting Yankees?

“We should have gone weeks ago, Miss Marissa!” assured Lavinia, pushing Marissa toward a doorway. Tears splashed Marissa’s cheeks, falling as hard as the rain against the windowpanes as she cast a last glance around the parlor—taking in a chandelier Forrest had brought from Paris, then a pedestal table and a fireplace hewn from unpolished jagged pieces of local quarry rock. Forrest had been so precise when decorating the room, especially regarding how she should pose for her portrait and where it should hang, the key to their secret hiding place. The portrait had been removed now, but she could still see marks indicating its position.

“The chandelier!” she protested, her heart wrenching. Forrest had called it their mistletoe. Oh, how they’d kissed beneath it, holding each other and shuddering with need, wanting to consummate their passion, but reined in by the desperation of restraint, knowing it would be well worth the wait. She and Lavinia had tugged on the heavy light fixture, hoping to hide it, although it wouldn’t fit beneath the upstairs floorboards where they’d put the jewelry—all but the ring still on Marissa’s finger. The chandelier seemed to have grown a mind of its own, though, as if it had decided it wasn’t leaving Hartley House; it had taken root in a medallion of ceiling molding, as immobile as cypress trees and salt marshes.

Her heart aching, Marissa sucked in a sharp breath. She and Lavinia had been hiding here, cut off from civilization for what felt like eternity, the field hands long gone, and now Marissa realized she’d been a fool, waiting for Forrest to come back from the war. And yet he’d returned. Just a week ago, she’d seen him for the first time in two years. Appearing like a vision from one of Lavinia’s prophetic dreams, he’d been far off, coming down the shell-covered driveway in the heat of a Florida February afternoon. It was long after the morning dew had burned off and the sun had risen high in the sky, looking wavelike as it shimmered on the driveway. Forrest had appeared, without warning, wounded but still walking, using his rifle as a crutch.

Marissa had fainted dead away, but Lavinia had run for the salts, and Marissa had awakened to find her own true love peppering her cheeks with kisses. Of course, Forrest had wanted to turn around and head for the war again, but he’d suffered a gunshot wound and his leg needed tending. Even worse, he’d said the Yankees were coming.

Oh, she’d wanted nothing more than to nurse her well-loved warrior. As he’d rested this week, she’d sat beside him, staring at the man she intended to wake beside every day of her life and whose babies would soon be growing inside her. They’d decided to marry before his return to the front and spend at least one passionate night. And then she and Lavinia would travel to Marissa’s sister’s house two counties away. It never occurred to them that the Yankees would get this far, nearly to the front door of Hartley House. Come tomorrow, Forrest was to have joined the few men left in town to march north. But Forrest was dead. He had to be. No one could survive what was happening now.

“Follow me,” Lavinia commanded, turning on her heel and heading through the parlor, toward a back door.

Marissa had frozen in place. Forrest’s ring! She couldn’t wear it into the swamp. Now she wished she’d let Lavinia hide it under the floorboards with the rest of the jewelry. There wasn’t time to go back upstairs, though. Her eyes darted around the parlor—taking in the pedestal table, the space where her portrait had hung and the mantle. She’d hide the ring in her and Forrest’s special place, she thought, her heart pounding when she knelt, her heavy white skirts cushioning her knees as she twisted the ring from her finger. Oh, please, be safe here, she thought, slipping the ring into the hiding place. Then she wrenched as Lavinia’s voice sounded again. “Hurry!”

She ran then, nearly tripping on the hem of the dress, her heart lurching as she reached the back door. Howling wind caught the edge of the door, nearly tearing it from its hinges. Her finger felt bare now, bereft of the symbol of Forrest’s love, but there was no time to think about it because the door slammed against the house, and Lavinia’s taper flickered out.

Thunderclouds raced across the moon as Lavinia pocketed the candle and whispered, “This night’s the devil’s handiwork, missy.”

Shuddering, Marissa took in the shadowy shapes riding like phantom demons across the sky. There were skulls and crossbones. Angry steeds. Lavinia wasn’t lying. She dealt in herbs and voodoo and was known to have premonitions. Marissa grasped her hand and stepped onto the lawn, her head bent against the onslaught of wind and rain. The temperature had dropped, the heat of the day giving way to cooling northern winds blowing in from the sea. It was hard to run in the gown, but Marissa dodged trees in the yard, the soupy mud sucking at her slippers. Stumbling, she could barely make out the ancient moss-hung cypress trees at the edge of the swamp.

Something snagged her dress and a cry tore from her throat as satin ripped away. Her sisters—all accomplished seamstresses—had insisted on making the gown, and now it was going to be ruined. They’d made so many plans that seemed silly now, never imagining war could touch their lives.

A jagged finger of lightning illuminated the swamp, and Marissa saw Lavinia once more, a tiny firecracker of a woman with skin the shiny red color of glazed clay pottery. Beyond was the Benchley plantation, not that the Benchleys had offered assistance, even though their land was on higher, dryer ground. Men were on the shell road now, and soon they’d be in the house. Once there, they’d see remnants of dinner, and know people were hiding somewhere. Armoires would disclose the inhabitants had been women and, soon, hungry men would be in the yard, hunting for her and Lavinia.

“Get in the water, Miss Marissa!”

“Grab these roots, Lavinia,” Marissa returned as a torch flared, the fingers of pale, delicate hands gripping the mangled claws of cypress roots, just as a gust lifted her skirt and her feet, which almost left the ground. Lavinia snatch the skirt, to steady them both, right before Marissa plunged into the pulsing swirl of black waters. Madness, she thought as Lavinia followed into the icy water. Another torch flared, then Marissa heard a male voice from far off, the words unclear, but gruff, making her swoon because she’d heard what vagabond soldiers did to women. Downwind, the waters fed salt marshes, then tidewaters that met the Atlantic, and now, as she sank into the pull of currents, spiders seemed to climb the ladder of her spine; her body shook as she imagined gators circling beneath her, and she wished her gown wasn’t ballooning and deflating as the white skirts became soaked.

“Who’s out there?” came a Yankee shout, traveling on the wind. “I saw you run! Show yourselves!”

Lavinia grasped Marissa’s shoulder in assurance, but when the sky lit up again, men on horses fanned across the yard…men whose faces were no longer shadows, but rather, clearly defined, made hard by a war in which they’d seen too much killing.

The heavy winds whipped up, lifting twigs and sending them spinning, and suddenly, the hand on her shoulder was gone—simply gone! Marissa’s own hand was almost ripped from the cypress root. She gasped, and when lightning cracked again, she realized the other woman really was gone! Lavinia! Had she really lost her hold, been swept away? Was that her head bobbing in the water? A hand waving? Or just tricks of Marissa’s imagination? Marissa wrenched once more, and in another lightning flash saw…Forrest?

She felt faint. Her wet corset clung to her ribs, stealing her breath. Surely, it was her imagination, but now she saw Forrest running along the shell drive, coming toward the Yankees in the yard. Had he lost his mind? No…like her, he was in love. He was searching for her, but if she called out, they’d both be killed.

Yankees were in the house now. A taper flared in a window. Oh, how she hated those men who were defiling the home of her beloved, where she was meant to experience the passion that women only spoke about in hushed tones, behind closed doors, and usually only long after they were married. Her body ached to experience sensual pleasure with Forrest, her eyes hungered to see his body, to drink in his maleness. In this very yard, she was to have raised beautiful babies from their union.

She gritted her teeth against the chill of the water and the rawness of her hands, chapped by wind. Gasping, crying in the rain, Marissa’s heart lurched when the sky lit up once more. He was still on the road! He was alive! Gallant, wearing the uniform she’d mended. Suddenly, a fireball whistled through the storm. Something splashed. A bullet? A cannonball?

She had to tell him she was safe. Their love was strong enough to conquer everything, even this war, but she watched in horror as the Yankee reined in his horse and turned, trotting the way he’d come, his eyes scanning the trees as if he’d heard Forrest in the brush. It was the wrong moment for her beloved to emerge in plain sight. The enemy leaned down, the night air rent by the sound of a sword drawn from his sheath. It rose high, glinting under the moon, arching as it bore down.

“Forrest!” she shrieked as the blade swung, the soldier bending. And then silence. Lightning and bullets ceased fire, plunging everything into darkness. He was dead. She knew that much. I curse this ground, she thought, rage swelling like the tides. Damn women who’ve lived and loved on this bloodstained ground without paying this price. I hope they never find you, love. Never! Never!

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked.

And vaguely, Marissa realized she’d uttered the wrong curse—that the Yankees were to blame, and greedy people who would rather work the land with slaves than make do with less, but months of mere survival and feeling her heart shatter was too much! No one should enjoy Hartley House, or love, or the life Marissa was to have lived here, not until she and Forrest were reunited.

Envy—a kind of hate she’d never known—bubbled inside, so she barely noticed the next burst of fire. She felt as if she was floating above the water, no longer in her own body. She was aware of smoke, but she was numb, her skin frigid, then she realized warmth gushed from somewhere. From her shoulder, maybe? Was it blood? She wasn’t sure. All she knew for certain was that Lavinia was gone. Her mama and papa, the sisters she loved. And now Forrest.

Her mind stuttered with grief. Her fingers slipped, but she kept hold of the root. If she let go, she’d never make it, and she was going to stand and fight. Oh, damn it, she would stand! For Forrest! Her hand weakened. Wind whipped her hair, and she realized a bullet had found her. She was losing blood to a salty swamp where gators circled, drawn by the scissoring movements of her legs. Suddenly, she was pummeled by wind.

And then the swirling dark waters took her.




1


New York City,

a dark, stormy February night in the present…

“DON’T RUN OFF and get yourself into trouble, Mug,” Bridget Benning said, releasing her tawny, miniature pug to run on the floor of the hallway before using the point of a blue-painted fingernail to stab the doorbell of her best friend Dermott’s high-rise apartment in Battery Park City. “C’mon, Dermott,” she muttered, wondering why he’d been unavailable for weeks, and at a time when so much was happening!

Bridget wanted his input on family matters, as well as on which futon to buy, and she was hoping he’d take walks with her, since March was around the corner and without losing ten pounds, she’d never fit into spring clothes. Now she needed him to take a trip South with her to do some ghost-busting, something she hoped he’d take seriously, since she couldn’t go on this trip without his support. Her parents had been living in Hartley House when she was born, but since she’d been a baby, Bridget had never been south of Newark, and besides, only Dermott truly understood what Miss Marissa’s curse had done to Bridget’s love life.

When Mug yipped, Bridget leaned and petted his head, cooing, “As soon as we’re inside, I’ll get you a doggie treat.” Dermott kept a box handy for Mug. Bridget suddenly muttered, “Or not.” Why wasn’t her best buddy answering? “Hurry up,” she whispered.

Just this week, Bridget’s Granny Ginny, who lived in Florida, in Hartley House, had come to visit, reminding Bridget of Marissa’s curse and how it affected women connected to Hartley House. Bridget and her sisters had never known Granny Ginny’s son, who’d died young, but he was their biological father, even if Joe Benning had raised them. Because they were Hartleys by blood, the Benning girls hadn’t escaped being victims of the curse. Just like her sisters, Bridget had placed the blame for her romantic failures squarely on Miss Marissa, but now, during Granny Ginny’s visit, matters had taken a startling new twist.

As it turned out, this past month, Bridget had agreed to help her older sister, Edie, who owned a wedding planning business, Big Apple Brides, and who had luckily landed a celebrity client, hotel heiress, Julia Darden. Bridget, an aspiring jewelry designer who worked by day as a clerk at Tiffany’s, had agreed to fashion an engagement ring, which she and Edie had hoped Julia and her fiancé would like. When Julia rejected Bridget’s first design, Bridget had placed the sample ring, made with cubic zirconias, on her own finger.

When Granny Ginny arrived from Florida and saw the ring, she’d nearly swooned. According to Granny, the ring Bridget had designed was an exact replica of the Hartley diamond, the ring Forrest Hartley had given to Miss Marissa Jennings during the Civil War, a ring supposedly still hidden in Granny’s plantation house, which Granny claimed was haunted. And maybe it was. After all, without cosmic intervention, how could Bridget have designed a ring that was an exact replica of an already existing ring she’d never seen before?

Obviously, Bridget had some sort of deep psychic connection to Hartley House and the lost Hartley engagement diamond. That meant that maybe Bridget would have luck finding the original ring that was still hidden. She sucked in a sharp breath, barely able to believe any of this was happening. Just yesterday, she’d pulled Granny Ginny aside and questioned her at length. Oh, everybody in the family suspected Granny embellished the family legend; still, Bridget, Edie and Marley had suffered setbacks in love, and now Bridget wondered if something couldn’t be done to reverse the curse.

“I hadn’t thought so,” Granny had begun. “But now that you’ve produced the exact replica of the Hartley diamond, everything’s changed.” Granny conjectured that, once the original ring was found, the ghost of Forrest Hartley could slip it onto the finger of his ghost-bride, Marissa, and then Marissa’s curse on the Benning girls might be lifted. Bridget supposed that made sense, since Marissa’s dream to be reunited with her fiancé would be achieved. After all, how could a woman get married without a diamond? The way Granny figured it, Bridget would be the Benning most likely to find the ring, since she’d designed one like it, and thereby seemed to have a psychic connection to it.

“C’mon, Dermott,” Bridget whispered. Surely he’d help her. She didn’t want to go to her own grave without marrying at least once, and for the first time, it seemed as if it was in her power to do something to reverse her bad luck with men. While all the Benning sisters were no strangers to failed romance, Dermott understood that Bridget was the sister most affected. Edie ran a close second. Despite starting her own wedding planning business, Edie rarely dated. And Marley had gotten married, but then her husband had cleaned out their joint bank account, and she’d divorced him. Now, she was dating a man named Cash Champagne who’d previously been involved with Edie, but who knew how long that would last?

Bridget just hoped she could straighten out this mess and get her own love life on track. And who could be better than Dermott? Last year, he’d even helped her apply to the Guinness Book of World Records, since she was convinced she’d survived more bad dates than any other single woman in America; unfortunately, Guinness had no bad dates category and didn’t want to create one just for Bridget.

“Are you in the shower?” she whispered. From the street, she’d seen lights, and that meant Dermott was home. She sighed, thinking of the strange mojo in her life. This thing with the ring was odd. Bridget had shown no evidence of possessing paranormal talents before now. “Unless it counts that I knew my cabin share with the girls at the ski lodge this week was just too good to be true.” She was supposed to have been there tonight with some friends, sharing Valentine champagne with dreamy men at the bar. “Yeah, right.”

Stabbing the doorbell again, she tried to ignore her hurt feelings. Granted, she’d forgotten to send in her check for the share, but her girlfriends hadn’t reminded her, either, and the person who’d replaced Bridget hadn’t interested them before she’d gotten a part in a TV commercial. It wasn’t the first time Bridget had felt she was outgrowing more superficial friends who were left over from college. Silently, she kept thinking it was time to move on to something more significant. But usually, in a girl’s life, that meant marriage. And, well, Bridget, unlike most women, had a century-and-a-half-old curse in her way.

At least she could repair her self-esteem and repay her fair-weather friends by having an interesting vacation ghost-busting in Florida. Success was the best revenge, after all. Besides, she’d already arranged to take a week off from Tiffany’s and she wasn’t about to waste it. Probably, she wouldn’t have met a cute guy at the lodge, and even if she had, that only meant something awful was destined to happen. He’d turn out to have a girlfriend, or worse, a wife…

Abruptly shaking rain from her umbrella, Bridget leaned it against the wall in the hallway, then unbelted a bright yellow raincoat she wore over a miniskirt, fishnets and snow boots. She wished Dermott would hurry! She had so much to tell him! She’d talked to him on the phone a couple of weeks ago—around the time that her sister Marley had appeared on a reality show called Rate the Dates with Cash Champagne, impersonating her twin, Edie. Bridget had told him Granny Ginny was visiting, but he hadn’t called since then, and in twenty years she and Dermott had never gone this long without speaking. It felt like torture. Smoothing her straight, shoulder-length blond hair, Bridget wracked her brain. Was Dermott angry? She couldn’t think of a thing she’d done wrong. If she’d offended him, he’d have mentioned it. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Withholding. She inhaled sharply. Had he gotten hurt? Or into trouble?

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.

A long silence fell.

Then he said, “Let me get this straight. You need the use of my van to record possible ghost sounds?”

“I’m not sure. But it might come in handy.”

“And if we go down there, find this ring and end the curse, your love life will work out?”

Put that way, it sounded ridiculous. Nevertheless, she nodded. “That’s what Granny Ginny said.”

“And you’ll marry somebody?”

“That’s ambitious. Sex would be good.” Maybe just a date on Valentine’s day, she thought, but wasn’t about to call attention to Dermott’s situation again with Carrie Masterson. “I could start with sex,” she joked, the smile growing tight when she realized she was imagining having that sex with Dermott, “and then work my way up.”

Outside, a loud thunderclap sounded, claiming her attention, and she watched as lightning crossed a darkened window. Straight in front of her, she could see the waters of the Hudson swell against empty slips at the Manhattan Yacht Club, and to the right, the space where the Towers had been. She tried to visualize how they’d looked, but she simply couldn’t, just as she couldn’t exactly envision how Dermott had looked to her before five minutes ago when she’d found Carrie naked in his apartment. Now, he seemed like a completely different man.

Suddenly whimpering, Mug burrowed in the hollow of her shoulder. “Look,” she managed. “I’d really better go.”

And then Dermott scratched his jaw and said the last thing Bridget expected, proving that he was still her best bud. “I’ve got a few days off. Then I’m in L.A. for a long weekend.”

She squinted. “You are?”

He nodded. “My agent got me a gig with a new indie director. They want me to go over some of the sound mix and help re-edit it. Right after that, we’re in Kenneth and Allison’s wedding. But between now and the L.A. gig…” He sighed. “Okay, Bridge. I’ll go pack. What time should I pick you up in the morning?”

Her heart soared in a way she’d never imagined it could. Even though Carrie Masterson was here, Dermott was going to help her. “How about seven?”

“EVERYBODY warned me!” Carrie exploded a moment later, her dark hair bristling as it flew around her shoulders.

Dermott, who was particularly sensitive to sounds, listened to the flapping sheet as she snapped it from her body, then to the soft rustle as she reached for her bra and panties. Somehow, it didn’t help that she’d been wearing one of the sheets Bridget had given him for Christmas. “Don’t go, Carrie,” he said, but he knew the words were useless. She was flying around his bedroom like one of Bridget’s poltergeists. What a night! He’d been tied up at work, Carrie had wanted to give him a final fitting of the suit for Allison and Kenneth’s wedding, and it was raining, so he’d been afraid she’d get stranded, which was why he’d told the doorman to let her inside his apartment.

“A wedding fitting on Valentine’s day?” the doorman had questioned, which should have given Dermott a hint.

“It’s the city that never sleeps,” he’d returned, not giving it a second thought. He’d been looking forward to seeing Carrie, too. Gorgeous, rich, talented and ambitious, she was the perfect New York woman. Previously, they’d flirted to survive the awkward moments when she’d checked the fit of his pants, and Dermott had known she was interested, just not this interested.

Before he’d arrived, she’d hidden flowers, champagne and chocolates, and while he’d changed in the bathroom into the suit pants, she’d changed, also, and he’d come out to find her naked.

It had been the perfect opportunity to get Bridget out of his system, a project he’d given renewed effort for the past two weeks, ever since she’d called, saying her Granny Ginny was coming to town. Walking swiftly to Carrie, he’d grabbed her hand and led her to the bedroom, do not pass Go.

“I was afraid I was taking too big a risk,” she’d whispered.

“Oh, no,” he’d assured, hurriedly starting to shuck his slacks and unbutton his shirt, which was the exact moment when Bridget would start ringing the buzzer, in a way too insistent to ignore.

“Bridget and I are just friends,” he said now, frustrated since Carrie was leaving. For the past few days he’d been working his tail off, traveling around the Manhattan shoreline, trying to pick up background recordings of traffic sounds and seagulls flying over the Hudson that wouldn’t sound canned. Finally, he’d gotten something that satisfied a director after he’d mixed it into a sound track for a TV pilot. He was tired, but if Bridget hadn’t blown the deal, Carrie would have been the perfect nightcap.

As she finished buttoning her blouse, he could hear her nails scrape on fabric. She turned a skirt around on her waist to get a better look at the zipper while she pulled it up, then reversed the skirt once more. She glanced up. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

He could hardly tell Carrie, but when Bridget had started babbling about the curse again, he’d realized it was truly hopeless. Nothing was ever going to change between them. He’d never denied that he was in love with her. Everything about Bridget Benning heated his blood, and for years, he’d bided his time, waiting for her to come around. He’d even told her on a few occasions, but she’d only laughed off his advances, never taking them seriously, not even when he’d assured her his emotions weren’t to be toyed with.

Meantime, refusing to live like a lovelorn pup, he’d dated other people, and he’d been focused on work, building a résumé in his field, but now he was successful, which meant he got a lot of social opportunities he had to start taking. Today marked the fourteenth day since he’d last spoken to Bridget. Feeling more determined than at previous times when he’d distanced himself, he was actually counting days. For two weeks, he’d caroused in clubs and called countless numbers scribbled on cocktail napkins.

Couldn’t Bridget see through her own delusions? Didn’t she realize how mercilessly she’d come on to him at the Christmas party at Tiffany’s? She’d needed a date, and he’d played it to the hilt, since her boss favored employees who were interested in settling down, but she’d given as good as he, and it had been difficult—hanging on to her every word, stroking her neck, murmuring in her ear. He’d watched in satisfaction as nipples he’d longed to stroke stiffened under a hot little black dress she’d worn just to drive him mad. He’d whispered, “Why don’t we ever get together, Bridge?”

She’d only laughed—a soft, airy musical lilt that had always driven him crazy—and then she’d elbowed him, as if what he’d said was ridiculous. “We’re best friends.”

He’d modulated his voice, trying to sound more casual than he’d felt, hating these moments that had surfaced so often over the years. “Friends can’t be lovers?”

She’d shaken her head adamantly. “It never works out.”

“I thought you said your love life never works out, anyway.” He’d forced himself to laugh.

She’d chuckled, and that was the end of the conversation.

Carrie’s voice brought him back to the present. “Allison said you’re always at that woman’s beck and call,” she said, a pair of black tights whispering on her thighs as she pulled them on. “You never date.”

“I date a lot of women.”

“Not for long, not seriously.”

It was more true than he wanted to admit. “Bridget only relies on me to pick her up after her own failed romances.”

Carrie was slipping her feet into flats, generating a soft brushing sound. “Which is why you’re going on vacation with her at the drop of a hat?”

Obviously, his love life was going to remain cursed until Bridget was a closed chapter. This gorgeous woman had been right in front of him, naked and holding a bottle of champagne. “Only because I’m going to tell Bridget we can’t be friends.”

Whisking her coat from a chair, Carrie swirled it around her shoulders, then surveyed him. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” He’d tried to cool it with Bridget over the years, and for just this reason. It never worked. While he suspected Bridget felt attraction for him, she hid it so well, even from herself. Especially from herself. “She relies on me,” he continued simply. Bridget needed him, but he was going to have to take some action. “She denied it, but I think she really believes in the ghosts her grandmother says are haunting her house.”

“I overheard.”

“Maybe if I help her sort this out, she’ll get over the idea that she’s cursed. She dates somebody new every week,” he added, just in case Carrie misunderstood his intentions. “So, it’s clear she’s not interested in me, except as a friend. Maybe one of those guys will work out for her, and she’ll learn to be less reliant on me.”

Carrie headed toward the front door. Once there, she turned. “You actually seem to believe what you’re saying.”

“What’s not to believe?”

When she rolled her eyes, his heart hardened. He really was sick of this. Carrie Masterson was hardly the first woman to object to his relationship with Bridget. Every woman he’d dated expected to find him in bed with her—and never had. Funny, he thought now, most were less threatened by the idea of him and Bridge hitting the sheets than by their twenty-year friendship. That’s what should have unsettled them. But he was tired of playing the best friend. He was ready to give her up.

He eyed Carrie. She was the kind of woman who could have anyone she wanted—and she’d chosen him. She could make a nice home for a man, she was talented and sexy as hell. Once more, Bridget was helping him blow it. “Bridget and I have been close for years,” he found himself saying. “So, I need time.”

“To end the friendship, so you can move on?” Carrie kept her eyes on his. More softly, she said, “She’s getting in your way, Dermott.” As she opened the door, she added, “I almost believe you. Okay. One week. I’ll call your cell while you two are gone.” She flashed a smile, her dark eyes holding the promise of a future if he let go of Bridget. “You know, monitor your trip, Dermott.” Her eyes hardened. “But you need to put an end to this. It’s at a stalemate for you. No sex. No progression. Just her being a buddy, when other women want to give you so much more, Dermott.”

With that, Carrie swept across the threshold; the click of the door seemed to resound in the silence. Alone, Dermott pushed away a recollection of the shocked look on Bridget’s face when she’d caught him with his pants down. She’d actually fumbled in her bag, looking for her glasses to get a better look at Carrie before she realized they’d already met. Yeah, Bridget’s behavior had communicated sexual interest, but then, he’d seen that look at the Tiffany’s Christmas party, too, and on a thousand other occasions.

Carrie was right. Bridget would never allow that part of the relationship to progress. And the way he held on to the friendship made him look like a fool, not that he really cared what other people thought. Still, Carrie had underestimated his frustration. Bridget hadn’t been good for him. While most women treated him like a sexy male—Carrie was hardly the first he’d found naked—Bridget made him feel like a ghost, and while her clear blue eyes might haunt him, he wasn’t going to let her ruin any more of his chances.

Yeah, he was blowing out this torch. No matter what Bridget said or did, and no matter how much she tempted him, he wasn’t going to let her ignite any false hopes again. Yeah. Bridget Benning could rub her thin, sexy body all over him…she could even pull down his zipper, slip a warm hand inside and…

He sucked in a breath. Anyway, the point was, he wouldn’t give in to temptation. When they parted company a final time, he’d miss her like hell. He’d love her forever. But he had to move on. So, he was going to the Sunshine State, and by the time he returned, he and Bridget, just like the supposed ghosts of Hartley House, would be a closed chapter belonging to history.




2


Hartley House,

a dark and stormy night forty-eight hours later…

GETTING Dermott into bed wasn’t as easy as Bridget anticipated, but ever since she’d seen Carrie naked in his apartment, she’d decided she and her best buddy should at least try sex together. If they didn’t, they’d always wonder about it. Hadn’t they voiced attraction before, as Dermott had at the Christmas party? What if he got serious about Carrie, got married and never spent a night exploring the attraction forbidden in his friendship with Bridget?

Last night, when they’d stopped at a hotel in North Carolina, Bridget had planned to make her move, but Dermott had quickly retired to the private room he’d insisted on having to call Carrie. Not that it was necessary. Carrie called every five minutes. So had Bridget’s sisters. Edie was worried, since she was losing business at Big Apple Brides, and Marley kept teasing Bridget, asking if she’d resolved the curse yet, saying she didn’t want to lose the man she was dating, Cash Champagne. Other than that, Dermott had taped sounds at most of their stops, concentrating on those indigenous to the South. It was almost as if he was using work as an excuse not to talk.

“That’s weird,” Dermott said now, just as they turned off the main road onto the shell driveway leading to Hartley House. He’d hunched over the steering wheel to spin the radio dial. “All I’m getting is static.”

“Definitely an omen.” She peered into the darkness as the last finger of twilight glimmered, hardly caring about finding music on the radio since the house was bound to materialize soon. As she dug into a pocket for her glasses and put them on, Mug leaped from Dermott’s lap to hers. “Isn’t this exciting Muggy Puggy?” she cooed. “We’re almost at the haunted house. Do you think we’re going to see Dracula? Or Frankenstein? What do you think of this awful thunderstorm? Is it an omen?”

Wagging his tawny tail furiously, Mug spun in circles on her lap. Along with fishnet stockings and black, pointy-toed “witch shoes,” which she’d worn specifically for the occasion, she’d put on a sunny yellow jumper; because it was made of vinyl, she figured she could wash off Mug’s muddy paw prints once they got inside. “I’m beat,” she offered, rolling her head on her shoulders to work out the kinks.

Peering through the deluge battering the windshield, Dermott said, “Me, too.”

They’d gotten a start later than the appointed 7:00 a.m. time on the previous day, which left Bridget wondering just what Dermott and Carrie had been doing all that night, especially since Dermott had been driving like a bat out of hell—as if he couldn’t wait to get back to New York and Carrie. A couple of hours ago, when they’d finally hit the two-block town of Big Swamp, Florida, they’d picked up groceries and eaten at a greasy spoon diner next to a motel that looked eerily similar to Norman Bates’s place in the movie Psycho. Just thinking of the motel, Bridget felt a sudden chill, as if a cool draft had swept through the SUV’s interior.

“Everybody at Nancy’s Diner said Granny Ginny’s place is really haunted,” she found herself saying conversationally.

Dermott approximated a Transylvanian accent, announcing, “I’m going to suck your blood.”

She hummed sexily. “Sounds promising.”

He shot her a quick, startled glance, then stared through the windshield again, unwilling to acknowledge the flirtation. She sighed. Dermott had never been less fun, and she just didn’t understand it. It was as if he’d decided to put up some impenetrable guard, to protect himself from her, almost as if he’d guessed she had sex on her mind.

At least he’d been talking with a Transylvanian accent, which was amusing. In fact, he’d been doing so when they’d entered the restaurant in Big Swamp, so she’d barely noticed the stir they created. Only after they were seated had Bridget realized she was the only woman wearing a dress, much less a micromini with fishnets. Here, denim and flannel ruled. And when she and Dermott had asked Nancy, the owner, who also doubled as a waitress, to further describe grits and red gravy, everybody had doubled over laughing. At least until they’d realized where the fish-out-of-water couple was heading. Then they’d wheeled around on orange stools to stare, shaking their heads as if to say Bridget and Dermott were out of their freaking minds.

“You can’t spend the night!” Nancy warned, concern in her eyes. “Didn’t Ginny mention the place is haunted?”

During the meal, Dermott had tried to convince Bridget that the haunting was just a local legend which helped people, Granny Ginny included, to pass the time. Now she was beginning to hope so. It was spooky out here. Listening to the wipers move sludge and leaves across the windshield, she took off a black baseball cap, tossed it to the dashboard and tilted her head so that a ponytail fell over her shoulder and down her back. Mug turned and placed his paws on the dash, to get a better look through the rain-sluiced windows.

She still couldn’t see much, so she cast a glance toward Dermott again, wondering how tonight was going to play out. Would they have sex? And what had happened, anyway? One minute Dermott was her best bud, but on Valentine’s night, after she’d left his apartment, she’d dreamed the most down-and-dirty sex dream she’d ever had about a man. A paradigm shift, she thought. That’s what they called it. Suddenly, the world had spun on its axis—and now Dermott was the hottest thing she’d ever laid eyes on. Very definitely, strange mojo was at work.

In the dream, she’d seen Dermott open the door to his apartment again, and once more, she’d glimpsed the dark curling hairs trailing on the hard, bunched muscles of his thighs, and then she’d imagined he wasn’t pulling on the slacks, but taking them off instead—and not for Carrie, but for her. Not that she’d been able to prod Dermott into having a conversation about the other woman.

“Why do you care about whether it’s serious between me and Carrie?” he’d asked last night.

“I always tell you about my boyfriends,” she’d pointed out.

“Right,” he’d said. “But I don’t kiss and tell.”

Was that all he’d done with Carrie? “Oh, please. You say that as if you’re morally superior.”

He’d laughed. “Draw your own conclusions.”

Yes, his refusal to be forthcoming was a bad sign, she decided. She always told him about her boyfriends because they didn’t mean anything and, on the basis of that, she had to conclude that Carrie Masterson was important. She blew out a long sigh now, wondering if magical forces would really come into her life on this trip.

Of course, lust was a factor in how she felt. Dermott looked better than any man had a right to. His hair was mussed, his five-o’clock shadow had moved toward six or seven o’clock, becoming darker and more scraggly. Loose black jeans and a V-necked T-shirt she’d given him on his last birthday hugged his body, looking chic. Sucking in a breath, she wondered if she hoped she’d find the nerve to proposition him. She imagined herself asking him if he wanted to have sex with her. Then she imagined herself simply reaching down and cupping her hand over his jeans fly. Why not?

“See if you can find some music, Bridge.”

She imagined his unbuttoned shirt, the tufts of unruly dark hair calling for her fingers. Shifting Mug in her lap, she squinted through the darkened windshield and spun the radio dial. “Ghosts,” she explained when she found only static. “Don’t they interfere with radio signals?”

Dermott nodded. “Wait until we get indoors. Maybe the insides of the phone have been removed, too.”

She chuckled. “Like in a Twilight Zone episode, cutting us off from the outside world?”

“Exactly.”

Her laughter tempered when she thought about their experience at the diner again. In a long line of pickup trucks, Dermott’s SUV had stood out, and as soon as people had discovered they were visiting Hartley House and driving an SUV containing recording equipment, they’d decided she and Dermott had come for the sole purpose of taping ghosts. The people in the diner, of course, would never guess what was really on Bridget’s mind when she thought of spending the night with Dermott in a haunted house.

The closer they got, the more overgrown the driveway became, and as Dermott slowed, she became more conscious of the sound of shells crunching under the tires. Even though they were inside, she ducked instinctively as they traveled beneath a thick canopy of trees; Granny’s place had gone so long untended that branches were scraping the SUV’s roof. The lawn’s massive trees, far larger than any she’d seen in Central Park, had gnarled, twisted roots that would have done Wes Craven proud. Her eyes followed them as they advanced like marching spiders.

Her breath suddenly caught. “There it is!”

Mug went still in her lap, standing at attention, his paws resting on the dashboard as the house loomed out of the darkness like a giant, but possessing none of the usual features that made a house look scary, such as turrets or a widow’s walk or nearby waves that crashed against a rocky coastline. There was, however, a swamp that opened into tidewaters, and lightning that flashed between trees, illuminating a white-painted brick house that was very square and imposing; climbing ivy framed the windows and crawled into gutters, sending a promising quiver through her. The upstairs windows didn’t disappoint, either, gaping down like vacant, empty eyes. A columned veranda encircled the ground floor.

She inhaled sharply. “The door’s open, Dermott!”

Having seen the house now, he sounded uncharacteristically pensive. “Sure is.”

“Should I call the police?”

He paused. “It couldn’t hurt.”

Swallowing hard, barely able to believe how haunted the house really looked, Bridget punched in 911. The phone rang and rang. Finally a woman picked up and said, “What can I do you for, hon?”

Bridget shot Dermott a glance. “Uh…I’m in Big Swamp,” she began, “visiting a relative, Ginny Hartley. And, well, we got to the house and the door’s wide-open.” She paused. “Have I reached 911, or is this a wrong number?”

“Sure have, honey,” returned the woman. “Trouble is, the sheriff’s on his dinner break, and when he gets back, I already promised Mary Lou Bidden he’d come over and help shut her windows, to keep out the storm. Her house is over a century old and the wood sticks.”

“I see,” Bridget managed as Dermott brought the SUV to a halt under what was probably a willow tree; it was still raining hard and Bridget could scarcely see five feet in front of the vehicle now. Her heart hammering, she wondered if she was really about to see a replica of the ring she wore. Impossible. Dermott’s right. The old family legends are just stories spun for the amusement of country people on rainy days.

A beep had sounded on the line. The woman said, “I’ve got another call, but don’t worry, the sheriff will check your premises in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

As Bridget turned off the phone, Dermott switched off the ignition, and then they both peered at the house. “The cops are coming no time soon, huh?” asked Dermott.

“Guess not.” As she hugged Mug nearer, the enclosed space of the SUV felt claustrophobic. Suddenly, she was conscious of the silence left in the absence of the motor, and of Dermott’s good looks. Unbidden, she thought of the last time she’d visited the place where the Trade Centers had stood. Twining her fingers through the chain link fence, she’d stared at the workers and said a silent prayer for those who’d died, as she always did. And then she’d tried to remember exactly what the buildings had looked like, but no matter how hard she’d tried, she simply couldn’t. She’d felt just terrible.

Now a lump formed in her throat, and even though she knew she was being ridiculously maudlin, she wondered if she could ever forget Dermott. He, too, had been a daily part of her life for so long; what if he was gone and she couldn’t visualize his face?

He was looking at her curiously. “Is something the matter, Bridge?”

No, except that I’m feeling strangely grateful for the pictures I have of you, just in case you’re serious about Carrie Masterson and I never see you again. “Uh…no.” She glanced toward the house, sucking in a sharp breath. “Granny Ginny said the ghosts open the doors, especially Jasper. You know, my biological dad. Her son.”

His laughter lifted her mood. “I can’t believe you let that crazy old lady get to you, Bridge.” His expression softened. “Still, you really do blame the curse for everything that goes wrong in your love life, so I can see why you’d want to believe her.”

Bridget didn’t make the connection. “Huh?”

“Well, if Granny’s telling the truth, you can find the ring and get on with your life, just like you said.”

Put that way, it sounded so unlikely. But Granny Ginny was a born storyteller, and when she spoke, Bridget could almost see skinny Lavinia strutting around the parlor, bossing Miss Marissa around.

“Probably Granny Ginny forgot to close the door,” he assured. “We’ll find some warm, happy field mice that got inside. Maybe a raccoon. Or a skunk.”

“Oh, fabulous.”

Dermott’s lips were twitching, making him look even sexier in the dark, his smile just a quick flash of perfect teeth, his eyes catching light that had no source but himself. “You’re really scared, aren’t you?”

“Of course not.” But she was, just a little.

Swiftly reaching behind him, he grabbed a flashlight, and gripped his duffel. “That decides it. We’re not waiting for the police. I’m going to prove to you that the only thing to fear is fear itself, sweetheart. We’re going in.”

“Ghost-busters unite,” she agreed, suddenly giggling, determined to push away the strange feelings warring inside her. So what if she’d taken Dermott for granted? Wasn’t that the case in most long-term friendships? “It’s a long run to the house.”

“I pulled as close as I could.”

She peered through the rain. “Ready, Mug?”

The tawny tail went wild, tapping her arm on its trajectory, and as Mug released staccato barks, Bridget reached for her own bag and pulled up the hood of a dark cape. “Did you bring an umbrella?”




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