Nights In White Satin

“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.