Nights In White Satin. Jule Mcbride
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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,