Nights In White Satin. Jule McBride

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ