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
