Nights In White Satin. Jule McbrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
“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