Her Bachelor Challenge. Cathy Gillen Thacker

shoulders without apology as he turned back to Bridgett. “I certainly don’t believe you should yoke yourself to some hoity-toity art dealer.”

      “Hoity-toity?” Bridgett echoed in amazement, unable to believe Chase had actually used such a term.

      “Haughty, arrogant, condescending.” Chase pulled up a stool and joined them at the butcher block, where they were preparing dinner.

      “I know what it means,” Bridgett countered irritably, wishing Chase would just go away. She put the last of the fan-shaped napkins into a basket for her mother. “I write for a living, too, you know.”

      “Martin’s old money, darling,” Theresa warned. “Very old money. And you know what they always say…”

      “The rich are different,” Bridgett repeated wearily. She had heard that old saw from her mother a thousand times.

      “Not all of us.” Chase helped himself to a tomato wedge. “Some of us old money fellas are down to earth. Just not ol’ Martin Morganstern of the Morganstern Gallery of Charleston. Martin is as blue-blooded and luxury-loving as they come.”

      Bridgett found herself defending her soon-to-be fiancé hotly. “He’s very nice.”

      Chase raised a dissenting brow as he added salt to the tomato wedge.

      Theresa sighed as she continued to whip up a vinegar-and-oil dressing. “All men are nice when they’re trying to…to…”

      “Get into my bed?” Bridgett guessed, saying what her mother seemed unable to articulate.

      Theresa flushed with embarrassment but did not back down as she poured dressing on the salad and tossed it. “You’re the daughter of a domestic servant, Bridgett. You may want to forget that. But ten to one, in the end, Martin Morganstern and his very old and very proper family won’t.”

      REALIZING IF SHE DIDN’T get a move on, she was going to be late, Bridgett said goodbye to her mother and headed out the back door. To her dismay, Chase followed her. “Your mom is right,” he said as he shadowed Bridgett out to her Mercedes. “What you have is new money. To a guy like Martin Morganstern, there’s one heck of a difference. To a guy like me, well, cash is cash.”

      Bridgett unlocked her car and tossed her purse inside. “Thank you ever so much for enlightening me.” Hot air poured out of the sedan’s interior through the open door.

      “I don’t care if you have any money or not,” Chase continued while Bridgett waited for her car to cool down before she got in. “I am and will always be your friend, regardless of your financial circumstances.” Chase folded his arms on the top of the door and continued to regard her with a cheeky seriousness that really got under her skin. “Can you really say the same about Martin Morganstern?”

      Realizing she would be too hot with her cardigan on, Bridgett slipped it off, and tossed it on the seat beside her purse. She ignored the way Chase’s gaze slid over her bare arms and shoulders. “You’ve been listening to my mother for too long!”

      Chase grabbed her wrist before she could slide in, his fingers warm on her skin. “Your mother is just trying to keep you from getting hurt,” he said seriously.

      “And what’s your excuse for butting into my life?” Bridgett turned away from the stormy gray-blue of his eyes and put up a hand to stop any further diatribes. “Don’t answer. I really don’t want to know.”

      Afraid she would lose it if they said anything else to each other on the subject, she started her car and drove off.

      MARTIN WAS WAITING for Bridgett in the Barbados Room in the Mills House Hotel. He was wearing a sage-green suit with a tie and white shirt. His black hair was neatly brushed away from his handsome face, his gray eyes alert and interested. As always, he looked thrilled to see her approaching him. Just being with Martin made her feel calm inside, not all fired up and agitated the way she was when she was with Chase Deveraux.

      As she neared, he stood and helped her with her chair. “I ordered you a glass of wine.”

      Bridgett smiled gratefully, appreciating his gentlemanly manners. “Thank you.”

      “What’s wrong?” Martin studied her silently. His glance fell to her right hand, before returning to her eyes. “Don’t tell me. Your mother thinks you shouldn’t have accepted the ring I gave you.”

      Bridgett didn’t have the heart to tell Martin how upset her mother had been about the gift and what it might mean when he had been so excited about giving it to her. So she said only, “My mother’s very old-fashioned when it comes to a lot of things.”

      Martin frowned. “You should have let me come with you when you went to see her today.”

      That would have only made things worse, Bridgett thought, because there was no telling what her plain-spoken mother would have said to upset a quiet cultured man like Martin. “It’ll be fine,” Bridgett insisted, glancing at the menu.

      Martin studied her. “I hope so. I really want your mother to like me. That’s rather hard to manage when she never spends any time with me.”

      Bridgett swallowed. She had tried to get her mother to have an open mind about her relationship with Martin—to no avail. Her mother thought people should get married only if they were wildly in love and of similar backgrounds. She and Martin flunked that litmus test. Their backgrounds were as different as night and day, and as for their feelings for each other, well, those were more of a tranquil nature. Steady and reliable. Without the ups and downs of passion. What no one seemed to understand, Bridgett thought, was that this was what she wanted. A relationship that was as safe and dependable as municipal bonds. She didn’t want to be worried about being abandoned by the man she loved, the way her own mother had. Nor did she want to worry about getting divorced, the way Tom and Grace had. It was so much better, she thought, to enter into a lifelong relationship with someone with a cool head and a sensible attitude.

      Martin continued to watch Bridgett, waiting.

      “My mother is going to need a little time,” Bridgett said finally, thinking that a guaranteed low-yield investment was better than the ups and downs of a high-risk annuity any day.

      “I have been patient, darling,” Martin said gently, covering her hand with his.

      Bridgett swallowed and tried not to think how heavy and almost uncomfortable the emerald-and-platinum ring felt on her right hand. She looked into Martin’s eyes. “I know you have,” she said softly.

      “I waited for you throughout the long months of your book tour.”

      And he had never complained about her absence, Bridgett thought in her soon-to-be fiancé’s defense. Not once.

      “But my patience,” Martin continued, “is almost gone.”

      HOURS LATER, Bridgett’s mind was still reeling with all Martin had demanded of her as he walked her to the front door of her newly acquired “single house” in the historic district of Charleston. Like all town homes of the early 1800s, the single-pile redbrick Georgian had been turned sideways on the narrow city lot. A two-story piazza, or covered porch, had been built along the length of the building to provide outdoor living space for each floor, as well as shade on the windowed facade. On the first floor the street-front room was her office, where she worked on her books and advised clients on financial matters. The single room behind it was an eat-in kitchen. On the second floor, she had a combination master bedroom and bath at the front of the house and at the rear a cozy sitting room, where she relaxed, read, watched television and entertained. It was small but perfect, and as soon as Bridgett had purchased it, she had known she had really made it. No longer was she merely the daughter of the housekeeper of a well-heeled Charleston family. Now she was one of the elite that kept the city humming.

      “You’ll call me in the morning to let me know what you’ve decided?” Martin said as he ever so tenderly increased his grip on her hand.

      Bridgett nodded as