Bedspell. Jule Mcbride

      “I met Ghardi,” Mara was saying. “You know? That shoe designer who does the retro-platforms with the gaudy bows on the toes?”

      “C’mon, you guys,” said C.C. “If we don’t get downtown nobody will be left at Gus’s, and I want to see the costumes.” Greenwich Village’s pre-Halloween parade was tonight, and there was bound to be stragglers.

      “So many parties,” said Diane. “So little time.”

      “And there will be even more on Halloween night,” agreed Mara.

      “I’m glad they have the downtown parade early.”

      Signe pressed a martini into the furry paw of a man in a bear costume, then a cosmopolitan into the black-gloved hand of a witch, and then she glanced between her friends again and grinned, since they all looked so vixenlike in matching black jumpsuits. Tails were pinned to their fannies; they’d found headbands with ears attached; and whiskers were drawn on with black eye pencil. Black masks covered their eyes.

      Not that the women looked the least bit alike. C.C. was petite with russet hair she blew so straight that it always looked as if she’d ironed it, while Diane—the one men usually drooled over first—was tall, blond and statuesque. Mara, with her strong, angular bones and clear skin, was good-looking enough to get away with keeping her brown hair conveniently short, eschew makeup and dress in a wardrobe that Diane always termed “grunge-inspired.”

      “I really wish I could go with you,” Signe said regretfully. “Are we still having breakfast tomorrow?”

      As C.C. nodded, a hank of reddish hair spilled over her shoulder. “Want to meet at Sarah’s on the West Side? They’ve got those wicked apple tarts.”

      Everybody agreed.

      “And what about the wiccan thing?” asked Signe. Through the business Diane had opened the year before, Wacky Weekends, she offered novelty getaways for bored Manhattanites. She’d just heard of a solstice event in the Catskill Mountains hosted by a group of women from New Jersey. Since the group’s monthly gatherings might appeal to her clientele, she’d asked her friends to help her check it out.

      “It’s this upcoming weekend,” said Diane. “So, we’d better firm up our plans.”

      “I’ll rent a car,” said C.C., who was the only one of the four women who enjoyed driving.

      “Get a convertible,” said Signe. “It should still be warm enough.”

      “Indian summer’s going to hold through the weekend,” offered Mara. “It said so on the news.”

      “We’ll all chip in for the car,” continued Diane.

      Signe nodded. “What should we bring?”

      “Aspirin,” C.C. quipped. “It’s rumored that the New Jersey wiccans serve a herbal root beverage that kicks butt.”

      Diane scoffed. “Forget aspirin. I’ll bring Bloody Mary mix.”

      “And forget your bathing suit, Sig,” said Mara. “If it’s warm, everybody’s skinny-dipping in the lake.”

      C.C., who hated nature almost as much as Signe, arched an eyebrow. “Lake?” she groused. “What lake?”

      “The cabins are on a lake,” explained Mara.

      Crinkling their noses, C.C. and Signe exchanged glances. Signe said, “That means insect repellent. I think I’ve got some left over from the last time we were dragged into the wilderness.”

      “Good. Oh!” C.C. added. “Don’t forget to bring something belonging to the man you’re casting a spell on. On Saturday night, the wiccans place a boiling cauldron in the center of their magic circle—”

      “And we’re all supposed to throw in an object while we read a spell that we’ve written ourselves,” said Mara.

      “You mean, to make a man fall for you?” asked Signe, thinking of Gorgeous.

      C.C., who wasn’t the committal type said, “Or have sex.”

      At that precise moment, Signe’s eyes landed on Gorgeous Garrity, who was standing on the other side of the room, and she sucked in a breath. Since leaving Wall Street to take over his father’s position, running Garrity Enterprises, a conglomerate that owned businesses around the world, Gorgeous had been on the cover of New York magazine, New York Business World and People. He’d also taken a liking to Signe.

      “Speak of the devil,” said Mara.

      “He’s eyeing the bar,” observed C.C., her voice hitching. “He’s about to come over here, so we’ll make ourselves scarce.”

      Signe glanced downward at her gold blouse and silk pantaloons, then ran a hand nervously over the shoulder-length black wig that framed her heart-shaped face, hoping Gorgeous would like the Cleopatra costume. Just contemplating a conversation with him made the pulse in her throat tick wildly, and the thought of sleeping with him…

      She sighed. “He’s so rich.”

      “Try not to think about it,” coached C.C. “Just think of him as an average American male.”

      But Gorgeous Garrity didn’t have an average bone in his body. Each bone, in fact, was long and tailored, just like the sport jackets he wore when he visited the Met during his lunch hour.

      “He’s definitely heading this way, as soon as the woman in the milkmaid outfit lets go of him….” Diane murmured.

      Signe’s voice hitched. “Only because he wants a drink.”

      “Au contraire!” scoffed C.C. “As busy as he is with Garrity Enterprises, he doesn’t have to come to the museum every day to get a cup of coffee at noon. He does it to flirt with you, Sig.”

      Signe’s thoughts exactly. “He told me to call him George.”

      All three women said, “George?”

      “That’s his name.”

      C.C.’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that.”

      “Nobody does. Everybody’s called him Gorgeous for years.”

      “Well, he’s definitely that,” said Mara. “Here he comes!”

      “I don’t want to read too much into this,” Signe said nervously. She was only a waitress in the museum’s café. It wasn’t exactly an esteem-building job, either. She tried not to compare herself to her girlfriends, but over the past year, she’d watched each of them achieve career ambitions. Diane had opened Wacky Weekends, C.C. had begun taking on her own accountancy clients and Mara had become a Realtor.

      But Signe wasn’t giving up hope. In college, she’d studied art and library science. While working for the New York public library, she’d kept applying for jobs at the Met with no luck, so she was trying this new tactic. She’d do anything she could to meet the curators and get them to consider her for one of the coveted jobs in the archives department.

      She loved everything about this museum. Its dark, gloomy corridors, marble staircases and smell of oil paint all made her heart sing. Just breathing the air inside the cavernous rooms quickened her blood almost as much as Gorgeous Garrity. Spending the past six months slugging coffee and helping at these private parties had finally paid off, too.

      Tonight, her boss, Edmond Styles, had told her that one of the archives assistants was quitting. Come Monday morning, when the woman’s two-week notice was official, Signe would be offered the job of her dreams. She was so excited. Edmond knew everything about art, and was reputed to have connections with the Garritys, through the museum, since they frequently donated artwork.

      Signe took another deep breath. It would be so wonderful if something—even just one sizzling night of sex—would happen with Gorgeous….

      It was a fantasy, of course. Just a dream, but who