When The Lights Go Out.... Barbara Daly

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      Max saw Blythe waiting at the elevator

      He slowed, giving himself the pleasure of simply looking at her in the little black dress. No more than a slip, really, and it hugged every curve.

      If he closed his eyes, he could remember exactly how the curves had felt in his hands.

      He quickened his step, moving silently, and sneaked up behind her. “You’re not escaping from me,” he whispered into her ear.

      Blythe jumped and shivered in his arms. “Go back to the party,” she said, sounding panicked. “What if my roommate catches you?”

      Max started to tell her exactly how little he cared if Candy caught them, but realized he had a much better use for their few stolen minutes. Gently he turned her toward him and bent his head way, way down to kiss her. She moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck.

      The elevator came and he backed her into it. His fingertips were at the hem of her skirt before the doors closed….

      Dear Reader,

      The words When the Lights Go Out once conjured up images of romance, mystery and excitement in my mind. During last August’s East Coast blackout, those words took on a whole new meaning. In Manhattan where I live, no lights also meant no stoplights at the intersections, no subways, no trains to the suburbs, packed buses, closed groceries and restaurants and no elevators in a city of skyscrapers. Worst of all, there were people in those subways and on those elevators when they ground to a halt.

      New York rallied, as it always does. There were unheard-of demonstrations of good manners at those unlighted intersections, and city dwellers invited stranded suburbanites to sleep over. When I discovered my neighbors stuck in the elevator, I’d love to report that I was as levelheaded and resourceful as Blythe Padgett. Alas, my rescue efforts involved a lot of running up and down the stairs while trying to get 911 on the phone, and in between, shouting hysterical words of encouragement down the elevator shaft.

      I wonder how many people ended up in the wrong bed like Blythe and found their lives changed forever. That’s something we’ll never know, because they’re not telling. Forgive me, Blythe and Max, for revealing your deep dark secret….

      Barbara Daly

      [email protected]

      Books by Barbara Daly

      HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

      859—A LONG HOT CHRISTMAS

      887—TOO HOT TO HANDLE

      953—MISTLETOE OVER MANHATTAN

      When the Lights Go Out…

      Barbara Daly

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      To all those friends with whom I shared the August 2003 blackout—to the doormen who stayed on, to my husband, George, and our stranded houseguest Eitan for cheerfully eating tuna salad sandwiches for dinner in the dining capital of the United States.

      And especially to my neighbors the Pingitores, who retained their elegance and dignity throughout their long ordeal in the elevator, and to those tireless NYPD officers who rescued them.

      Contents

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

      1

      “WHATCHA GOTTA DO IS gut up and frigging go for it.”

      “Frigging?” Blythe Padgett looked up at her best friend, her roommate, her co-worker, her guardian devil. “Very good, Candy. Last month it was effing. You’ve toned it down another notch.”

      “Bart’s on my case.” Candy Jacobsen was a tall, beautiful blonde with a mouth as filthy as the pan the mechanic drained your old oil into. Her passion for expletives was only one of the reasons her news stories invariably needed a rewrite, a task Blythe was performing at this very moment, providing Candy the time and space to interfere in her life.

      Not that Candy needed much time to interfere in Blythe’s life. Not at any time in the seven years they’d been friends had she ever been too busy to do that.

      She didn’t need much space, either. The New York Telegraph offices occupied three floors of a large, undistinguished building in Times Square. City Desk editor СКАЧАТЬ