When The Lights Go Out.... Barbara Daly

still. “Did it feel like more than business to you?” The words came timidly. “Because it did to me.”

      He buried his face in her neck. “It had nothing to do with business. In fact, if we’re going to be working together, we have to keep this totally separate from business or I won’t get any work done.”

      For the first time, Blythe felt that something might be a little bit wrong. She came fully awake.

      “Yeah.” He was talking to himself now and sounding nostalgic. “When you called—”

      But she hadn’t called him. Candy had.

      “—and offered to welcome me personally to New York—”

      Blythe stiffened. Ooh. A whole lot wrong.

      “—I asked Bart about you and he said—”

      How did he know Bart?

      “‘Candy Jacobsen? It should be quite a welcome.’ So Bart’s already expecting hanky-panky in the office and it would be a shame to disappoint—”

      Blythe spun into a sitting position before she interrupted him. She needed to feel more on top of things. “Candy? You came here to do this with Candy?”

      He sat up even straighter than she had and stared at her. “No, I came here to take you out on a date. Things happened. Like a blown transformer. And why are you referring to yourself in the third person?” With one foot he began to fish for something on the floor. In a second or two he brought those little black briefs up with his toes and slid them under the covers. The violent thrashing of the sheets and blankets was a dead giveaway that he was putting them on.

      Blythe fished with her toes, too, and brought up the peach silk boxers and camisole he’d tossed to the floor the night before, which was beginning to feel like a lifetime ago. She struggled into them, babbling. “Because I’m very much afraid there is a third person! You were coming at seven o’clock. To help me get over Sven.” She leaped out of bed, darted to her closet and pulled out a pair of flowered capris, tugging them clumsily up over the boxers, which felt as if she’d put them on backward.

      When she turned back to face him, he was out of bed with one leg in his jeans and his arms folded across his chest. The black briefs had a ripped seam down the left side. She had a feeling they hadn’t been ripped until she had ripped them off him. “Candy,” he said slowly and grimly, “who’s Sven?”

      “I’m not Candy,” she said desperately.

      “Then who the hell are you?” He almost yelled the words.

      “I’m Candy’s roommate. You’re supposed to be Candy’s old friend, the sensitive psychiatrist from Boston who was coming here to shrink my sexual insecurities.”

      “I’ve never met Candy, and I am for sure not a psychiatrist.” His eyes widened. “You were planning to do this with some other guy?”

      “No, I wasn’t, but then I met you and decided I would, and after last night, the other guy isn’t necessary anymore. After last night—” she lowered her voice to a whisper “—I don’t think I have sexual insecurities.” She cleared her throat. “Ah, what line of work are you in, because I’m sure a psychiatrist couldn’t have dealt with my problem any more sensitively than you did.”

      Glaring at her, he stepped out of the pants leg he’d just gotten into instead of putting on the jeans completely. Blythe was sure he had no idea he wasn’t wearing anything but his ripped briefs while he gave her his full credentials, or that while his voice sounded cold, his erection persisted. “I’m Max Laughton, political columnist, formerly with the Chicago Observer, and starting Monday, with the New York Telegraph. And I should have guessed the Telegraph was a congenial place to work when Candy called and invited me out. I just couldn’t believe it would be—” his voice deepened to a growl “—quite this congenial!”

      The growl had almost built to a roar when a sound came from the living room, a sound that chilled Blythe to her very bones. The whoosh of the door opening and closing, followed by Candy’s voice, which although it was a little out of breath, somehow projected across miles. “Come on in, Garth. I’ll make the introductions and then I’ll get cleaned up and skedaddle back down the frigging stairs so you two can go for it. Blythe?” It was a shout. “We’re here. You okay?”

      No! Not anymore! She’d stolen Candy’s date, and there would be hell to pay.

      She swallowed. “I’m fine,” Blythe called. “I’ve been so worried about you!” With Candy safe and sound, she was considerably more worried about herself.

      “I spent the night in the frigging office,” Candy yelled. “Garth got caught on the wrong side of the Triborough Bridge and the frigging state patrol put him in a homeless shelter in Queens.” Her voice seemed more distant. “He asked for a hotel and they said, ‘Whadda ya think we are, a frigging travel agency?’” Blythe heard her laugh. “Hey! Good news! We bought coffee from a guy on the street cooking on frigging propane.”

      “Candy, really, your language.” That must be whatshisname, Garth, speaking. He had a pleasant-sounding voice, but it didn’t stroke her the way Max’s voice did when he wasn’t yelling at her.

      “Is she coming in here?” Max crossed his hands over the crotch of his ripped briefs.

      “I’m sure she wouldn’t.” Blythe suddenly snapped out of her stupor. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she shouted, making wild gestures at Max to “keep quiet” and “get dressed” and “keep quiet” again for good measure. “I, ah, overslept,” she improvised. “Just throwing on some clothes.”

      While Max scrambled through the small bag he’d gotten the condoms out of—oh, Lord, the condoms they’d used—emerging with a pair of wildly patterned boxer shorts and a different pair of pants, tan slacks this time, she tugged a peach tank top over her head, then snagged her fingers in her tangled hair.

      “Don’t dress up for us.” Garth again. “We look like we’ve spent the night in jail.”

      “Did you hear anything from my date?” Candy yelled. “I couldn’t reach him. Did he show up here?”

      “I’m very much afraid he did,” Blythe said in her normal voice, sending a condemnatory glance in Max’s direction, which was lost on him because he was concentrating on the buttons of a tan-and-blue striped shirt. One flew off. He snarled and reached into his bag, coming out with another shirt, this one navy.

      “What did you say?” Candy yelled.

      “I said we’ll talk in a minute.”

      Blythe took a peek at herself in the mirror and groaned. She looked like, and undoubtedly reeked with, the scent of sex. She should have worn a bra under the tank top. Her nipples were sticking out through the camisole, but there wasn’t time to do anything about her appearance. Directing another set of pushing and lip-slashing “stay back and keep quiet” gestures at Max, who was still ignoring her, she inched open the door and went out to face the music. Or rather, Candy and the psychiatrist, a pair she’d spent the night wronging.

      “Hi,” she said, smiling brightly.

      “Oh, there you are,” Candy called from the kitchen. “Garth, say hi to Blythe. Then would you light the frigging stove so we can keep the coffee warm? I’m doing something wrong. Blythe, what were you saying about my date?”

      Blythe felt the blood draining from her face and realized Garth was staring at her, so she darted a glance at him. He was attractive, just as Candy had said, but his face didn’t have the character, the punch Max’s did. She scanned the rest of him while she tried to think of an answer to give Candy. His blondness was accentuated by a pale beige summer suit, badly creased, a light blue-striped shirt and a blue tie patterned in yellow—she squinted at it—ducks.

      He didn’t seem to notice how distracted she was. A sensitive man would have taken one look at her and called 9-1-1. Instead, he said over his