Not2Nite

Inc.

They stood silently.

Slowly her hand came out of her pocket to rest on the top of his arm. The other one reached up to gently touch his cheek. He could see the glint of her eyes, those impossible brown eyes, as she gazed up at him gravely.

Are you going to kiss me? Her cool British voice gave him no inclination of how she felt.

Is that what you want? Guy wasn’t sure what he would do if the answer was no.

She didn’t reply, and he took that for her answer. Quickly he undid the clasp on her helmet and pulled it away, letting it drop to the ground without a thought. Free of its weight, she tilted her face up, her lips dark and full in the black night, and settled more deeply into his grasp.

It was invitation enough.

He bent his head toward her.

Her lips were soft and cold. Willing, but tentative. Her arms circled his neck, and he pulled her to him more tightly, body to body despite the thick winter clothing they both wore.

The night suddenly got a lot warmer.

The kiss didn’t last long. It was too sweet to be sustained, and they were too new to the sensation to change it into something more. As soon as Guy sensed Molly withdrawing, he broke it off.

But he didn’t release her.

And she made no move to pull away.

Was that a mistake? he asked.

No. Molly sounded quite sure, and Guy’s heart soared. But then she continued, However, repeating it might be.

Praise for Barbara Burke

"Is there such thing as love at first sight? Author Barbara Burke makes a convincing case in her historical romance, NOT2NITE. Through the use of accurate historical detailing and believable, true-to-life drama, the author has us hoping that love will conquer all. Will you be able to put the book down? Not2Nite!!"

~Norma Cook, author of The Lion’s Den

"RECOMPROMISING AMANDA is a delightful story. Ms. Burke took all the great qualities of a historical romance novel and compressed it flawlessly into this little gem. …I am duly impressed that Ms. Burke told an enjoyable and charming story in such a short book. This is a perfect story for a perfect couple."

~The Long and the Short of It Reviews

One of the best Historical romances I've read in a while because it had everything I love this genre of novel to have including a scandal in the past, some subtle humor and great main characters in Amanda and Jason. The dialogue and plot of this book made for easy reading.

~The Romance Studio

Barbara Burke takes the best of the traditional Regency romance and spices it up in this fantastic tale of two people who are so right for one another and cannot see what is right before their eyes. …I cannot wait to see what else this author has to offer because I enjoyed her style and creativity.

~Got Erotic Romance

Not2Nite

by

Barbara Burke

A Candy Hearts Romance

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Not2Nite

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Barbara Burke

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by RJ Morris

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Vintage Rose Edition, 2016

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0625-4

A Candy Hearts Romance

Published in the United States of America

Dedications

In memory of my mother, Phyllis J. Flint,

who lived through it.

I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention to the stories.

~*~

And to Ross, of course.

Chapter One

London, February 1941

Guy had never been so lost. When he’d emerged from the warm, yellow glow of the pub, he had absentmindedly assumed he’d be stepping into a familiar world. A world where streets were lit with electric lamps and roads were identified with signs posted prominently, their names in easy to read bold letters. A world where lamps shone from every window and cars screamed past, lighting up the shadows of night even in the darkest back alleys. A world he knew, even if he was in a foreign country at war.

His mistake.

Even though it was winter, the daylight savings time had meant it was still light when he’d entered the small establishment, drawn in by the sounds of laughter and the raw bitterness of a late winter’s day. He hadn’t really paid attention to the heavy black oilcloth he’d had to push aside to enter. He was too intent on the warmth of the gas fire and the row of tap handles glistening in a seductive line across the back of the well-polished mahogany bar. As he sipped on the second pint of a very palatable bitter ale, propped as close as was reasonable to the flickering flames of the room’s only source of heat, the publican’s careful draping of the blackout curtains as dusk slowly settled had completely escaped his notice.

But when he’d warmed up and reluctantly decided he’d better press on, he had been brought up short. Outside it was as black as the inside of a cow, and Guy didn’t have a clue where to turn. In daylight it had seemed a simple task to follow the cryptic instructions that had been quickly copied down onto the back of an old envelope. A maze of streets might lead to his destination, but the route seemed clear enough. So he’d stopped on a whim, confident he knew where he was going. His mistake had lain in not re-entering the pub immediately he now realized. Instead, after stepping outside into the dark of a world under attack, he’d blundered along, convincing himself that he remembered which direction he had to take. More fool him.

He suspected he was already lost beyond any hope of saving long before he admitted defeat. His only alternative seemed to be to try to return to the pub by retracing steps that had been only vaguely imprinted on his memory the first time round. Naturally he’d only made things worse. He kept walking, hoping to find some kind of landmark, any indication at all of where he was.

It was eerily quiet on the street after the friendly clamor of The Horse Under Saddle, despite the fact that it was only eight in the evening. He heard the occasional voice in the distance or the rumble of a vehicle creeping along in the dark. The most persistent sound was that of glass crunching under his feet, a disconcerting reminder of where he was and the damage that had been done in the months and months of relentless bombing that was simply called the Blitz.

He kept his head down in the hopes of discerning the changes in shadow that would mark the difference between sidewalk and road. He didn’t expect to be able to do so, but it gave him a purpose.

Then he walked headfirst into a lamppost.

It was bad enough that he’d cracked his head, but to do so on a useless hunk of iron that had originally been positioned where it was in order to cast enough light to guide people through the streets safely was just too much. He appreciated irony as much as anyone, but not when it was actually made out of iron and raising a goose egg on his brow. He tried to take a step away, and a quite unpleasant sensation of nausea came swimming to the surface of his awareness. He put out his hand quickly to clutch the cold metal and steady himself before he took an inglorious tumble to the glass-littered ground.

Damn, he muttered quietly, lifting his free hand to feel his face. A lump was already forming. God knows what had happened to his hat, knocked off during the encounter and probably in the process of forming an unbreakable bond with the random detritus of the bombed out streets. He took a few deep breaths, willing the dizziness to stop so he could let go of the lamppost and carry on with his doomed quest for a familiar landmark. When he thought he’d succeeded, he gingerly let go of the post and stood up straight. His head hurt, but he was pretty sure he was seeing straight again, and the nausea had receded. No real harm done, then.

In fact, the lamppost might have knocked some sense into him. Clearly he couldn’t go on wandering around in the dark until morning found him somewhere between Trafalgar Square and the Isle of Dogs.

Or in the Thames.

But which way to turn?

Just don’t smack into the post again, he admonished himself under his breath.

The signposts might all have been removed from the streets and even the veriest hint of illumination might be vigorously suppressed, but Guy suddenly remembered that street signs weren’t just on posts. They were often affixed to buildings, inconveniently high for drivers attempting to find one road in particular, but clearly apparent for those who had the time to scour the sides of the old stone and brick buildings for the small plaques. Of course, they were a lot easier to see in the daytime. And it helped if you were actually on a street corner, which Guy wasn’t.

At least he didn’t think he was. That didn’t seem too helpful.

One thing he did know. He was standing on the sidewalk, or the pavement as the Brits called it, and the lamppost was to his left. So the road must be farther left. If he followed it, he would eventually get to a corner, and when he did, he could look for a sign on a building.