Until There Was You(55)

“Exactly,” she murmured. Still, she did feel a tiny bit guilty. Okay, a lot guilty. Liam had tried to tell her that’s what it was, she could see that now, but being too busy breaking his bones, she hadn’t put two and two together. So much for her seventh-grade CPR class.

But if he’d known it was a panic attack, one could assume he’d had them before.

She glanced over at the patient, who was asleep once more, his head turned slightly to one side. He needed a shave. His hair looked even blacker against the white pillow. Her eyes lingered on his mouth. Hard to believe she’d actually straddled him in the elevator and ripped open his shirt. Too bad she hadn’t enjoyed it more.

Great. She was getting turned on. Apparently CPR was quite the aphrodisiac. Trapped in an elevator with Liam Murphy—it hadn’t exactly been the stuff of erotic fiction, had it? A man clammy with panic, trying to fight off the woman who was cracking his ribs. So, he was claustrophobic, she guessed. Or was afraid of elevators. Or both. Maybe it had something to do with Emma’s death.

The poor guy.

Posey stood up and went to Liam’s side, pulled the blanket a little higher on his chest. He had a tattoo on his shoulder (of course he did, it was required by the Bad Boy Book of Beauty)…a Celtic knot of some kind. Strong, manly, blue-collar hands.

Liam’s eyes opened. “You broke me,” he murmured.

“So, why are you having panic attacks?” she asked gently.

“Mr. Murphy? I’m Brenda Lutz, the social worker on duty.” A stout, gray-haired woman came into the room. “Just wanted to check on how you’re doing.” She looked at Posey. “Hello. Are you the wife?”

“No, just a friend. I’ll step out for a few, how’s that?”

“Stay,” Liam muttered.

“He’s pretty out of it,” Posey explained. “They gave him some painkillers for his rib.”

“Which she broke,” he added, eyes closed.

“Cracked.”

“I see.” The woman turned to Liam and raised her voice, as if he were deaf, not drugged. “Okay, Mr. Murphy, well, the main thing is that even if it feels like you’re dying, even if you can’t breathe or it feels like your heart is going to stop, chances are it’s not. Okay?”

“Okay,” he murmured.

“Panic attacks and anxiety syndrome are very serious problems, Mr. Murphy. They can be very distressing. Sometimes even debilitating. Terrifying. Many times they go away, but some people never stop having them. They can’t work, can’t sleep, can’t eat, they get no joy out of life—”

“Hey, thanks for the pep talk,” Posey said. “He’s had a little stress lately, but he’ll be fine. Thanks. He’ll call if he needs you.”

The social worker took a breath, frowned. “Fine. I’ll leave my card, in case he wants to se me privately.”

“I’ll make sure he has it.” Nice job, lady. In case he wasn’t freaked enough.

“Thanks for ditching her,” Liam murmured.

“Okay, big boy. Let me get you home. Come on. Put on your shirt.”

He sighed and sat up (groaning, of course, just in case she forgot who broke him), then pulled off the johnny coat, and Posey stopped feeling her legs. Irritation? What irritation? Mommy. Body like a Greek god, this guy, complete with washboard abs and thickly muscled arms…?. Jeans were still on, alas—apparently ruling out a heart attack didn’t require a complete strip-down. Pity. She handed him his shirt.

“What’s wrong with these buttons?” he asked, looking down.

“They’re…missing. Come on, you look great.”

An orderly wheeled Liam to the exit (the wheelchair did not staunch the guilt, either) and told Posey he’d wait while she got the truck. Shilo was sprawled across the front seat, sound asleep. “Sorry, pal,” she said, hefting up his front half so she could get in. Starting the truck, she sighed. This had not been a good day. Gretchen had felt the need to cook last night—not a bad thing, but she’d decided to film herself, narrating what she was doing as if she were filming an episode of The Barefoot Fraulein. Part of this apparently involved some weird new-agey music that made Shilo whine and tremble, which made Jellybean and Sagwa growl, which made Meatball hiss…so all in all, not restful.

This morning, she’d had a panicked call from the owner of the barn in Chelmsford—the historic district had decided at the last second to be interested, and the owner needed Posey to give a statement to his lawyer, which was why she was at the Mirren Building in the first place.

Then she’d broken God’s Gift, which, despite her intentions of saving his life, was not a happy feeling.

Well. Time to get the poor lad home. She pulled up to the entrance of the ER, and the orderly helped Liam in. Shilo, accustomed to riding (or sleeping) shotgun, whined from the truck’s small backseat.

Liam fell asleep yet again on the way home. His hand was just inches from her thigh…that nice, masculine hand. Dante’s hands had been soft—softer than hers, that was for sure. Dante was a good-looking man, that was certain—but it was a polished, put-together attraction, rather than the raw appeal Liam possessed. She glanced at him again. Sooty lashes. Ridiculous. He was much prettier than she was.

“Stop staring,” Liam muttered, not opening his eyes, and Posey jerked her attention back to the road.