Until There Was You

“It’s not…” But what if it was a heart attack and not simple, choking panic? The vise on his chest clamped down harder. “Cordelia, I—”

“Don’t worry, I’m here.” She shoved him to the floor with surprising strength, thunking his head against the floor, and if he’d had the air, he would’ve told her to knock it the hell off, but—

“Oh, please, don’t die, don’t die,” Cordelia chanted, ripping open his shirt. She put her ear against his chest. “Bieber! I can’t hear anything, he’s gasping! I think he’s dying!” Her phone clattered to the floor, and she was suddenly straddling him, her knees pinning his arms.

“Cordelia,” he managed, and— Oof! What little oxygen remained in Liam’s chest was suddenly pushed out as Cordelia began pushing on him. Hard. “Cord— Oof!” Crap! That hurt!

“Hang in there, Liam! Think of Nicole! Hey! 911 people! I dropped the phone, hurry up, hurry up!” She pushed down again, and a searing pain lanced through Liam’s right side.

“Stop,” he grunted. She was killing him.

The elevator lurched, then rumbled, then began descending again. “Thank you, God!” Cordelia said, giving him another compression. The pain in his side flashed light behind his eyes, and Liam managed to wrench his arm free grab and her wrist. “Stop fighting, Liam!” she said, wrestling with him. “Help is on the way!” Another chest compression, another white-hot pain down his side.

Then the doors opened, Cordelia barked, “He’s having a heart attack!” and the paramedics descended.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“NO SIGN OF A HEART attack,” the doctor said. “Looks like you just cracked a rib.”

That’s right, Posey thought. Rub it in.

“I didn’t crack a rib,” Liam said, his words running together. “She did. She broke me.”

“It looked like a heart attack,” Posey snapped. “Go back to sleep.”

He’d dropped right off after the first shot of painkiller. Men. Such wimps. She’d broken two fingers last year trying to move a fountain with Mac, wrapped them with electrical tape and got back to work. “It wasn’t a heart attack.” He sounded like a grumpy toddler.

“I know, Liam! But if it had been, maybe I would’ve saved your life, okay?” She turned to the doctor for some female solidarity. “He was clammy, rubbing his chest, couldn’t breathe. Err on the side of caution, I figured.”

“Panic attacks can look a lot like cardiac issues, you’re right,” the obviously brilliant woman said.

“See?” Posey said, looking at Liam. His eyes seemed to be moving in opposite directions.

“You broke me.”

“Oh, sac up and stop whining.”

“Some nurse you make. Why don’t you just stab me?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Are you two married?” the doctor asked.

“No!” they snapped in unison.

“Okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender. “Well, Mr. Murphy, we have a consult coming in, and then you’ll be able to go home, okay? Just rest for now.” She looked at Posey. “He’ll need someone to drive him, obviously.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Posey said.

“You should,” Liam said. “You should do a lot more than drive me. You should be my servant.”

“Oh, for the love of Elvis,” she muttered.

“Here are the follow-up instructions,” the doctor said. “Call his primary physician if you have any questions. You’re free to leave after the consultation, okay? Good luck.”

Posey glanced at the sheet, which advised limited activity until he felt better (which she guessed would be never, based on the total wimp he’d been thus far). There was more information on panic attacks than cracked ribs.

A panic attack is a sudden episode of intense fear that develops for no apparent reason and triggers severe physical reactions. Panic attacks can be very frightening. When panic attacks occur, patients may think they’re having a heart attack or even dying.

“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.

When they reached his place, she got out and opened Liam’s door. “Time for bed, tough guy,” she said, and he got out carefully. He stood there a minute, not quite steadily, and she slid her arm around his waist—his lean, warm waist.

“You doing okay?” she asked, trying not to think dirty thoughts.

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, leaning into her, and those dirty thoughts surged. Even through her layers of flannel, she could feel the heat of his skin. Glancing down, she saw that beautiful torso again. Perfection. Utter masculine perfection. Except for the rib she’d cracked.

“Back in a few, Shilo,” she said, her voice a bit unsteady. Shilo gave a snore in response. Liam seemed to be getting heavier as they rode up in the elevator. “Your hair smells pretty,” he said, and her girl parts gave a warm squeeze.

Mrs. Antonelli’s door remained mercifully closed, though Posey could well imagine her on the other side, watching through the peephole. “Got the keys, Liam?”

“In my pocket,” he said. His eyes were closed.

Feeling quite perverted, she reached into his pocket. Do not cop a feel, she warned herself. It was difficult to avoid, but she tried. She unlocked the door. Déjà vu all over again, except this time, Liam was the one who was, er, incapacitated. She steered him down the same hallway he had carried her a few weeks ago, into a different room this time. His room.

The bed was covered with a dark brown comforter, very manly, and you could tell it was a guy’s room because it lacked all those touches a wife would’ve given it. On the night table was a photo of Nicole, a gorgeous black-and-white shot of her on a swing. Another black-and-white photo of Nicole on the beach sat on top of the dresser. Aside from that, the room was pretty stark.

Liam pulled back the covers and collapsed on the bed with a groan. Posey pulled off his shoes and covered him up. She was tucking in Liam Murphy, the stuff of many a teenage fantasy. Maybe she’d go home and write about it in her Hello Kitty diary, then watch Luke Perry movies…or she could remember that she was thirty-three years old and wise up.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Want me to call your daughter or leave her a note or something?” She paused. “Or I could stay and tell her when she gets home.”

“You can go. But don’t tell Nicole.”

“Tell her you cracked a rib? Because I think she’ll be able to see that you’re uncomfortable, Liam. Since you’re such a baby and all.”

He smiled faintly, not opening his eyes. “I’ll tell her about the rib. Maybe. Just not the panic stuff.”

“Have you always been scared of elevators? My brother’s afraid of cats.”

“I’m not scared of elevators,” he said, eyes still closed. “I’m scared I’ll die and she’ll be all alone.”

The words caught her heart by surprise. Posey opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. “You won’t die, Liam. I mean, you will, of course, we all will…but not for a long time.”

“Except I almost did. I laid down my bike last fall.”

“You… Does that mean you were in an accident?” He nodded. “Were you okay?”

Liam finally looked at her, his eyes bleary. “Yeah. But it was close, you know. The cop said he expected a… What’s that word? When people die?”

“A fatality?”

“Yeah. ’Cause my bike was all…you know. Wrecked.”

“What happened?”

His eyelids were apparently too heavy to keep open. “I was on the freeway. Some guy in a Porsche tried to…” His hand flopped. “You know.”

“Pass?”

“Yeah. That’s it. Pass. And next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground in the breakdown lane, and my bike was all—” he made a twisting motion with his hands “—crushed. But I got…” Another hand gesture.

“Thrown?”

“Yep.”

“Were you wearing a helmet?” she asked.