“Business decisions don’t always have room for things like that,” Shane said carefully. “It’d be nice to not ever have to fire anyone or cut staff, but that’s the way the world is. I’m sure you made the best decisions you could.”
“I did. But I hate myself for it. And…” She swallowed convulsively. “I don’t know if I can ever do that again.”
“Do…what?” He was almost afraid to ask.
“Make tough decisions like that. I’m afraid I’ll always be second-guessing myself, taking things into consideration that I shouldn’t be. How can I be an effective manager if I’m too wishy-washy to make decisions? I was almost ready to go back to work, and when I went to visit the bank I had a meltdown.”
He watched her, unsure of what to say.
“They told me I had a panic attack. First time in my life. I didn’t believe them, but every time I think about going back to work, I get this funny, tight feeling in my stomach. It’s fear, Shane. I’m terrified. And it’s not just because of being held at gunpoint and thinking I was going to die. It’s the guilt.”
God. His chest ached for her and he wished he could do something—anything—to make things better for her. Tenderness and warmth filled him and he drew her back down to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Go ahead, cry,” he murmured against her hair. “Get it all out.”
And she did. She sobbed and choked and sniffled until she seemed exhausted. His chest was wet and he reached for a box of tissues beside the bed and handed her some. She quivered against him. “God, I am so sorry,” she said, voice thick. “I do not know where that all came from.”
“I think I kinda pushed you to tell me that stuff,” he said. “I guess I should apologize. Except I think it might’ve been good for you.”
“Oh sure, embarrassing myself is good for me.”
He chuckled. “Don’t be embarrassed. I told you, I get it. I know what it’s like to have all those powerful emotions inside you that you don’t understand and don’t know what to do with.”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “That’s it.”
He tipped her chin up and kissed her mouth. Her lips tasted of salt. Words rose up inside him, words of…Christ. He wasn’t in love with her. He was just having sex with her to help her get over this depression. But her sadness tugged at something inside him, opened up a hole in his heart, made him want to save her, protect her from everything.
He deepened the kiss, expressing his feelings with actions instead of words, sliding his hand into her hair to hold her head, the other on her bare hip. She was tiny on his lap, silky-soft and delicious-smelling. He wanted to inhale her, eat her up, claim her.
The intensity of his feelings threatened his self-control and he had to fight to restrain himself, to remind himself what this was.
She kissed him back, soft mouth opening against his, silky tongue stroking, sweet and warm. She was naked in his arms, delicate breasts pressed to his chest, her butt cheeks on his thigh and he knew he was hardening against her.
They sat there snuggled together on the bed for a long time, just kissing in long, sweet, slow kisses, hands petting and caressing in gentle touches, tongues sliding, bodies pressing. Tenderness expanded inside him, filling his chest, his desire for her more than just lust for her body but an intense need to look after her, to make things better for her. He knew he couldn’t, really, but he could do this to make her feel better. And he made love to her with his hands and his mouth and his body, slow and gentle and worshipful.
When his cock hardened to the point of excruciating need, he slid down the bed, Keara still on top of him and helped her part her thighs around his hips. She lifted herself over him and lowered on to him, impaling herself, and the hot velvet clasp of her body around him seared his senses, sent sensation pouring through him in ecstatic waves. He arched and lifted into her, reached for her hands, and held them beside his shoulders as she rode him, her pretty breasts with tight little nipples in front of his face.
He lifted his gaze to her face, and though her mouth was swollen and eyes still glossy, the pleasure he saw there made him swell even more inside her. She gasped, eyes wide, quickened the pace and he matched her, hips thrusting, fingers tight on hers. He was so close already, but he wanted her to come too, so he released her hand and slid his down between them to where their bodies joined, probed for the bud of her clit and stroked over it. She cried out, rode him harder, and then he let himself go just as she sat up and arched her back, hair hanging down her back, eyes closed. He held her hips as he fucked up into her, balls tightening and jerking as he poured himself into her. Ah, Christ. Christ. She was incredible. So good. So damn good.
Chapter Fourteen
“Maeve.”
“Hmm?” Maeve was in her office, head bent over some papers.
“We need to talk.”
“What is it, muirnín?” She lifted her head, concern shadowing her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I wanted to talk to you about you forgetting it was Tuesday. Forgetting your bridge game.”
Maeve’s lips thinned. “It’s no big shillelagh. Everyone forgets things sometimes.”
“Yes. But you’ve been forgetting lots of things.” Keara sat down on a chair beside the desk. “You forgot I was coming. You forgot you’d received that shipment.”
Maeve waved a hand, but her lips trembled. “It’s nothing, Keara.”
Keara leaned forward. “I’m worried about you.”
Maeve gave a strangled laugh. “You’re worried about me? Don’t be silly, muirnín! I’m fine. I’m seventy years old. It’s natural for the memory to fade.”
“Yes, I guess it is. I just wondered if you’d talked to your doctor about it.”
“No, of course not! What’s he going to do? He’ll just tell me I’m getting old.”
“But what if it’s not just age? What if it’s something…more serious.”
Maeve stared at Keara, her face lined with horror. “What are you saying? Do you think I have… I have…the Alzheimer’s?”
“No. I don’t know. Probably not. But it might be an idea to see your doctor.”
Maeve shook her head, her bottom lip protruding. She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t want to know. If that’s what it is, I don’t want to know.”
“Oh no! Maeve!”
“It’s true.” She stared back at Keara, her stubbornness shining in her green eyes. “Don’t you know the Irish philosophy?”
“The…no.”
“In life, there are only two things to worry about—either you’re well or you’re sick. If you are well, there’s nothing to worry about. But if you’re sick, there are only two things to worry about—either you’ll get well, or you’ll die.” Maeve smiled. “If you get well, there’s nothing to worry about. But if you die, there are two things to worry about—you will either go to heaven, or hell. If you go to heaven there’s nothing to worry about. If you go to hell, you’ll be so busy shaking hands with all your friends you won’t have time to worry!”
Laughter bubbled helplessly out of Keara. “Oh, Maeve.”
“We’re all going to die, muirnín. I’m seventy years old. I want to live my last days enjoying them, not worrying about dying.”
Keara smiled tremulously. “You know, I actually think I get that. But for me, would you go to the doctor? Just to make sure you’re okay?”