“Oh my,” she gasped, “you’re not crying just because you’ve spilt the drink on my dress, are you?” “No,” I choked, “that’s not…�...� I buried my face in my hands. “There, there,” she soothed me, and suddenly her hands pushed away mine and her thumbs stroked my cheeks. “Don’t mind the dress for now. Why don’t we find a more private place to sit down.” Without waiting for an answer, she guided me through the room, and I stumbled along, my eyes too blurry to notice where I was going. We reached an. She needed none. Streaks of red highlighted her short cropped brunette hair, and she appeared to be in magnificent physical condition.Her skin had the bronze tan of someone who was no newcomer to hard outdoor work. Her face was more handsome than beautiful. She was wearing faded work jeans and a low-cut wool sweater, which allowed an excellent view of well-tanned, medium-sized breasts and the valley between.Sheila’s office featured a giant oak desk and a stone hearth. A picture window filled. More

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