How To Sleep With The Boss. Janice Maynard
mother had been his mother’s best friend for decades.
“I appreciate your willingness to step outside your comfort zone, Libby,” he said. “But I think we both know this job is not for you. You don’t understand what it involves.” Patrick’s second in command, Charlise, was about to commence six months of maternity leave. Patrick needed a replacement ASAP. Because he had dawdled in filling the spot, his mother, Maeve Kavanagh, had rushed in to supply an interviewee.
Libby sat up straighter, her hands clenched in her lap, her expression earnest and maybe a tad desperate. “I do,” she said firmly. “Maeve described the position in detail. All I’m asking is that you run me through the paces before I have to welcome the first group.”
Patrick’s business, Silver Reflections, provided a quiet, soothing setting for professionals experiencing burnout, but also offered team-building activities for high-level management executives. Ropes courses, hiking, overnight survival treks. The experience was sometimes grueling and always demanding.
The fill-in assistant would be involved in every aspect of running Silver Reflections. While Patrick applauded Libby’s determination, he had serious doubts about her ability to handle the physical aspects of the job.
“Libby...” He sighed, caught between his instincts about filling the position and his obligation to play nice.
His unwanted guest leaned forward, gripping the edge of his desk with both hands, her knuckles white. “I need this job, Patrick. You know I do.”
Libby had him there. He’d witnessed in painful detail what the past year had been like for her—as had most of the country, thanks to the tabloids. First, Libby’s father had been sent to prison for tax fraud to the tune of several million. Then eight weeks ago, after months of being hounded by the press and forced to adopt a lifestyle far below her usual standards, Libby’s emotionally fragile mother had committed suicide.
Quite simply, in the blink of an eye, Libby Parkhurst had gone from being a sheltered heiress to a woman with virtually no resources. Her debutante education had qualified her to host her father’s dinner parties when her mother was unable or unwilling to do so. But twenty-three-year-old Libby had no practical experience, no résumé and no money.
“You won’t like it.” He was running out of socially acceptable ways to say he didn’t want her for the job.
Libby’s chin lifted. She sat back in her chair, her spine straight. The disappointment in her gaze told him she anticipated his rejection. “I know your mother made you interview me,” she said.
“I’m far past the age where my mother calls the shots in my life.” It was only partly a lie. Maeve Kavanagh wielded maternal guilt like a sharp-edged sword.
“I don’t have anything left to lose,” Libby said quietly. “No home. No family. No trust fund. It’s all gone. For the first time in my life, I’m going to have to stand on my own two feet. I’m willing and able to do that. But I need someone to give me a chance.”
Damn it. Her dignified bravery tugged at heartstrings he hadn’t tuned in ages. Why was Libby Parkhurst his problem? What was his mother thinking?
Outside his window, the late-January trees were barren and gray. Winter still had a firm hold on this corner of western North Carolina. It would be at least eight weeks before the first high-adventure group arrived. In the meantime, Libby would surely be able to handle the hotel aspects of the job. Taking reservations. Checking in guests. Making sure that all reasonable requests were accommodated.
But even if he split Charlise’s job and gave Libby the less onerous part, he’d still be stuck looking for someone who could handle the outdoor stuff. Where was he going to find a candidate with the right qualifications willing to work temporarily and part-time?
If this had been an emotional standoff, Libby would have won. She never blinked as she looked at him with all the entreaty of a puppy begging to be fed. He decided to try a different tack. “Our clients are high-end,” he said. “I need someone who can dress the part.”
Though her cheeks flushed, Libby stood her ground. “I’ve planned and overseen social events in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. I think I can handle the fashion requirements.”
He eyed her frumpy clothing and lifted a brow...not saying a word.
For the first time, Libby lowered her gaze. “I suppose I hadn’t realized how much I’ve come to rely on the disguise,” she muttered. “I’ve dodged reporters for so long, my bag-lady routine has become second nature.”
Now he was the one who fidgeted. His unspoken criticism had wounded her. He felt the taste of shame. And an urgent need to make her smile. “A trial period only,” he said, conceding defeat. “I make no promises.”
Libby’s jaw dropped. “You’ll hire me?”
The joy in her damp green eyes was his undoing. “Temporarily,” he emphasized. “Charlise will be leaving in two weeks. In the meantime, she can show you how we run things here at the retreat center. When the weather gets a bit warmer, you and I will do a dry run with some of the outdoor activities. By the end of February, we’ll see how things are going.”
He had known “of” Libby for most of his life, though their paths seldom crossed. Patrick was thirty...Libby seven years younger. The last time he remembered seeing her was when Maeve had taken Patrick and his brothers to New York to see a hockey game. They had stopped by the Parkhurst home to say hello.
Libby had been a shy redheaded girl with braces and a ponytail. Patrick had been too cool at the time to do more than nod in her direction.
And now here they were.
Libby smiled at him, her radiance taking him by surprise. “You won’t be sorry, I swear.”
How had he thought she was plain? To conceal his surprise, he bent his head and scratched a series of numbers on a slip of paper. Sliding it across the desk, he made his tone flat...professional. “Here’s the salary. You can start Monday.”
When she saw the amount, Libby’s chin wobbled.
He frowned. “It’s not a lot, but I think it’s fair.”
She bit her lip. “Of course it’s fair. I was just thinking about how much money my family used to spend.”
“Is it hard?” he asked quietly. “Having to scrimp after a lifetime of luxury?”
“Yes.” She tucked the paper in her pocket. “But not in the way you think. The difficult part has been finding out how little I knew about the real world. My parents sheltered me...spoiled me. I barely knew how to cook or how much a gallon of milk cost. I guess you could say I was basically useless.”
Feeling his neck get hot, he reached for her hand, squeezing her fingers before releasing her. Something about Libby brought out his protective instincts. “No one is useless, Libby. You’ve had a hell of a year. I’m very sorry about your mother.”
She grimaced, her expression stark. “Thank you. I suppose I should tell you it wasn’t entirely a surprise. I’d been taking her back and forth to therapy sessions for weeks. She tried the suicide thing twice after my father’s trial. I don’t know if it was being without him that tormented her or the fact that she was no longer welcome in her social set, but either way, her pain was stronger than her need to be with me.”
“Suicide never makes sense. I’m sure your mother loved you.”
“Thank you for the vote of support.”
Patrick was impressed. Libby had every right to feel sorry for herself. Many women in her situation would latch onto the first available meal ticket...anything to maintain appearances and hang on to the lifestyle of a wealthy, pampered young socialite.
Libby, though, was doing her best to be independent.
“My mother thinks the world of you, Libby. I think she always wanted a daughter.”
“I