How to Sleep with the Boss

by Janice Maynard

  “People don’t commit suicide for no reason. Your father’s fall from grace may have devastated her, but surely it was more than that.”

  “I know.” She swallowed hard, chagrined to feel hot tears threaten her composure. “I also learned to be afraid that I might be like her.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Patrick’s forceful curse shocked her.

  He squeezed her hands, and released her only to pull her against his chest for a brief hug. Then he stepped back and brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. The compassion in his gray-blue eyes stripped her raw.

  “Libby,” he said quietly, “you may not be the right person for this job, but you’re strong and independent and amazingly resilient. Not once have you whined about what the last year has been like for you. During terrible, tragic circumstances, you cared for your mother when she couldn’t care for herself. You did everything a loving daughter could do. And even though it may seem like it wasn’t enough, that’s not true.”

  “I tried to get help for her.”

  “By selling all your clothes and jewelry to pay for treatment.”

  “How did you know that?”

  He shrugged. “Charlise told me.”

  Of course. “It wasn’t like I had a use for all that stuff,” she said.

  “Doesn’t matter. You gave everything you had. You walked a hard road. You’re nothing like her, I promise. Nothing at all. And you don’t have to go down into a mine to prove it.”

  Six

  Patrick felt out of his depth. He was neither a grief counselor nor a psychiatrist. All he could do was make sure Libby knew how much he respected and admired her. And better yet, he could resist the urge to muddy the waters with sex.

  She stared at him, her expression impossible to decipher. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said quietly. “I want to do it. Not to impress you or to convince you to let me keep the job, but to prove something to myself.”

  “There are other ways,” he said quietly, now suddenly positive that he had made a mistake in bringing her.

  “But we’re here. And the time is right. Let’s go.”

  She took off down the clearly marked trail, forcing him to follow along behind. Their destination was a little over two miles away. With Libby setting the pace, they made it to the mine’s entrance in forty-five minutes. She stopped dead when he called out to her.

  The mine was unmarked for obvious reasons. No reason to tempt kids and reckless adults into doing something stupid.

  He caught Libby’s arm. “We’ve had engineers reinforce the first quarter mile. Enough to withstand even a mild earthquake. We do get those around here. I wouldn’t take clients in there if it was dangerous.”

  “I know.” She bit her lip. “How do we do this?”

  “We’ll carry our packs in our arms. I’ll go first, using a headlamp. You stay on my heels. When we get to a certain spot, I’ll spread something on the ground and we’ll sit. At any moment if you change your mind, all you have to do is say so.”

  “How long do you normally stay underground?”

  “An hour.”

  When she paled, he backpedaled quickly. “But we can always walk in and simply turn around and walk out.” He hesitated. Was his role to encourage her or to talk her out of this? “Are you sure, Libby?”

  She nodded, her pupils dilated. “I’m sure. But since I’m pretty nervous, you won’t mind if I disappear into the woods for a minute?”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “To relieve myself.”

  “Ah.” While she was gone, he followed suit and then waited for her return.

  Though the day was bright and sunny, Libby’s skin was clammy when she reappeared. He touched her shoulder. “You might want to roll down your sleeves and put on your jacket. It will be cool in the mine.” They had shed layers as they walked and the air grew warmer.

  Libby did as he suggested and then stared at him. “What now?”

  “Let’s do this.” He pushed aside the undergrowth that had taken over the mine’s entrance since last year. Facing him was a wooden door set into the dirt. He wrestled it loose and pushed it aside. “Door stays open,” he said. “No getting locked inside, I swear.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  He shot her a glance over his shoulder. She was smiling, but in her eyes he saw apprehension. Even so, her jaw was set, her resolve visible.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  * * *

  Libby put one foot in front of the other, blindly trusting Patrick Kavanagh to lead her into the bowels of the earth. Months ago when she and her mother were grief stricken and displaced, trying to start a new life, Libby had been anxious and stressed and worried.

  But not like this. Her skin crawled with unease. People were meant to exist in the light. Her heartbeat deafened her. “Patrick!” She called out to him, her stomach churning.

  He stopped immediately, dropping his pack and turning to face her. The beam of his headlamp blinded her. They weren’t far into the mine. Daylight still filtered in behind them.

  “Steady,” he said. Knowing his eyes were on her only amplified her embarrassment.

  She held up a hand. “Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”

  Patrick nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  Suddenly, she wanted to throw herself into his arms. He was strong and self-assured and utterly calm. She was a mess. No wonder he thought she couldn’t handle Charlise’s job.

  Slowly, they advanced into the mine. A quarter of a mile sounded like nothing at all. But in reality, it felt like a marathon.

  Her panic mounted. No matter how slowly she breathed and how much she told herself she could do this, her chest tightened and her stomach curled. “Wait,” she said. Frustration ate at her resolve. Mind over matter wasn’t working.

  She dropped her pack and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Give me a couple of minutes. I can make it.”

  Patrick dumped his pack as well and removed his headlamp so that the light pointed at their feet. “It speaks volumes that you even tried this, Libby.”

  Wiping her nose with her sleeve, she shook her head. “I hate being so stupid.” Now would be a good time for him to hold her and distract her with his incredibly hot and sexy body. But apparently, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Or ever.

  “You’re not stupid. Lots of people have fears...heights, spiders, clowns.”

  His droll comment made her laugh. “Clowns? Seriously?”

  “Coulrophobia. It’s a real thing.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  She heard him chuckle.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “What are you afraid of, Patrick?”

  Before he could answer, a muted rumble sounded in the distance.

  “Hang on, Libby,” he said.

  Before she could ask what or why, a roaring crash reverberated in the tunnel. Debris rained down on them, first in a gentle fall, and then in a heavy shower that choked them and pelted their heads.

  She heard Patrick curse. And then she stumbled.

  * * *

  Patrick fumbled in total darkness for Libby’s arm. They had both gone down in the chaos. His brain looked for answers even as he searched frantically for his companion. He latched onto her shoulders and shook her. “Say something, damn it. Are you hurt?”

  Dragging her into his lap he ran his hands over her head and limbs, checking for injuries. When he found none, he sighed in relief. He chafed her hands and rubbed her face until she stirred.

  “Patrick?” she muttered.

  “I’m here.” Just then, her entire body went rigid and she cried out.

  “We’re okay,” he said firmly. “There’s no need to panic.”


  She was silent, telling him louder than words she thought he was crazy. After a moment she tried to sit up. “What happened?”

  He kept an arm around her, feeling the shudders that racked her body. Though he would walk through hot coals before admitting it, the infinite, crushing darkness was pretty damn terrifying. “I’m not exactly sure, but I can make a guess. The mine hasn’t caved in. I told you we’ve had it checked and reinforced.”

  “Then what?” Her head was tucked against his shoulder, her hands curled against his chest, her fingernails digging into his shirt, as if she wanted to climb inside his skin.

  “I think it was a quick tremor...a small earthquake.”

  “In North Carolina?”

  “I told you. It happens. And we’ve had so damn much rain in the last three weeks, it’s possible there was a landslide that blocked the entrance.”

  Nothing he could say was going to make the facts any more palatable. Libby’s skin, at least the exposed part, was icy cold, far colder than warranted by the temperature in the mine. He worried she might be going into shock. So they had to take action...anything to break the cycle of panic and disbelief.

  “I need to walk back to the entrance and see what it looks like.”

  Her grip on his shirtfront tightened. “Not without me.”

  He smiled in the dark. “Okay. But first we have to find the headlamp.”

  He let go of his precious cargo with one hand and sifted through the debris.

  Libby was pressed so close to his chest he could feel the runaway beat of her heart. “Is it there?”

  He found the elastic strap and lifted it out of the pile of dust and twigs and small stones. But when he flicked the switch, nothing happened. Feeling carefully around the outer portion of the LED lamp, he realized that the whole lens had shattered.

  “It’s here,” he muttered. “But it’s broken.”

  “What about our phones?”

  How exactly was he supposed to answer that? Did he need to tell her they could be stranded for days and needed to preserve the batteries? On the other hand, if they were going to be rescued, it made sense to get as close to the entrance of the mine as possible. Unless, of course, there was another landslide. Highly unlikely, but possible.

  “I have a couple of backup flashlights,” he said. “All I have to do is locate my pack and get them. Will you be okay for a minute if I let go of you?”

  “Of course.”

  The right words, wrong tone. She was perilously close to the breaking point.

  Cursing himself for bringing her down into this hellhole, he set her aside and reached out his hands like a blind man. The first pack he found was Libby’s. Since he had loaded it himself, he knew the exact contents. But he had put the flashlights in his pack, because they were heavy.

  Moments later, he found his own equipment. When he located the item he wanted and flicked the switch, the small beam of light was as welcome as fresh water in the desert.

  Libby stared at him owlishly. “Thank God,” she said simply.

  “You have stuff in your hair,” he said. “Not insects,” he added quickly. Leaning forward, he combed his fingers through the ends of her ponytail and picked tiny debris from the rest of her head. “There,” he said. “All better.”

  His conversation was nonsensical. He freely admitted that. But what in the hell were you supposed to say to the beautiful woman you were buried alive with—the very one you were hoping to keep at arms’ length because she was vulnerable and trusting and not the woman you needed in your life either personally or professionally?

  “It’s not my real color,” Libby said.

  “Excuse me?” He was befuddled, maybe a little bit in shock himself.

  “The color,” she said. “I’m a redhead. Maybe you remember from when I was a kid. But after the mess with my father, I started dying my hair so I would blend into the crowd. Now I’m afraid to change it back.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “Tomorrow you should make an appointment with a stylist and go back to being you.”

  At last, she smiled. A weak smile, but a smile. “You are so full of it.”

  “I’m serious. Men love redheads.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m not an idiot. The chances of us getting out of here anytime soon are pretty slim. No one is expecting us back until dinnertime. That’s several hours from now. And by the time they start to wonder where we are, it will be dark.”

  “So we’ll wait,” he said. “We have a decent amount of food and water. If we’re careful, it will last.”

  “How long?” The question was stark.

  “Long enough.”

  He got to his feet, ignoring the lash of pain in his left calf. “Come on, woman. Let’s see what happened. We’ll take our gear with us.”

  They hadn’t really come all that far. It didn’t take long to retrace their steps. Unfortunately, his guess was spot-on. With or without a tremor as the inciting incident, a goodly portion of the hillside had come sliding down on top of the mine opening. Wet, sludgy earth filled the entrance. Trying to burrow out would only make the whole pile shift and slither, much like digging a hole at the beach.

  But Libby looked at him with such naked hope he had to do something. “Stand back,” he said. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “May I hold a flashlight, too?”

  It wasn’t a good idea. Batteries were like gold in their situation. Still, she needed the reassurance of sight. Later on they could sit in darkness.

  He reached into his pocket for the spare flashlight and handed it to her. “I’m serious,” he said. “Don’t get too close.”

  For a moment, he was stymied. Using his bare hands to dig seemed ineffective at best, but even mentally cataloging the contents of his backpack, he couldn’t think of a damn thing that might serve as a shovel.

  In the end, he tucked the flashlight under his armpit and awkwardly began to gouge his fingers into the wet mess. Dry dirt wouldn’t have been so bad, but the mud was a frustrating opponent.

  After ten minutes of concerted effort, he had made no headway at all. Not only that, he was starting to feel dizzy. He stumbled backward, his filthy arms outstretched. “This isn’t going to work. I’m sorry, Libby.”

  “You’re hurt,” she said, alarm in her voice. “You’re bleeding below the knee.”

  He blinked, trying to focus his thoughts. Maybe adrenaline had masked his injury, because now his leg hurt like hell. “I don’t want to touch the flashlight with all this gunk on my hands. Can you look at my leg?”

  Libby squatted and touched his shin. “Whatever it was cut all the way through the cloth.”

  “Probably a piece of glass. We’ve found all kinds of broken bottles and crockery down here over the years.”

  He flinched when she carefully rolled up the leg of his pants.

  “Oh, God, Patrick,” she gasped. “You need stitches. Sit down so I can look at it.”

  “Wait. Find the tarp in my pack. We’re going to have to make a place to get comfortable.” Comfortable wasn’t even on the map of where they were located. But they would take what they could get.

  Libby moved quickly, locating the large tarp and spreading it with one side tucked up against the wall of the mine so they could lean against something. When she was done, he pointed to an outside zip pocket of his pack. “There’s a small, thin towel in there. Can you wet it, just barely, so I can get the worst of this off?”

  Libby did as he asked, but instead of giving him the towel, she took his hands in hers and began wiping his fingers clean. It was a difficult chore, especially given the lack of water.

  He still held the flashlight under his arm. Though he couldn’t see Libby’s face, there was enough illumination for him to watch as she removed the muck. It was an
intimate act...and an unselfish one...because the process dirtied her skin, as well.

  But finally he was more or less back to normal.

  “Sit down now,” she urged.

  He was happy to comply.

  With his back against the wall of the mine, he took a deep breath. He felt like hell, and his leg had begun to throb viciously. There’s a first aid kit,” he said gruffly. “Big outer pocket. Antiseptic wipes.”

  Libby put a hand on his thigh, perhaps to get his attention. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, Patrick. A lot. The cut is four inches long and gaping.”

  “Clean it the best you can. We’ll use butterfly bandages.” The words were an effort. “I’ll hold the flashlight.”

  It occurred to him that he could reach his own leg...do his own medical care. But he couldn’t seem to work up the energy to try.

  Libby’s touch was deft but gentle. Wisely, she didn’t waste time getting rid of all the blood. He watched her concentrate on the cut, making sure the edges were clean, dabbing at tiny bits of dirt that might cause infection later. When she was satisfied, she sat back on her heels. “I’ll let it dry a minute,” she said, “before I use the butterfly thingies.”

  “Can you get me a couple of painkillers?” he asked, hurting too much to act macho at this particular moment.

  “Of course.”

  He took them with a sip of water and sighed. “Is the skin dry?”

  Libby traced around the wound with a fingertip. “Yes.” She tore open a small packet and gently affixed the Band-Aid, pulling the open edges of the cut together. It took two more before she was satisfied. “The bleeding has stopped.”

  “Good.” He closed his eyes. “Sit between my legs,” he said. “It will keep us both warm.”

  He needed the human contact, but more than that, he needed a connection to Libby specifically. She might be completely wrong for him on far too many levels, but right now, they had each other and no one else. He wanted to feel her and know she was okay.

  Seven

  Libby felt like she was in a dream. But when she settled between Patrick’s thighs, her legs outstretched, her back against his chest, the situation got a whole lot more real.