Читать книгу Secret Agenda - Rochelle Alers - Страница 12

Vivienne sat on a chocolate-brown leather love seat in a room with a wall of pocket doors. They were open to take in the cooling breeze coming off the ocean.

She stared at Diego who sat in a matching club chair. This time, when he crossed his legs he hadn't had to concern himself with mismatched socks. Resting his elbow on the arm of the chair, he anchored his thumb under his chin and placed a forefinger along the side of his face.

She glanced around the room rather than focus on Diego staring at her as if he were a predator contemplating an attack. At that moment she was his prey, having signed an agreement to give him the next six months of her life and not to disclose any information about ColeDiz International Ltd.

Instinct told her that working closely with Diego wasn't going to be an easy task, yet she welcomed the challenge. It would help her to maintain her fluency in Spanish, sharpen her business skills and fill a six-month employment gap on her résumé. She wouldn't have resigned her position with the investment firm if Sean was still alive. But his death had become fodder for the tabloids, and it wasn't until he was buried with all of the reverence bestowed upon an elected official that her life resumed a semblance of normalcy.

“This room will become your office,” Diego said in a voice so quiet that Vivienne had to strain to hear him over the hypnotic sound of the crashing waves. “It can also double as a bedroom. The sofa converts to a queen-size bed.” His eyebrows lifted slightly when she glanced at the leather sofa that completed the seating grouping. “The alcove has a small utility kitchen with a mini fridge stocked with snacks and beverages. There's also a half bath on the other side of that door.” He pointed to a door at the opposite end of the room.

“The telephone has three extensions,” he continued. “The first one is the house phone and the second a direct line to my executive assistant, Lourdes Wallace.”

“And the third?” Vivienne asked when he hesitated.

“It's my direct line. All you have to do is press the button and the call will go to my private line at the office. If I don't pick up after four rings, then the call will be forwarded to my BlackBerry. I'll order a BlackBerry for you, so we'll be in sync.”

“If the house phone rings, how do you want me to answer it?”

“Cole-Thomas residence, Ms. Neal speaking, will suffice.”

Vivienne nodded, mentally filing away the information. “How are you going to explain me to your family when they call and I answer your telephone?”

Diego glared at her under lowered lids. “I don't explain myself to anyone—and that includes my family.”

“Well,” she said sotto voce.

“A cleaning service comes on Mondays and Thursdays.” He wagged a finger at her. “And that translates into you not lifting a finger to do any cleaning. I'm going to give you a remote device for your car that will allow you to come and go without being stopped by security.”

Vivienne smiled. “It's probably easier to get into Fort Knox than trying to get into this place.” She'd been stopped along the private road leading to the multimillion dollar condominiums by an armed uniformed guard a quarter of a mile from the gatehouse. He'd called in her name on his walkie-talkie, and it was only after she'd been cleared that she was allowed to continue.

“The residents pay through the nose for security.”

“Hiding behind armed guards and electronic gates is hardly what I call living, Diego.”

“It is to those who value their privacy.”

“And, are you one of those who value your privacy?”

“More than anything,” he confirmed. “That's one of the reasons why I hired you, Vivienne. You were married to a politician, so you know about discretion. Secondly, you're a recent widow and if we're seen together at a social event, then it lets both of us off the hook when I explain that our liaison is strictly business-related.

“Did you ever meet Sean?”

“Not personally. I was introduced to him at an NAACP fund-raiser in D.C. a couple of years ago.”

“Why were you in Washington?”

“I'm on the board of the local Florida chapter.”

“Is that the only board you're on?” Vivienne asked.

Diego exhaled an audible sigh. “No. At the present time I'm an active member on five boards, either as a consultant or a fund-raiser. I've earned quite a reputation by convincing many of my wealthier friends and family members to dig deep for a good cause.”

“Convince or intimidate?”

He waved a hand. “I use whatever works, Vivienne. You'll have a computer, so how you set up my schedule is your decision. Just make certain you send an update to Lourdes every day, and she'll do the same to avoid scheduling conflicts.”

“Other than Saturday's wedding, what else is pending?”

“The wife of a college friend is throwing him a surprise birthday party on Sunday. What he doesn't know is that it'll be aboard a yacht that will be a birthday gift from his in-laws.”

“You're kidding me?”

Smiling, Diego shook his head. “No, I'm not. His in-laws are in the oil business.”

“Apparently he doesn't have to concern himself with how much it'll cost to gas up that baby.”

“Do I detect a hint of cynicism?”

“Damn skippy, Diego,” she countered, glowering at him. “While most people have to decide whether to fill up their gas tanks to go to work, or cut back on food for their children some guy gets a yacht for his birthday because his outlaw in-laws reap untold oil profits.”

Vivienne's rant surprised Diego, especially since he knew she'd grown up in a privileged family. It'd taken Jacob Jones two hours to give him the information he'd requested on Vivienne Neal, and the information that had come through his BlackBerry was not what he'd expected. His friend had uncovered documents that Vivienne Kay Gregory, née Neal, was suing her husband Sean Bailey Gregory for divorce, citing abandonment and alienation of affection as grounds for the dissolution of their four-year marriage.

Jake had also reported that Vivienne's father had amassed a small fortune as a litigator specializing in civil rights cases. Her brother Vaughn, who'd attended Stanford Law with Gregory, lived on the West Coast with his wife and two school-age daughters. After graduating from an elite New England finishing school, Vivienne went on to Sarah Lawrence where she'd earned a degree in romance languages.

She'd taken a year off to live in Europe and upon her return she enrolled in a graduate program as an MBA student. Her grades and her father's reputation were crucial factors when she was hired by a major investment firm for their international banking division. A check on her financial and criminal background yielded nothing. She'd never been cited for a parking violation or bounced a check. Jake ended his report by concluding that Vivienne Neal was so clean, she literally squeaked.

Diego wanted to tell Vivienne that she could stop with the verbal beat down, because ColeDiz was into agriculture, but swallowed the words since he was certain it would only instigate another volley from her. Despite her sharp tongue, he respected her fierceness, her spunk. The last thing he needed was another assistant who was a crybaby. She'd asked whether he was going to fire her, but that wasn't going to happen unless she breached her contract.

What he didn't want to acknowledge was that his personal assistant was beyond his expectations. Whether in a tailored suit or casually dressed, with or without makeup, Vivienne Neal was confident, regal and claimed a strength that did nothing to compromise her femininity.

Pressing his palms together, he stared at her over his fingers. “May we please change the subject?” he asked.

Vivienne's head came up when she registered a deceptive calmness in Diego's voice that hadn't been evident before. “Sí, Diego, por favor continue.”

“I'd like us to take our evening meals together, so—”

“You expect me to cook dinner?”

“No, Vivienne,” he drawled as if she were a two-year-old. “Either we'll dine out, order in, or I'll cook. The refrigerator is always well stocked.”

“You cook?”

“Yes, I cook,” he shot back. “Now, will you please stop interrupting me?”

“Lo siento.”

Diego lowered his leg, planting his sandaled feet firmly on the carpeted floor. “No, Vivienne, you're not sorry.”

A hint of a smile parted her lips. “But, I am sorry. I promise not to say anything until you're finished.” She pantomimed zipping her lips.

Throwing back his head, Diego laughed, the warm, deep sound filling the room. “You know you're really a piece of work, Vivienne Neal.” She nodded vigorously, while pointing to her compressed lips, which made him laugh even more.

“Over dinner we'll discuss the next day's agenda.”

Vivienne listened intently, enthralled by the soft drawl of Diego's voice when he gave her an overview of his family-owned holdings, which included coffee plantations in Costa Rica, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Jamaica and Brazil. The family had expanded their agribusiness to include bananas in Belize, and as CEO he'd become a cotton broker with a Ugandan grower.

“The company's next venture will be based on the mainland,” he said. “It goes against everything my great-grandfather wanted when he first set up ColeDiz, but it's a new century and time for a change.”

“Where do you intend to start up this new venture?”

“South Carolina.”

“What's in South Carolina?” Vivienne asked.

“Tea.”

“Tea,” she repeated. Diego nodded. “You're going to grow tea in the United States?”

“Yes.” He stood up in one smooth motion, Vivienne rising with him. “We'll talk about this some other time. What I need you to do is concentrate on that stack of mail on the desk.”

Vivienne glanced over at the workstation with a large flat screen monitor on an L-shaped desk littered with envelopes. “What's in them?”

Diego bit back a smile. “I don't know. It'll be up to you to discern what's important and what isn't.” He sobered. “I know you probably want to get settled in, so I'll see you in the morning.”

Vivienne took several steps, and then stopped. “What time do you get up?” She knew she was on call 24/7. However, she wanted to establish a schedule with Diego that would minimize confusion.

“Five.”

“Why so early?”

Diego angled his head. “I'm in my office by six.”

Vivienne gave him an incredulous look. “You start working at six?” He nodded. “What about breakfast?”

“I usually grab something from the food kiosk in the building lobby.”

She rested her hands on her hips. “Haven't you heard that breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”

He frowned. “I don't have time to make breakfast.”

“Do you have an early-morning meeting tomorrow?”

“No. Why?”

“I'll get up earlier and make breakfast for you, but only if you promise to stay and eat it.”

The seconds ticked by as Diego stared at the woman who'd offered to get up at dawn to accommodate his unorthodox lifestyle, wondering if she'd done the same for her late husband. He recalled Jake Jones's e-mail about Vivienne's intent to divorce her husband because he'd neglected her—in and out of bed. What, he wondered, had happened to sour their short-lived union? He knew couples who'd been married five years and still acted like newlyweds.

“Thank you.”

Vivienne gave him a dazzling smile. “You're welcome. Good night, Diego,” she said as she turned and walked out of the office.

“¡Buenas noches! Vivienne,” he said to the empty room where she'd been.

To say Vivienne Neal was an enigma was an understatement. Born into privilege, she'd attended elite schools, traveled extensively, spoke several languages, was the widow of a high-powered politician, and now lived under his roof as his personal assistant.

Diego's expression grew serious. Alicia Cooney had told his personnel director that Vivienne Neal was perfect for the position, and Caitlin's reaction had been much the same. He'd found Vivienne highly intelligent, but extremely outspoken. Women with whom he'd found himself involved were usually more reticent.

But, he had to remind himself that despite living together their relationship would remain platonic. After all, he was her boss, and he had very strong views about mixing business with pleasure.

Vivienne walked into the suite that was to become her sanctuary for the next six months. It would be where she'd sleep, read or just while away the hours when she wasn't working for Diego Cole-Thomas.

Her first reaction to the CEO was one of apprehension because of his hard-charging reputation as a man who ran his family-owned corporation like a general directing a military campaign. But she'd discovered another side to the man who'd admitted to being less than perfect when he attributed his wearing mismatched socks to color blindness.

She didn't doubt whether she'd be able to manage Diego's business and personal agenda, because it was something she'd accomplished before. In her first year of marriage, she'd hosted Sean's meet-and-greets when he decided to run for his father's congressional seat. Although she'd held down a full-time job, she mailed out invitations, kept track of the responses, met with caterers to plan menus and florists to come up with arrangements that suited carefully thought-out themes. She'd become the consummate politician's wife. But in the end she'd become a political widow, flying to the nation's capital only when it was advantageous for her overly ambitious husband to be seen with his wife.

She'd shifted her focus from Sean to her career, occasionally traveling abroad as a translator. The trips to Italy, Spain or France became working holidays where she shopped, visited museums and attended the theater, enjoying productions of popular Broadway plays.

When she'd married Sean she'd hoped to balance her career with motherhood, but even that was denied her because whenever her husband returned to Connecticut they rarely shared a bed. And a stubborn pride wouldn't let her beg her husband to make love to her, so work became the balm to soothe his estrangement and her sexual frustration. When she'd called Alicia to complain about Sean, her college roommate suggested two options: divorce, or an affair. In the end she'd decided on the former.

Her bedroom suite—a suede headboard and bedframe, marble floor, rugs, drapes and wallpaper—was decorated in neutral shades. The monochromatic color scheme continued into the bath and sitting rooms. Vivienne fell in love with the bathroom. Mirrored walls, custom moiré wall covering and cappuccino-colored onyx stone around the garden tub and countertops provided a striking contrast to the soft beige tones in an adjoining powder room. She found it odd that although Diego lived alone he'd purchased the top two floors, doubling his living space. All of the furnishings were tasteful, and there was no doubt he'd had it professionally decorated.

Vivienne glanced at her watch. It was close to ten. She knew she had to unpack a few of the boxes tonight to select something to wear to bed and for the following day. And, she'd also promised Alicia that she would call with an update. Looking around, she realized she'd left her handbag on the table in the foyer.

Retracing her steps, she made her way down the staircase and across the darkened living room to the foyer. A lamp on the table provided enough light for her to see her handbag. She'd just reached for it when a voice stopped her.

“Quitting already?”

Spinning on her toes, she saw a shadow. Then Diego stepped into the light. Why, she mused, hadn't she noticed the stubble on his lean jaw when they'd sat together in the office? He moved closer, and the lingering fragrance of his cologne mingling with his body's natural scent was a potent sensual bouquet that served to remind her how long she'd been without a man.

“No, I'm not.” Her voice was low, as if she'd run a grueling race. “I came down to get my handbag.” There came a beat before she asked, “What are you doing lurking around in the dark?”

Diego took another step, bringing him within inches of the woman who intrigued him and upset his equilibrium. “I didn't know I needed your approval to set the alarm. After all, I don't want to be responsible for not protecting my houseguest.”

She smiled. “I thought I was your employee.”

He returned her smile. “Eso, también, Vivienne.”

She froze. It was the first time Diego had initiated speaking Spanish to her. “Houseguest and employee,” she drawled. “Now, which one carries more clout?”

“I would have to say employee. My houseguests usually have to fend for themselves, while I take full responsibility for my employees.”

Vivienne met the dark gaze that seemingly bored into her. She'd attempted to conceal her own feelings behind a sometimes too-bright smile and witty repartee. She'd kept up a brave front for four years, and continued the deception when she was photographed as the grieving widow.

“Lucky me.” She wiggled her fingers. “¡Buenas noches!”

“Good night, Vivienne.”

Diego waited until he was certain Vivienne had made it up the staircase, then he followed the trailing scent of her perfume. The fragrance was like the woman herself—delicate and sexy.

But, it wasn't her face, perfume or body that nagged at him hours later when he found himself in bed tossing and turning restlessly. It was Jake's e-mail and the part about Vivienne's divorce action. If Sean Gregory hadn't been killed in a hit-and-run, then everyone would've known that he wasn't sleeping with his wife. And, the question was, if Congressman Sean Gregory wasn't sleeping with his wife, then who had he been sleeping with?

Diego peered at the clock on the bedside table at the same time as he punched the pillow under his head. It was two in the morning and he wasn't going to get much sleep this night—if any, and he knew the reason for his insomnia was a woman who slept in a suite next to his.

Tossing back the sheet, he moved off the bed. Walking on bare feet to the windows, Diego slid back the glass door and screen. The light from a nearly full moon cast an eerie silvery light on the beach. The damp ocean air swept over his naked body. His flesh pebbled, although the nighttime temperatures were in the seventies. The humidity was as thick and heavy as a wet blanket.

He went to the far end of the balcony and peered over the edge. Strategically placed lights surrounding the rear of the building and the moon provided enough illumination for him to see a couple sitting close to each other on the beach. He smiled. It was apparent he wasn't the only one unable to sleep.

Diego saw movement out the corner of his eye and turned to see Vivienne rise from a chair at the opposite end of the balcony. Time appeared to stand still; she was bathed in moonlight, the outline of her body visible through the lightweight fabric of her nightgown. Within seconds his body reacted violently, the flesh between his thighs stirring to life. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed a curse.

He couldn't remember the last time his body hadn't followed the dictates of his brain. Unable to move, and helpless to stop the blood rushing to his groin, Diego closed his eyes and waited, waited for the shadowy image of Vivienne's slender body to fade. When he opened his eyes he saw that he was alone. Vivienne had retreated to her bedroom, while he had to wait a little while longer before he could do the same.

Breathing heavily, Diego lay facedown on the bed. Shivers of self-doubt taunted him as he chided himself for not only hiring Vivienne Neal but also for mandating that a condition of her employment was that she had to be a live-in personal assistant.

He knew he hadn't made a mistake in hiring her, but in having her in the bedroom next to his. It was apparent Vivienne was more aware than he was of the proximity of their sleeping arrangement when she'd asked whether there were bedrooms on the first floor.

Cursing under his breath in English and Spanish, Diego punched a pillow with enough force to release the feathers from their casing. His plan to utilize his personal assistant's skills as his hostess had just backfired. He'd prided himself on his iron-willed self-control when it came to women. Yet he had found himself fully aroused when he'd glimpsed the outline of her body through a layer of fabric.

“I don't do bosses.” He could still hear Vivienne's taunting voice.

“And I don't sleep with female employees,” he whispered in the darkened room. He repeated it over and over until he fell asleep.