Читать книгу Secret Agenda - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 9

Six months later…

“You'd be perfect for the position as Diego Cole-Thomas's personal assistant, Viv.”

Vivienne Neal stared intently at her old college roommate, her expression impassive. Alicia Cooney was the only person she let call her Viv. To everyone else she was Vivienne. Suddenly a smile began to curl around Vivienne's mouth, her lips parting and displaying a set of perfectly aligned white teeth. “That's what you said about my last interview, which I'm embarrassed to say was a miserable failure.”

Alicia's eyebrows lifted in surprise. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen her friend smile in the two months since Vivienne had moved to Florida. Vivienne's expression softened, revealing her delicate features, cinnamon-brown complexion, a round face with high cheekbones, a delicate chin, sensual mouth and tawny-colored eyes that had a slightly startled look.

“It wasn't because you weren't qualified. The wife of your potential employer saw you as a threat. The difference here is Diego Cole-Thomas doesn't have a wife.”

Vivienne's smiled vanished quickly. “I am not a home wrecker. And if that had been my intent, I certainly wouldn't have been with a man who's more than twice my age.”

“Charles Willingham isn't your average run-of-the-mill, thrice-married, sixty-nine-year-old letch. I heard somewhere that he likes to pinch his female employees' behinds. He gets away with it because if they complain, he either pays them off or he marries them. It helps that he's one of the wealthiest men on Florida's Gold Coast.”

Vivienne waved a hand. “I didn't let him get close enough to touch me and I could care less about his money.”

Alicia rolled her vivid emerald-green eyes upward. “That's because you never had to concern yourself with money, unlike me who grew up dirt-poor. If I hadn't been blessed with brains and this face and body,” she drawled while waving her hand in front of her chest, “I'd still be slinging hash in a diner like my sisters, mother and grandmother. Luckily, I learned early on how to capitalize on my assets,” Alicia continued, so matter-of-factly that Vivienne knew it wasn't a boast.

She smiled again. Alicia had used her brains and her physical assets to her advantage when she attended college on full scholarship and succeeded in marrying a first-round NBA draft pick. Petite, blond, green-eyed Alicia Cooney had caught the eye of Rhames Tyson during freshman orientation, and dated him exclusively throughout college much to the consternation of many of the African-American coeds. A week before graduation, Rhames signed a multimillion-dollar contract with a California pro basketball team, when Alicia informed him that she was pregnant with his child.

Vivienne was Alicia's maid of honor in a wedding that became a media spectacle. But Alicia's Cinderella marriage ended when her husband insisted on driving—although his blood alcohol level exceeded the legal limit—totaling his six-figure import. He also shattered both knees, which ended his pro ball career. Alicia lost the baby and Vivienne invited her friend to stay with her and recuperate from the physical and emotional injuries. Less than a year after exchanging vows, Alicia filed for divorce, moved to Florida and set up an executive staffing agency.

Now, their situations were reversed. After losing Sean, Vivienne decided to list their mausoleum of a house in an exclusive, upscale gated community in Stamford, Connecticut with a real estate agent. She put the contents of the house in storage and moved to West Palm Beach, Florida, to stay with Alicia until she figured out what she wanted to do with her life. Her parents had wanted her to move in with them, but at thirty-one she didn't want to be treated like a child again. She'd fought too hard for her independence to now relinquish it to her overbearing mother.

She ran a hand over her straightened dark-brown hair with reddish highlights. It was longer than it had been in years. Sean had been dead six months and she had to pull herself out of her funk.

“Tell me about Diego Cole-Thomas before I agree to an interview.”

Alicia crossed her bare feet at the ankles as she lay back on the cushioned chaise on the lanai. “I happen to know him better than most of my clients,” she began.

“You've dated him?” Vivienne asked.

“I wish,” Alicia countered. “Unfortunately our interaction has always been professional. His company's HR will usually contact me whenever they're looking to fill a position. I'm surprised they contacted me again, because you'll be the third applicant I've referred to ColeDiz International over the past four months.”

Vivienne's gaze narrowed. “What happened to the other two?”

“One lasted about a week before Diego sent her packing and the other lasted a month before he was terminated. Both were supposed to be on call, but whenever he needed them they either were unavailable or didn't know how to organize his social and business schedule.”

“And, what makes you think I'll be more successful than the other two?”

“You were the wife of a congressman so you're familiar with the demands of a high-powered man. Plus you have a business background and you're also bilingual. The position is for six months and pays extremely well. You won't…” Alicia's words trailed off as she averted her gaze to stare at a tiny lizard crawling up the screen.

“I won't what?” Vivienne asked, leaning forward on her lounger.

“You'll have to make yourself available 24/7. Diego's an international businessman, so if he's up at two in the morning talking to someone on the other side of the world he may need his assistant to be available, too.”

“So, I'd become a live-in personal assistant?”

“Yes,” Alicia said after a long pause. “I'm certain he'll hire you because you're confident and assertive. He fired the first applicant because she locked herself in the ladies' room, and refused to come out after he'd reprimanded her.”

Vivienne knew her friend made a living from the fees clients paid Alicia's placement agency. But lately, Vivienne found herself tired of sleeping late and hanging around the pool bemoaning the turn her life had taken. No one other than her attorney knew at the time of her husband's death that she'd planned to divorce Sean Gregory anyway. She'd told the reporter who'd managed to get around the police barricade that she'd come to Washington to attend a fund-raiser with Sean. But, the truth was she'd come to tell her husband that her attorney had filed documents to end their four-year sham of a marriage.

She sat up. “Set up the interview, Alicia.”

“Yes,” Alicia whispered as she pumped her fist in the air. Her company had grown from placing nannies and au pairs with wealthy couples who were either too lazy or disinclined to care for their own children, to providing executive and support staff for several Florida-based companies, of which ColeDiz International Ltd. was one.

When she'd heard that her friend had lost her husband, she hadn't hesitated when she booked a flight to Connecticut to be with Vivienne. The public viewed Vivienne Gregory as the beautiful grieving widow of one of Washington's young rising stars. But it wasn't the loss of her husband Vivienne grieved most, but that of a marriage that'd ended before it had a chance to begin. She'd been a political widow four years before she legally became one.

Diego Cole-Thomas closed the shades to shut out the blinding rays of the summer sun before taking his seat at a round table in the anteroom of his office with his cousin and confidant. He'd asked Joseph Cole-Wilson Jr. to meet with him over breakfast because he wanted to discuss a venture that was certain to change the family-owned conglomerate forever.

Diego had celebrated his first year as CEO in April, and it'd taken twelve months to gain the complete confidence of his employees, managers and board of directors to move the company in another direction. Diego's great-grandfather, Samuel Claridge Cole, had set up the company in 1925, and more than eighty years later not much had changed. The board of directors was expanded to include nonfamily members, but every CEO was a direct descendant of Samuel Cole. Martin and David, sons of Samuel, held the position before Diego's father Timothy Cole-Thomas took over the helm. He was now the fourth generation and fifth chief executive officer of a company with holdings that included coffee plantations in Mexico, Jamaica, Puerto Rico and Brazil, vacation properties throughout the Caribbean and banana plantations in Belize.

His first action upon assuming control was to become a cotton broker. He paid cash on delivery to a Ugandan cotton grower, making ColeDiz the biggest family-owned agribusiness in the United States.

Ignoring the cup of coffee next to him, Diego stared at Joseph. He knew his cousin was still smarting because he'd requested the eight o'clock meeting the day the corporate attorney was scheduled to begin a two-week vacation with his longtime girlfriend.

“What I want to tell you will not take much of your time.”

“Gracias, primo,” Joseph whispered in Spanish under his breath.

A slight frown was the only indication of Diego's annoyance with his younger cousin for the unsolicited aside. He'd brought the twenty-eight-year-old into the company, but after five months Joseph still hadn't shown any initiative. If their grandmothers hadn't been sisters, Diego would've fired him his first week on the job.

Even though his last name was Wilson, Joseph's looks were undeniably Cole. He'd inherited Marguerite-Josefina Diaz-Cole, his Cuban-born great-grandmother's, olive coloring and refined features. His close-cropped curly black hair, large dark eyes and sensual mouth had many of the single female employees openly lusting after him. However, once word got out that he was dating a girl he'd met in law school, a collective groan could be heard from his admirers.

“I wanted to tell you before you leave that ColeDiz will establish its first American-based company before the end of the year.”

Joseph sat forward in his chair. “What about the coffee plantation in Lares, Puerto Rico?”

Diego inclined his head. “I should've said a company on the mainland.”

“¿Dónde sobre la tierra firme, Diego?”

Diego's expression didn't change. “Carolina del Sur.” The only time he spoke Spanish at the office was when he and Joseph were alone. His mother didn't speak the language, but his abuela Nancy spoke only Spanish whenever he and his siblings visited with her. Nancy Cole-Wilson never wanted him to forget his African and Cuban roots.

“What the hell is in South Carolina?”

Planting an arm on the table, Diego cradled his chin on the heel of his hand. “Tea.”

Joseph's eyes grew wide. “Tea?” he repeated.

“Sí, primo. Té. ColeDiz is going to get into the business of growing and manufacturing tea, and I'm going to put you in charge of our first North American venture.”

The light that fired the jet-black orbs dimmed. “I know nothing about tea. I'm a lawyer, not a farmer, Diego.”

“I'm not a farmer, yet I know the entire process of growing and harvesting coffee and bananas.”

Joseph wasn't about to argue with his cousin, because he knew he would come out on the losing end. So, he decided to try another approach. “Isn't tea only grown in Asia?”

Diego lifted his eyebrows. “That's what most people believe. But, there's only one tea garden or plantation in America, and it's on Wadmalaw Island in the South Carolina low country.”

“Where do you plan on setting up this plantation?”

“I had someone buy a hundred acres between Kiawah and Edisto Islands. When you return from your vacation I want you to negotiate the transfer of the property to ColeDiz. We'll put in the tea shrubs late fall and hopefully we'll be able to get our first harvest next spring and the second harvest in the summer. And if the warm weather holds throughout the winter, then we can expect another harvest.”

Joseph stared at the man who looked enough like their great-grandfather Samuel to have been his twin. And, the family joke was that Diego was as driven as the man who was known as the consummate twentieth-century deal maker.

“Should I assume that you don't want anyone to know about the venture until you begin planting?”

Diego nodded. “You assume correctly.”

“Have you run this by the rest of the family?”

Silence shrouded the room, swelling in intensity as the two men continued their stare-down. Diego blinked once. “Enjoy your vacation, Joseph.”

The younger man pushed to his feet. His cousin had just unceremoniously dismissed him. “I will.” That said, he turned on his heels and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Joseph liked that he'd become part of the family-owned company, but it wasn't easy with Diego as his boss. Diego worked nonstop and expected everyone else to do the same.

He walked down carpeted hallway to the elevator in the luxury office building. Joseph wanted to tell Diego that he didn't need to set up another company. What he needed was a woman to make him aware that there was a world and life beyond ColeDiz International Ltd.

Diego stared blankly, focusing on the space where his cousin had been, his mind working overtime in anticipation of setting up a new venture. Despite being a brilliant corporate attorney, Joseph was not a risk taker. He didn't want to get into farming when in fact it was farming that afforded him his opulent lifestyle, much to the delight of his social-climbing girlfriend. Now, if Joseph worked as hard as he played there would be no doubt he would become CEO if or when Diego decided to relinquish the title and the responsibilities that went along with running the company. Their great-grandfathers, Samuel Cole and José Luis Diaz, for whom Joseph was named, were farmers. Farming had made the Coles one of the wealthiest, if not the wealthiest, black family in the States.

Reaching for his fork, he speared a chunk of fresh pineapple. He ate slowly, finishing his breakfast, which included freshly squeezed orange juice, sliced pineapple and black coffee. He'd just touched the napkin to his mouth when the intercom rang.

Recognizing the extension on the display, Diego pressed a button on the telephone console. “Yes, Caitlin.”

“Good morning, Diego. I have someone in my office I want you to meet. Her name is Vivienne Neal and I believe she would be perfect for the position as your personal assistant. Are you available to meet with her now?”

He wanted to tell the head of human resources that she'd said the same thing about the other two candidates, but held his tongue because Caitlin had him on speaker. “Yes.”

“I'm faxing you her résumé as we speak and I'll bring her around in about fifteen minutes.”

Once he'd taken over control of ColeDiz, his respect for his father increased appreciably. He didn't know how Timothy Cole-Thomas had managed both business and social obligations without them overlapping until Timothy disclosed that his stay-at-home wife, Nichola, had become his social secretary and personal assistant. Nichola checked with his personal secretary every day to make certain dinner meetings, fund-raisers or family get-togethers did not conflict. Unlike his father, Diego didn't have a wife, so he'd decided to hire a personal assistant.

He cleared the table of his breakfast, slipped on his suit jacket and tightened his tie. Removing the pages from the tray of the fax machine, he'd glanced over Vivienne Neal's résumé, Googled her name and was standing behind his desk when Caitlin escorted her into his office. Caitlin nodded, smiling, and closed the door behind her.

Vivienne felt her heart stop, her breath catching in her chest for several seconds before she was able to breathe normally. She'd used Alicia's computer to bring up what she could on ColeDiz International Ltd., but uncovered very little about the company's CEO. The Coles, like many wealthy families, kept a low profile. Their names appeared in the press only when linked to a business deal or charitable event. They also were fortunate to have lived their lives relatively free of gossip and scandal.

The man standing with his back to floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the width of the expansive room appeared to have been carved out of stone. He was tall, broad-shouldered and it'd only taken a single glance to recognize the exquisite cut and fabric of his suit. However, it wasn't his clothes that drew her rapt attention, but his face.

He rounded the desk and she saw up close the lean, angular sable-brown face with large, deep-set dark eyes that glowed with confidence under black sweeping eyebrows. Chiseled cheekbones, a straight nose with slightly flaring nostrils and a strong, firm mouth and cleft chin completed the undeniably male image that was Diego Samuel Cole-Thomas.

Diego approached, right hand extended. “Good morning, Ms. Neal.”

Vivienne felt a slight shock race up her arm when Diego's hand captured hers. She inclined her head. “Mr. Thomas.”

“It's not Thomas, but Cole-Thomas.”

Vivienne's eyebrows lifted slightly with his terse response. Oh, that's what you're all about? she mused. Mr. Cole-Thomas was the personification of an egotist. She inclined her head again, the gesture conveying her apology. “I stand corrected, Mr. Cole-Thomas.”

A slight frown appeared between Diego's eyes. Vivienne Neal's body language said one thing and her facetious apology another. It was apparent the woman applying for the position as his personal assistant was not only beautiful and tastefully dressed, but also not easily intimidated, which meant she wouldn't dissolve into tears the way her predecessor had. Cupping her elbow, he led her into the anteroom where he held informal meetings. Instead of sitting at the round table, he directed her to sit in a tan leather chair, seated her, then sat in a matching facing chair.

Diego forced himself not to stare at the long shapely legs under the pencil skirt that was part of a navy-blue linen suit that Vivienne had paired with a white silk blouse and stylish blue-and-white spectator pumps. Aside from the pearl studs in her ears, her only other jewelry accessory was a gold band with three rows of diamonds on the middle finger of her right hand. While it was impossible to ascertain the length of her hair, which she'd pinned up in a French twist, it'd only taken a single glance to conclude that Vivienne Neal was no ordinary personal assistant, possessing the style and elegance of a wealthy woman.

“Aunque no conocí a su marido, me gustaría extender mis condolencias sobre su muerte prematura.”

“Gracias, Señor Cole-Tomas.” Vivienne replied fluidly in the same language.

She wondered if Diego had offered his condolences on the death of her husband in Spanish to confirm that she was as fluent as her résumé indicated, having held a position translating financial contracts with a leading international investment firm.

A hint of a smile parted her lips. “Did I pass the test?”

Diego crossed one leg over the opposite knee and pressed his forefinger alongside his face, in a gesture that reminded her of a famous image of Malcolm X. “At least I know you understand Spanish.”

Vivienne felt a shiver of annoyance snake its way up her spine. She wanted to tell Diego Cole-Thomas that she didn't need the position as much as she needed a diversion, something to keep her mind occupied. With the proceeds from the sale of the house in Connecticut and as sole beneficiary of Sean's life insurance, it wasn't necessary for her to secure immediate employment.

Even before they were married, she'd told her fiancé that she had no intention of living year-round in the nation's capital. But that didn't stop Sean from spending a great deal of his time in Georgetown, because he'd believed that she would eventually change her mind and live with him in D.C. when the House was in session. Vivienne had proven him wrong, including the period leading up to his untimely death.

Her accountant recommended that she hold on to the Georgetown property, so she'd rented it fully furnished to a couple who wanted to use the first floor for their architectural and interior design business and the two upper floors as personal living space.

She'd dropped out of sight for six months, playing the role of a grieving widow. The police still hadn't found the car or the driver responsible for the hit-and-run that left her late husband fatally injured. But the officer assigned to the case informed her it would remain open.

Vivienne blinked once. “I understand, speak and write Spanish. I'm also fluent in French and Italian.” There was just a hint of boastfulness in her tone.

She glared at the arrogant man who seemed to challenge her without saying a word. If he wanted a personal assistant who was fluent in Spanish, then she was it. But, if he thought he was going to intimidate her with veiled challenges to her competence, then she wasn't the one for the job.

However, she was forced to admit that everything about Diego exuded power and breeding, from his well-groomed hair to the soles on his imported shoes. A slight frown touched her brow. It could've been the light, but there was something very wrong with his socks. Realization dawned. He was wearing one blue and one brown sock with his dark blue pin-striped suit and black leather wing tips.

“Are you aware that you're wearing two different color socks?”

Diego lowered his leg, lifted the hem of his trousers and stared at his feet. “The laundry service must have mismatched them.”

“You're color-blind.” Her question was a statement.

“Yes.”

“Do you see red and green?”

“Yes,” Diego admitted. “It's the blues and yellows I have a problem differentiating.”

The seconds ticked off as he continued to regard the woman who sat separated from him by less than five feet. There was something about Vivienne Neal he liked—and it had nothing to do with her face or body. She was professional and straightforward, and he doubted if another prospective employee would've pointed out the fact that his socks were mismatched.

“You're more than qualified for the position, given your education and work experience,” Diego said quietly, in the drawling cadence of one who'd grown up in the South. “But the fact remains that I've hired two personal assistants with similar credentials and I've had to let them go.”

Vivienne smiled for the first time. The expression shocked Diego as he sat up straighter. Her smile was as sensual as the rest of her. “Perhaps the third time will be the charm.”

Diego nodded, praying she had more going for her than her pretty face and killer body. “Let's hope you're right, Ms. Neal. Our human resources department will contact you with my decision once they verify your references.” Rising from his chair, he extended his hand and pulled Vivienne gently to her feet. What could pass for a smile softened his mouth. “Thanks for the heads-up on my socks.”

She gave him an open, warm smile for the first time. “You're welcome.”

He released her hand. “Someone from security will escort you to your car.”

Vivienne walked to the door, feeling the heat from Diego's gaze behind her. Even if she hadn't impressed him, she knew her résumé had. And, it wasn't until she was seated in her rental car, driving back to Alicia's house that she admitted to herself that she wanted the position as Diego Cole-Thomas's personal assistant—not because she viewed the position as a challenge, but because the man with whom she would work was the real challenge.

Diego lost track of time as he rested his feet on the corner of his desk, staring out the wall of glass facing the West Palm Beach skyline. Twice he'd reached for the telephone receiver and both times he'd stopped himself. He didn't know what it was, but there was something so inexplicably seductive about Vivienne Neal—a sensuality he'd never encountered in any woman whom he'd met or been involved with.

She was well-spoken, appropriately dressed for an interview and conducted herself professionally. However, she had exhibited a haughtiness when he'd questioned her about her ability to read, write and speak Spanish, and he'd been forthcoming when he told Vivienne that she was overqualified. However, he didn't need her to translate contracts, because there were attorneys and paraprofessionals on staff who were well versed in languages and legal terms to do that. What he needed from Vivienne was strictly personal.

Lowering his feet, he swung around, picked up the telephone receiver and tapped an extension. It was rare that Diego made direct contact with any of his managers. He usually left that task to Lourdes Wallace, his secretary, or as she preferred—executive assistant.

“Human Resources, Caitlin Novak speaking.”

The corners of Diego's mouth inched upward. Within three months of taking over as CEO, he'd instituted subtle changes that he'd believed were a long time coming. At a staff meeting the employees were informed that whenever they answered the telephone they were to identify their department and themselves, giving their full names. An incident involving a representative from an overseas bank, who was placed on hold indefinitely, had become the impetus for the mandate.

“Caitlin, this is Diego. I want you to contact Ms. Neal and let her know that she's hired.”

A slight gasp came through the earpiece. “But, I haven't checked her references.”

“You can check her references later. I need her for this weekend. I want you to messenger an official offer letter. Also, make arrangements to have her clothes and whatever else she'll need delivered to my house.”

There came a pause before Caitlin spoke again. “Is there anything else, Diego?”

“I can't think of anything right now. Thank you, Caitlin.”

“You're welcome.”

It was done. He'd hired the widow of one of Washington's rising political stars to become his personal assistant. Now, he had to make one more call—this to confirm if Vivienne Neal was qualified to function as his personal hostess, also.

Diego dialed a number that went directly to voice mail. “Jacob, this is Diego. I need you to find out what you can on a Vivienne Kay Neal Gregory. She happens to be Sean Gregory's widow. Please get back to me before Friday. Later.”

He hung up feeling more relaxed than he had in months. It wouldn't take weeks or even days to find out whether Vivienne Neal was suited for the position as his personal assistant. However, she would be put to the test this upcoming weekend. Face, body, intelligence and experience aside—he would let her go as quickly as the two before her.