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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.
Chapter 2
“Don't believe him, Blair!” Vivienne screamed at the television. “Todd Manning lied to you before and he'll do it again,” she said, continuing her rant.
A basket filled with clothes she'd taken out of the dryer and folded sat at her feet. It'd been more than a decade since she'd watched her soap operas. All My Children and One Life to Live, as well as life in Pine Valley and Landview had seemingly stood still. The principal characters hadn't aged, while their children were now adults with children of their own.
In a way, her life had paralleled a soap opera. She'd known the moment she saw Sean Gregory that she would one day become his wife. Perhaps it was because Sean was her brother's college roommate, or maybe it was because everyone claimed they were so well suited to each other.
They became engaged a week following his law school graduation and married a year before he threw his hat into the political ring, winning the seat his father had vacated in the previous election when he retired due to failing health. The elder Gregory lived long enough to witness his son being sworn in as a member of Congress before succumbing to a rare blood disorder. Elizabeth Deavers Gregory, who'd buried her husband and then her son, was now a recluse.
Although she and Sean had talked about starting a family, their timing was always off. And whenever Congress was in recess and Sean returned to Stamford it wasn't to spend time with his wife. Congressman Gregory's social calendar was filled with golf outings, yacht and lawn parties, backyard cookouts, and lunch and dinner meetings with constituents whom he could count on to back his reelection bid.
The chiming of Vivienne's cell phone interrupted her thoughts, and she reached down between the cushions of the sofa to answer it. “Hello.”
“I'd like to speak to Vivienne Neal.”
“This is she.”
“Ms. Neal, this is Caitlin Novak, and I'm calling to inform you that we would like to welcome you to ColeDiz International as our newest employee.”
Vivienne felt her stomach muscles contract. “Are you saying I'm hired?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying, Ms. Neal.”
“But…but you told me you had to check my references.”
“We will, but it's just that Mr. Cole-Thomas needs an assistant this coming weekend.”
Vivienne went completely still. “This weekend?” she repeated. “Are you talking about the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes, Ms. Neal. And, because we are dealing with such a short time frame, I suggest you pack whatever you'll need as quickly as possible. Mr. Cole-Thomas wants you ready to begin working Friday evening.”
She wanted to tell the personnel director that Mr. Cole-Thomas was fortunate because she only had to pack her clothes and personal items, but didn't. Her winter clothes, along with her furniture, were in a Connecticut warehouse.
“You'll receive a packet from a messenger service later this afternoon. He's been instructed to wait while you sign several documents we'll need to complete your employment process. I'm also including the name and number of a moving company that will transport your possessions to Mr. Cole-Thomas's house.”
Vivienne tried processing all that'd happened that morning. She'd been interviewed by a man who unsettled her more than she'd wanted to admit, hired four hours later and was expected to move in with him before the start of the weekend.
“Please let Mr. Cole-Thomas know that I'll move in tomorrow.”
There came a pause before Caitlin said, “I'm sorry, Ms. Neal, but that may prove to be a problem.”
There was something in the personnel director's voice that sounded ominous. “What kind of a problem?”
“Mr. Cole-Thomas expects you to move in today. If you require assistance packing, then I'll have someone come over and help you. Don't worry about moving supplies…”
“Kindly tell Mr. Cole-Thomas that it's impossible for me to move in today, even with assistance,” Vivienne said, interrupting the woman.
There was no way she was going to jump just because her so-called new boss asked her. After all, as an employee she did have rights. He'd probably fired her two predecessors because they weren't willing to give in to his unreasonable demands.
There was another pause on the other end of the line. “I'll let Mr. Cole-Thomas know that you won't be available until tomorrow.”
Vivienne managed a tight smile although Caitlin couldn't see her. “Thank you.”
She ended the call, fuming inwardly. The nerve of him! He wasn't a boss, but a tyrant. If, and she meant if, they were to have an association of any duration, then he would come to know that Vivienne Neal didn't frighten easily, nor had she ever been one to play fetch.
Within minutes her cell phone rang again; she recognized the number on the display. “I guess you've heard,” she said without her usual greeting.
“I can't believe he hired you so quickly,” Alicia said, her voice rising in excitement.
“He wants me to move in today,” she informed her friend.
“What's the problem, Viv? You only have to pack your clothes and books. I can run you over to his house when I get off.”
“That won't be necessary. He's arranged to have someone move my things.”
“Then what's the holdup? Don't you want this job?”
“Yes, I want it.”
“Then, act like you want it, Viv. You and I both know that returning to work is what you need to deal with your depression.”
Vivienne wanted to tell Alicia that she wasn't depressed, but angry. She'd allowed herself to become her mother—a trophy wife. She only visited D.C. when Sean was invited to state dinners or White House gatherings and when he needed her on his arm. In essence she'd become arm candy. She'd always been amused by the curious stares directed at her whenever Congressman Gregory introduced her as his wife. After a while she wondered if the men knew something she didn't. Did Sean have a mistress tucked away in D.C.? Had he fathered a secret love child—a child that should've been theirs?
“I am not depressed, Alicia.”
“Then, what are you? You tell me you're ready to go back to work and I've managed to hook you up with the perfect position. I know you don't need the money. However, I do need the commission.”
“Why didn't you tell me you needed money?” Vivienne asked her friend.
“I'm not broke, Viv. It's just that I don't want to use my personal funds to subsidize my business. The commission I'll get from ColeDiz will cover my office expenses for three months.”
She knew Alicia rented desk space in a posh Palm Beach office building. She claimed her clients were more amenable to her fees with an exclusive address. One thing she did know about Alicia Cooney was that she was terrified of being poor again. Instead of looking to marry well the second time, she'd decided to go into business for herself. Her staffing agency was small, but her elite clients afforded her a comfortable lifestyle, and Vivienne didn't want to do anything to jeopardize her friend's commission, so she decided to compromise.
“Call Caitlin Novak and tell her that I'll be ready to begin working tonight.”
Why, she mused when she ended the call, did it sound as if she'd made herself available for a rendezvous?
As promised, Diego sent two men over to pick up eight cartons containing her clothes, books and other personal items. Three hours later Vivienne came face-to-face with Diego Cole-Thomas for the second time that day. The man who stood in the foyer of his oceanfront Palm Beach condo looked nothing like the one who'd interviewed her earlier that morning. A white guayabera shirt had replaced his custom-made one. Jeans had replaced his Italian suit and a pair of sandals replaced his custom wing tips. She didn't know why, but a dressed-down Diego didn't appear as intimidating. But, that was not to say he would be any less difficult to deal with.
Stepping back, Diego extended a hand to the woman who stared up at him with narrowed eyes. He wondered what was going on behind her suspicious gaze. They were strangers, but he hoped that within a matter of days she would come to understand what he expected from her.
His new personal assistant looked nothing like the woman he'd interviewed that morning. She'd let down her hair and secured it in a ponytail that swept her shoulder blades. Diego was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud, something he rarely did. He'd hit the mother lode. Sean Gregory's widow was stunning. She was going to make an incredible hostess.
“Good evening, Vivienne. Please come in.”
She shook his hand. “Good evening, Mr. Cole-Thomas.”
Diego's eyebrows lifted slightly before a frown settled between his eyes. “All of my employees call me Diego, and I'd prefer you do the same.”
Vivienne wanted to ask him how many of his employees lived with him, but held her tongue. If she hoped to get along with her boss, then she had to temper her sarcasm. She forced a smile even though she didn't quite feel like it at that moment.
“Okay, Diego.” His eyebrows lifted again at the same time as the corners of his mouth inched up in amusement. “What's so funny?”
Diego's smile disappeared as quickly as it'd appeared. “Nothing,” he snapped quickly. “It's not often that I hear my name pronounced with a Spanish accent.”
“It is Spanish for James, isn't it?”
He nodded. “It is.” He released her hand. “Have you had dinner?”
It was Vivienne's turn to nod. “Yes, I have.”
“If that's the case, then let me show you to your bedroom, and then we'll sit down and talk about what I need from you.”
It was over quickly. The moment in which he'd almost smiled vanished, replaced with an expressionless, businesslike tone. How, Vivienne wondered, was she going to live under the same roof as her boss, yet maintain an impersonal relationship? It wasn't going to be easy—not when she had been hired to be his personal assistant and that meant getting to know him personally.
She followed him down a wide carpeted hallway with twenty-foot ceilings, recessed lights, pale walls and floors, quickening her stride to keep up with his longer legs. They passed rooms without walls and others with yawning spaces that gave the condo a sense of openness and the illusion that it was even more spacious than it actually was. A curving staircase led to a second story.
Diego lived in a secluded enclave with private roads, twenty-four-hour security and awe-inspiring views of the Atlantic Ocean. When she'd driven up to the gatehouse, she couldn't believe that she would spend the next six months waking up to the sound of pounding surf. The recently built condominium units began at seven figures, appropriate for the three-to five-thousand square feet of living spaces.
Vivienne wanted to linger a bit and examine the pieces of glass art and several large colorful paintings, but she would have time for that later. After all, she was expected to live in the duplex for the next six months. Her offer letter outlined a six-month position, renewable at the discretion of both parties. She'd also signed a nondisclosure agreement that she would be subject to litigation if she disclosed confidential information vital to ColeDiz International Ltd.
Diego stopped at the foot of the staircase. “Our bedroom suites are upstairs. My suite is on the left and yours is on the right. We share a balcony that faces the water. There's also another balcony outside the kitchen and dining area that overlooks the ocean.”
Vivienne stared at his broad back. “Are there any bedrooms on the first floor?”
Shifting slightly, Diego gave her a long, penetrating stare. It was the first time he'd noted any hesitation from his new personal assistant. “There's a den that can be easily converted into a guest suite when needed. Why?”
“Wouldn't it be better if…” Her words trailed off as he leaned closer and she inhaled the subtle scent of his cologne. Suddenly she felt as if he were too close to permit her to draw a normal breath. It had been a very long time since a man had overwhelmed her by occupying the same space. And, that man she'd married.
However, that would never happen with Diego Cole-Thomas. He was her boss, and she'd made herself a promise when she'd first entered the job market that office romances were a definite no-no. Several of the women at the investment firm where she'd worked had become involved with their bosses or coworkers, and most of the liaisons ended badly for them. Either they requested transfers or were reassigned to other positions. In most cases, the men were married and had no intention of leaving their wives and children.
“Say what you need to say, Vivienne,” Diego said, taunting softly. “After all, you had no problem telling me that I had on mismatched socks.”