Secret Agenda. Rochelle Alers
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