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
