Secret Agenda. Rochelle Alers

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.