Best Kept Secrets (24 page)

Her beautifully arching eyebrows lifted. “I live here.”

“Why is it I don’t recognize you?”

Trailing her fingertips down his chest, M.J. closed her eyes. “Perhaps I can do something to help you remember who I am.”

This was the M.J. Samuel loved, soft and teasing. “What?”

“Let me up and I’ll show you?”

He could not imagine what his wife had in mind until she divested herself of her nightgown and lay flush over his body. Heart to heart, flesh to flesh, breaths mingling, they’d become one.

M.J. kissed him, tentatively at first, until her kisses grew bolder. Moving down the length of his body, she alternated kissing and licking his furred chest, flat belly; she breathed her hot breath on the triangle of tightly curling hair at the apex of his thighs, eliciting a deep moan and shudder from him.

Samuel couldn’t move, breathe. He wanted to stop M.J. but it’d been months—too long since they’d slept together. He bellowed as if someone had branded him with a heated iron when her mouth closed around his rigid sex.

No!

She can’t!

She’s my wife.

She’s not a whore!

His silent entreaty went unspoken as he gave himself up to the exquisite sensations wrought by her moist, hot mouth and rapacious tongue. Somewhere between sanity and insanity he found the strength to stop her before he ejaculated.

Reaching down, Samuel fastened his hands in her hair and tugged gently until she released him. His sensitized penis bobbing between his thighs, he pushed her onto her back and entered her in one sure thrust of his hips. He rode her like a man possessed, her feet anchored on his shoulders.

It was M.J.’s turn to moan and sob. Samuel’s hands, mouth and hardness reminded her of what he was to her, what she’d missed.
Love me, Sammy. Please love me
, she chanted to herself as flutters of desire pulsed through her core, growing stronger and longer with each pounding thrust of Samuel’s hardness that made her aware of why she’d been born female. She gasped, her body arching as ecstasy, strong and turbulent, ripped her asunder.

M.J. did not remember crying or babbling how much she loved Samuel when she woke up in a bedroom she did not recognize as her own. When she finally found the strength to get out of bed, she discovered walking was difficult. It had been a long time since the muscles along her inner thighs ached with every step she took.

Some time later, after she’d showered and completed her toilette, she went down to the kitchen to find Samuel, Martin and Nancy sitting at the table in a breakfast nook, eating the pancakes Bessie flipped deftly at the stove.

Bessie smiled at M.J. “Good morning, Miz Cole. It’s nice to have you back. Your babies are growing like weeds.”

Closing the distance between them, M.J. hugged her housekeeper. “It’s good to be back.” She glanced around the large
kitchen. “Why are you cooking?” She’d hired a cook while Bessie had stayed on to supervise the other women who were responsible for keeping the house clean and running smoothly.

“She cut her hand yesterday, and she called to say she had to go to the doctor this morning.”

Walking over to Samuel, M.J. kissed his mouth. “Good morning,
mi amor
.”

“His name is Daddy, not My Love,” Martin chimed up, waving a fork with a piece of pancake hanging from the tines.

Reaching over, Samuel ruffled his son’s hair. “So, you do know how to speak English.”

Martin’s black eyes were brimming with laughter. “Of course I know how to speak English, Daddy.”

He sounded so mature that Samuel had to laugh. M.J.’s laughter joined his, and soon Nancy and Martin were laughing.

Bessie turned back to the stove. She flipped another pancake. It had been a long time since she’d heard the sound of laughter in the enormous house.

Now that Miz Cole had returned with her children, the house could once again become a home.

S
amuel sat at a small round table in the corner of his office with Everett going over the report of the Costa Rican coffee harvest.

He massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “Something is not right. We plant four hundred acres of arabica seeds and the harvest yields two.”

Bracing his elbow on the table, Everett rested his chin on his fist. He did not have an answer for Samuel. He only dealt with real numbers, whereas his boss knew unequivocally the amount of any crop an acre would yield.

“Maybe they had an infestation problem.”

Samuel shook his head. “No, Everett, they didn’t. I told them to try a technique that has been used in Kenya where they
intersperse trees with the coffee bushes. The poro tree is perfect because its roots grow deep, preventing soil erosion, and it attracts insects from and provides shade for the coffee bushes.”

“Did he plant them?”

“He said he did.”

Everett gave Samuel a sidelong look. In less than ten years Samuel Claridge Cole had become a hands-on gentleman farmer. He hadn’t earned a college degree, yet he was one of the smartest men Everett had come to know.

Fastidious to the point where it could be interpreted as obsessive, Samuel had all of his clothes made-to-order. He now had a barber and manicurist come to his home each week, and paid a chemist for specially blended cologne.

Samuel was always open to Everett’s suggestions, a patient listener and a voracious reader. When he’d purchased his first coffee plantation he hadn’t known anything about the crop. But within three months he knew enough to question those who’d been cultivating the crop their whole life. A modern-day visionary, he knew instinctually what people needed to make their lives more pleasurable. Their latest project was to erect vacation villas for the wealthy throughout the Caribbean.

However, there was another side of Samuel he rarely exhibited, except if crossed. Trust and loyalty forgotten, he’d become a dangerous and deadly foe.

“Do you think he’s skimming?” Everett asked.

A frown marred Samuel’s smooth forehead. “I know he is. Not only is Aquilar greedy, but he’s also a stupid son of a bitch. I offered him ten percent of the harvest and he goes behind my back and takes fifty. Did he actually think I wouldn’t know?”

“He counted on your not knowing.”

Leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over the front of a crisp white shirt, Samuel stared at a gelatin silver print of an Emancipation Day parade photographed in St. Augustine by Richard Aloysius Twine.

Straightening, he shifted his gaze to his accountant. “I can’t leave M.J. and the kids now.” It’d been only two weeks since they’d returned from Cuba, and he looked forward to going home each night and sharing the evening meal with his family.

“I’ll go,” Everett volunteered in a quiet voice.

Lacing his fingers together, Samuel nodded, smiling. “You know what to do.” The question had come out as a statement.

A hint of a smile curled the accountant’s upper lip. “I’ll stay until I can secure a replacement for Aquilar. After that I’ll take a look at that property you’re interested in at Dominical.”

Sighing, Samuel inclined his head. When he saw Dominical for the first time, he felt as if he’d ventured into an idyllic paradise. White sand, clear blue water and tropical foliage provided the perfect setting for a string of pastel-colored villas.

“Thank you, Everett.”

A strange light lit up Everett’s gold eyes. “Remember, we’re in this together.”

He was as close as one could get to becoming a partner in ColeDiz International, Ltd. Samuel had kept his promise to give him ten percent of the company’s year-end profit, but had shocked him when he handed him the deed, free and clear, to the house he’d lived in with M.J. before they moved into the mansion overlooking a lake.

Everett saved the handwritten note attached to the deed.
I couldn’t have done it without you—SCC
.

Samuel had offered him his gratitude, whereas it should’ve been Everett J. Kirkland thanking Samuel C. Cole.

Individually they were unique, and together they’d become invincible.

A buzzing sound from the desk caught the attention of both men. “Mr. Cole, there is a Mr. Salazar from Havana on the line. The gentleman speaks only Spanish, so I think Miss Maldonado should help you with this call.”

Rising to his feet, Samuel walked to the desk and pressed a
button on the intercom. “Please send her in, then put him through.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This is a personal call,” he said to Everett, who’d stood up and gathered the pages of the harvest report.

“I’ll have Mrs. Harris make reservations for my trip.”

Samuel nodded and sat down behind his desk. Vertical lines formed between his eyes as he pondered why his late father-in-law’s attorney wanted to talk to him. Why hadn’t Ibrahim called M.J.? The man had informed M.J. that Jose Luis hadn’t wanted the contents of his will disclosed until six months following his death. He glanced at the wall calendar: Monday, July 1, 1929. It had been six months.

“Mrs. Harris said you wanted me to translate for you.”

Samuel looked at the young woman who stood in the doorway cradling a pad to her chest. Nora Harris had hired Teresa Maldonado to assist her with typing and transcribing dictation, filing and answering the switchboard. The part-time clerk-typist was hired not only for her office skills, but also for her fluency in spoken and written English and Spanish.

He stared at the petite young woman with shimmering silver-blond hair and mesmerizing pale green eyes. Her café au lait complexion made her eyes appear much lighter in color. There was something about Teresa that always reminded him of a cat.

“Please sit down, Teresa. I have a call coming through from Havana, and I’m going to need you to take down everything my wife’s attorney says, then translate it for me.”

Charcoal-gray lashes lowering, Teresa sat down on a soft leather chair beside the ornate oak-and-rosewood desk. The only time she’d ever entered Samuel Cole’s office was to leave a telephone message on his desk. Each time she lingered longer than necessary to examine the photographs on one wall, those of his family on a credenza and the many books lining a floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcase. She’d never met her boss’s wife, but had spoken to her once when she called to speak to her
husband. She’d discerned a slight accent in the soft, husky voice that identified her as of Cuban ancestry, the same as her own.

She gave Samuel a shy smile, pencil poised over her pad. “I’m ready, Mr. Cole.”

Pressing a button on the intercom, Samuel said, “Please connect him, Mrs. Harris.”

“Senor Cole. I am Ibrahim Salazar, and I represent the estate of Jose Luis Diaz de Santiago,” came a deep masculine voice in Spanish through the speaker box.

Samuel nodded to Teresa. “Ask him why he didn’t contact my wife.”

Teresa translated for Samuel, while at the same time jotting down the lawyer and her boss’s dialogue. “He said he was instructed by Jose Luis to deal directly with you.”

“Why?” Samuel asked.

When Teresa translated Samuel’s query, Ibrahim said, “Because that is the way he wanted it. Several months before he passed away, Jose Luis arranged for the sale and transfer of ownership of his tobacco fields, house and surrounding property, effective six months following his death, to Ricardo Puente.”

Listening to his employee’s translation, Samuel sat stunned when she told him that Jose Luis had set up trust funds for his two grandchildren while leaving the remainder of his estate to his only child and sole heir.

His shock was compounded when Ibrahim informed him a codicil had been added to the will, stating that Samuel would have complete control of the money bequeathed to Marguerite-Josefina Diaz Cole.

“The transfer of funds will be initiated tomorrow morning.”

Teresa’s hand shook noticeably when she wrote down the amount quoted by the attorney. If her boss hadn’t been a millionaire, he definitely was now. The conversation ended three minutes after it had begun, and she sat without moving, staring at the impassive expression on Samuel’s face. For a man who’d
suddenly inherited more than two million dollars, he hadn’t given any indication that he was pleased with the news.

She, the daughter of Cuban immigrants, who wanted a better life for herself, had no intention of spending her life working long hours in a factory, or as a housekeeper, nursemaid or cook for a rich
norteamericana
.

She’d studied very hard in school, and it paid off when she was granted admission into a local college’s nursing program; working for ColeDiz International, Ltd., was an answer to her novenas because she earned enough from her part-time position to pay for her studies and help out at home.

Samuel studied Teresa with his enigmatic gaze for an extra moment. “Please type up your notes and leave it on my desk.”

She smiled. “Yes, Mr. Cole.”

“Thank you, Teresa.”

Pushing off the chair, she walked out of the office, past the area where Mrs. Harris sat, and into the reception area. Inserting a sheet of paper into a typewriter, she placed her fingers on the keys and closed her eyes.

Although Samuel sat more than two hundred feet from her, she still could smell his intoxicating cologne, see the crispness of his starched shirt, his exquisitely shaped hands with long, delicate fingers, and hear his melodious, deep voice. He was her boss, a married man with children,
and
she was besotted with him.

Teresa enjoyed what she did at ColeDiz because the work was interesting, and at times challenging. Whenever she came in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, she found her wooden basket filled with memorandums for typing. She did not mind typing, but hated filing because of paper cuts and an occasional broken fingernail.

She seldom saw Joseph Hill, the part-time bookkeeper. Also a college student, he worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the days she attended classes. Her interaction with Everett Kirkland was limited to typing his financial reports. He was the only
employee with unconditional access to Samuel Cole. This angered Mrs. Harris, who was forced to bite her tongue whenever he walked past her and into her boss’s office without being announced.

Teresa had mixed feelings about Nora Harris. A short, stout woman with flawless sable-brown skin, the forty-three-year-old widow with three adult children reminded Teresa of a vicious dog guarding her master’s property.

She did not get to see as much of Samuel as she would’ve liked because he always used the back staircase, but all of that would change in three days. Samuel and his wife had invited the ColeDiz employees and their families to join them at their home for a Fourth of July celebration. They would be paid for the holiday and given Friday off with pay. Teresa had invited her parents to come with her, but they declined with the excuse that their limited English would make them feel uncomfortable. Her parents had been in the United States twenty years, yet had not learned more than a few rudimentary words of the language. And because she did not want to go alone, she’d asked her best friend, Liliana, to accompany her.

Eddie Grady maneuvered along the circular driveway, stopping in front of Samuel Cole’s residence. He cut the engine, stepped out and came around and opened the rear door for Samuel.

“What time should I call for you?” he asked, his solemn expression in place. It was what he considered his professional persona.

He’d driven for a white bank president for years, until his untimely death. Eddie asked his cousin Nora Harris if Samuel Cole needed a driver, and was surprised when Nora told him Samuel could use his services on a short-term basis because her boss spent a lot of time out of the country. Short-term had become permanent once Mrs. Cole and her children returned to the States.

Samuel placed one foot on the slate path, then the other. He got out of the car and stared up at the place he now called home, a place he expected to live out his life. Shifting his gaze, he smiled at the thin, dark-skinned man with salt-and-pepper hair. Eddie Grady was an excellent driver, and had become an invaluable employee.

“I’ll call you,” Samuel said, noncommittally, because he’d planned to take the rest of the week off. He’d told Everett that he was in charge of the office, and if there was something he could not handle, then he was to call him at home.

Samuel felt as if he were in a runaway freight train without brakes. Since he’d come back from Cuba he hadn’t stopped long enough to enjoy what he’d worked so hard to acquire.

He got up early to go into the office, and did not return home until nightfall. He had Mrs. Harris make travel arrangements for trips to Costa Rica, Mexico and Jamaica, where he’d purchased tracts of land between Mandeville and Ocho Rios to cultivate a green coffee bean known as Jamaican Blue Mountain.

His coffee plantations were yielding higher than expected profits, but it would be a while before the Puerto Limon banana venture would prove to be either a success or a failure.

“Make certain you bring your missus and children by on Thursday,” he said to the chauffeur.

Eddie flashed a rare smile. “Will do, Mr. Cole.”

Samuel unlocked the door, stepping into the entryway with an African slate floor. An ebony-and-gilt table dating to the eighteenth century cradled a crystal vase with a profusion of snow-white roses. M.J. had decorated their home with the skill of a professional decorator.

Cradling a leather case under his arm, Samuel took one of the twin staircases leading to the second floor. His footsteps were muffled in an oriental runner lining the hallways leading to his suite of rooms. He stopped to peer into the bedroom
where Nancy slept. It had taken several weeks for her to adjust to her own bed. She’d cried herself to sleep for several nights, and when her mother did not come for her she stuck her thumb in her mouth and went off to sleep. Leaning over her crib, he touched a fat, black curl falling over an ear. Playing outdoors had darkened her skin until she was as brown as a berry.

“What are you doing in here?” asked a familiar voice in a hushed whisper.