Читать книгу Honeymooning With Her Brazilian Boss - Jessica Gilmore - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

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ORDER WAS RESTORED, for now at least. Harriet was back in her rightful place, at her desk, her little cactus by her screen.

Life was back to normal.

Almost...

Deangelo glanced through the open office door to the foyer where Harriet hummed as she typed. On the surface she was her usual efficient self, but something was different and Deangelo couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Aside from the humming.

She had a sweet, tuneful voice. He’d never realised that before. But then again, she had never sung in front of him before. Maybe that was what was different. Harriet was perfectly respectful, but she was acting more like his equal, business owner to business owner rather than his diffident PA.

The new confidence suited her, added a glow to her usually pale cheeks and a spring to her step. A step now headed towards him, tablet in hand.

‘I just want to check the final timings with you before I head home to pack.’ Harriet glanced down at the itinerary she had been adjusting for the last two weeks. ‘I can’t believe we fly tomorrow. I’ve never been to South America. Are you looking forward to going home?’

Deangelo frowned. ‘Home? London is my home.’ He’d created his home, carved it out of grit and stubbornness and flashes of brilliance—or desperation.

‘Yes, now, but you grew up in Rio, didn’t you?’ Her blue, long-lash-fringed eyes were alight with curiosity. ‘You must have family and friends there, people you want to catch up with.’

Deangelo had no idea how to answer. His past was a closed book and that was exactly how he wanted it to be. He didn’t court publicity, invite questions or disclose any personal details to anyone and there were very good reasons for that. He wasn’t ashamed of his rags-to-riches story, or of his climb out of the Rio favela to a penthouse on the South Bank. No, it was the other side of his life story he was ashamed of. The side he had taken for granted until it had been ripped away from him. The spoilt boy who had lived in luxury, utterly ignorant of the poverty just feet away from his air-conditioned life.

‘We’re not there for family.’

Only that wasn’t true, was it? His return was all about family. The family that had denied him. The family who had turned their back even as he had swallowed his pride and begged.

‘I’ve been reading up on the city and it sounds incredible; I can’t wait to explore a little. Surely there will be time for some sightseeing. Revisiting old haunts?’ she pressed.

Haunts was the word. Anywhere he visited in the city would be crawling with ghosts and the kind of memories he had locked away years ago. Deangelo stared out of the window, mouth compressed. Going back was a risk, he knew that. He also knew it might finally set him free. If he dared to reach for it. Funny, he usually thrived on taking risks, but this freedom from the past seemed like a step too far.

‘I lost touch with my friends long ago,’ he said stiffly. ‘I will try and make time to see my aunt, my cousins. If possible.’ But it was unlikely. He hadn’t even told them he was returning. He knew his aunt wouldn’t approve of what he planned to do. He couldn’t bear to see disappointment in eyes so similar to his mother’s.

Besides, Harriet didn’t need to know about his aunt or his cousins, or the work they did for him, work he managed away from the office, away from his PA. Nor did she need to know about the low thrum in his veins, the tingling in his nerves, at the thought of Rio. England was the place where he had reinvented himself, London the city he had conquered, but there was a tinge of grey in his life—grey buildings, grey weather and a grey formality. It suited him, but part of him, the impulsive, hopeful part of him, a part he kept well and truly squashed down, would always hanker for the vibrancy of his childhood home, the colours and the smells and the music. The ability to turn any gathering into a party.

Enough. Deangelo pushed the past back into the past, where it belonged. ‘So the itinerary is finalised at last?’

A swift wrinkle between her eyes showed that Harriet had noted the abrupt subject change, but she didn’t comment, merely placing her tablet on his desk, the timetable displayed on the screen.

‘Yes. You wanted to arrive in the late afternoon so we leave Heathrow early tomorrow morning. A car will meet us on the airfield and it’s booked to take us straight to the hotel and your first meeting with the Caetanos is scheduled for the following day. I can’t believe how much chopping and changing they’ve done. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get another three rearrangements between now and then.’ She didn’t add anything else but Deangelo knew she was confused by his acquiescence to the Caetanos’ ever-changing schedule when normally such capriciousness would make him walk away.

She placed one delicate fingertip on the screen. ‘Okay, hotel. I changed the booking as you requested. I guess it makes sense to stay in the hotel you’re buying into but, I have to warn you, it’s not up to your usual requirements.’ She swiped and a picture of a huge white building studded with balconies and overlooking a golden sweep of sand filled the screen. ‘Here you are, The Caetano Palace. As you can see, the position is great, although the hotel is apparently a faded version of its former grandeur; the reviews are less than enthusiastic. I’ve done some digging on the Caetanos—they’re like something out of a soap opera, an old Brazilian family, practically aristocracy. Until around twenty years ago one man, Augusto, controlled the whole business: all the hotels, investments, the lot.’ She pressed on a link and the screen changed, Deangelo’s chest tightening painfully as he looked down at the photo displayed there. A man in late middle age. Upright, silver-haired, a shrewd look in the laughing eyes.

Augusto Caetano had controlled the company until twenty years ago this very week, the date engraved on what remained of Deangelo’s heart. He stayed silent, the old toxic mixture of grief and anger bubbling inside. Grief for the life he hadn’t appreciated until it was gone. Not the money, but the safety, the family he had taken for granted. And anger that the safety had been nothing but an illusion. That the man on the screen hadn’t cared enough, not when it counted.

‘As you have arranged, we’re meeting his heirs, the current owners. There are two sons and one daughter, Isabela,’ Harriet continued. ‘Rumour has it that the business was all they managed to inherit; none of them have the old man’s brains. They expanded quickly into luxury island resorts. They aren’t popular with the locals or environmentalists from what I can tell. There are claims of bribery and extortion, and complaints of poverty wages for the locals who work at the exclusive resorts, along with some pretty worrying environmental infractions. All this has cost an absolute fortune and so they’ve been allowing investment by outsiders in order to continue with their spending spree and to keep up their lavish lifestyles.’ Harriet’s forehead crinkled. ‘It doesn’t sound like a very good investment, not financially or reputationally.’

‘Investment? No. Takeover? Yes.’

‘Takeover?’ Her eyebrows arched with surprise. ‘But the contracts only specify two per cent.’

‘When have you known me to bother about two per cent of anything? Fly across the world for something so insignificant? No, Harriet, this is no investment. The Caetanos have been careless. Not only did they sell off a share of the business overall, they’ve each been chipping away at their own bits, selling a little here and a little there independently. The result? None of them know how much in total has been handed over to outsiders.’

‘But you do.’ It wasn’t a question. He answered it anyway.

‘Forty-nine per cent. And even if they knew it was so much, they would assume the majority was held by hundreds of investors all over Brazil and South America, that they can carry on as majority owners unchallenged. Their assumptions would be very wrong. That forty-nine per cent is currently owned by Aion subsidiary companies. Oh, the trail is clear enough, if they had ever bothered to look. I have done nothing illegal, nothing shady. But here we are. They are ready and willing to woo me, not knowing that if they convince me to invest this week, I will hold the controlling stake.’ Deangelo’s chest tightened in anticipation.

‘It seems like a lot of effort for a chain of failing hotels. I mean, yes, the buildings are gorgeous old world creations, but I’ve been on the review sites and they need a lot of updating. And the islands are incredible, but they’re riddled with corruption and bad feeling. If you’re planning to own your own hotels wouldn’t you be better off starting from scratch?’

‘It’s not about the hotels, Harriet. It’s about justice.’

Justice and fulfilling the promise he’d made to his mother.

Without quite meaning to, he reached up and traced the line of his scar as it bisected his cheek, running his finger along the thin line that ran from forehead to chin. He would make them pay, every one of them, and wipe the Caetano name from the city. No price was too high to pay for that. Abruptly, he changed the subject. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, at least...’ She paused. ‘It’s just when you hired me it was because...’ She paused again. Harriet wasn’t usually chatty, nor had Deangelo ever seen her lost for words.

He tried to hide his amusement at her uncustomary colour and the flustered way she was wringing her hands. ‘Because I need you to pose as my wife?’

‘Yes. That.’ Her colour heightened even more. ‘At least, as Marcos Santos’s wife. That was the name you wanted me to book the room in?’

‘It’s still me, I’m afraid,’ he said drily. ‘Marcos is my middle name.’

As was Deangelo. Luciano, his first name, he’d left behind him in Brazil. Only his father’s family had ever used that name anyway; to his mother he had always been Deangelo. Her angel.

‘Right. I’m still not clear. Why the name change?’

‘Think, Harriet. I have managed to stay out of the press, but this way I can be sure the Caetanos have no idea who I am. If they think Aion are interested in their hotels the price will inflate, but Marcos Santos, CEO of a small tech firm, won’t raise any suspicion.’ Deangelo clenched his hands into fists. In a way he would have preferred suspicion. Preferred them to remember his middle names. To see him and instantly know who he was. But they had always ignored him. Thought him beneath them. Denied his very existence and claim to kinship. Why, sixteen years after their last encounter, would they suddenly remember his mother’s surname, his own full name? Recognise the skinny boy in the man he had become?

Well, the Caetanos would remember. Remember and rue the day they had disowned him and disinherited his mother. He’d make damn sure of that.

Harriet still looked unconvinced. ‘The tech firm is one of your subsidiaries, I suppose? Okay, I concede the name change, but I don’t understand why you need a wife.’

‘To make the meeting seem more like a social gathering, to put them off guard.’

‘Right.’ She picked up her tablet, her hair falling across her face, a rose gold cloud. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying that this whole plan seems utterly insane.’

‘You can say whatever you like, as long as you perform your part properly. Just remember we’re on our honeymoon and everything will be fine.’

Harriet was already at the door, but as he spoke she stopped and pivoted, eyebrows arched. ‘I’m sorry. For a moment I thought you said honeymoon.’

‘I did. It’s the perfect cover. As far as the Caetanos are concerned we are in Rio for our honeymoon and the investment talks are just a side project. I’m ensuring they won’t be tempted to look further. I’ve covered my tracks well, but I’m more comfortable with an extra layer of safeguarding.’ Deangelo wasn’t sure what the incredulous look on Harriet’s face meant, but it didn’t seem wholly positive. ‘You already agreed to pose as my wife,’ he added. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything we haven’t discussed.’

Honeymoon?

Surely he’d been quite clear. ‘Yes.’

‘But—’ she gestured wildly, the most exasperated gesture he had ever seen from the usually cool and contained Harriet ‘—a honeymooning couple is quite, quite different to a married couple, you must see that. If we’d been married for ten years or even two, then some kind of coolness, or lack of physical affection wouldn’t be noticed. But people expect honeymooners to be, you know, honeymoony.’

‘Honeymoony?’ Was that even a word?

‘Yes!’

Deangelo stared at his PA, who seemed uncharacteristically agitated. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate tinge of pink, her lips full and red, her blue eyes brighter. Indignation and embarrassment had stripped her of her professional air and it was as if a veil had been lifted, the full force of her personality shining through, turning conventional prettiness into something deeper and more vibrant.

Something—someone—infinitely more dangerous.

Harriet swallowed and, fascinated, he watched her throat move. When she spoke her voice croaked. ‘Does it have to be a honeymoon? It’s so intimate. Exposing.’

Intimate. Exposing. Was it getting hot in the office? Deangelo pulled at his collar. ‘We’re not going to be spending the whole two weeks in Rio with the Caetanos, just the initial meeting when they try and convince me that they’re not conning me to invest in a failing business, and the shareholders’ meeting a fortnight after. The honeymoon is just a cover, not a role-play. I am recently wealthy, from the wrong side of the tracks, desperate to ally myself with the right people and with my eye firmly off the ball thanks to my new bride. It’s not complicated.’

‘Even so...’ She paused again, biting her lip. ‘A honeymoon is really tricky to pull off. If we act just like we usually do then no one will believe that we’re newlyweds for more than a minute. You need to convince anyone looking at us that you’re mad about me and I need to do the same. Just where people can see us,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Obviously.’

Deangelo had never been mad about anyone in his life. Never even been tempted to allow a relationship to progress beyond mild desire and liking. But he’d insisted on having Harriet with him for exactly this kind of feedback: not just because he trusted her, but because he also respected her opinion.

‘Obviously,’ he echoed. ‘And how do you propose we convince people we’re mad about each other?’ The words felt strange on his tongue, heavy and sensuous, and as he spoke them he had a sudden vision of Harriet smiling at him, her hand in his, her lush body warm against him, and with that vision a sense that he was stepping over a line and into the unknown. That the walls around him suddenly didn’t feel quite as solid as they always had. He breathed in deep and slow, willing the walls to solidify.

‘Well...’ She walked back into the office, placing her tablet onto his desk. Deangelo stilled, very aware of her wild strawberry scent, of the curve of her hips, the grace in her long limbs. ‘I’ve not actually been on a honeymoon, but I suppose it’s about showing that you’re together, standing a little closer than normal, touching each other’s hands or arms.’ He watched her hand as it fluttered close to his shoulder before jerking firmly away, but he could feel a warm sensation on the tip of his shoulder blade, as if her fingertips rested there.

He straightened, trying to dislodge the ghostly caress. ‘Is that how you behave when you’re in love?’ He both did and didn’t want to know the answer to that question.

‘I... I’ve never actually been in love. I’ve dated,’ she added, chin tilted and eyes bright. ‘Obviously. But this isn’t about me; it’s about what other people do and what they’ll expect. Like always looking into each other’s eyes. Pet names...’

‘Pet names?’

‘Yes, you know, like darling or honey or something...’

‘In Brazil,’ he said, ‘we would say querida, minha amada, me amor.’

Where had that come from? He never spoke Portuguese any more. Thanks to the private international school he’d attended for his first ten years he’d grown up bilingual, unusual in Brazil, and as soon as he had moved to the UK he’d worked hard to speak, think and even dream in the language of his adopted country. When he could control his dreams that was.

So why was it so easy to imagine saying such words to Harriet?

‘Yes,’ she said a little unsteadily, stepping back. ‘That’s the kind of thing. So you see why it would be easier to forget about the whole honeymoon thing.’

‘I disagree, querida.’ Again the endearment slipped out with ease. ‘I’m sure we can manage, if we try.’

‘Plus—’ another step back ‘—we haven’t factored in a honeymoon wardrobe. I own nothing that says bride or rich husband—and I would be surprised if you have a single item suitable for a beach holiday. We’re much better sticking to what I assumed was the original script, a wife accompanying her husband on a business trip and dressing accordingly.’

‘What do you need?’

‘Need?’

‘For a honeymoon?’

‘Dresses and swimsuits and nice shoes. I don’t know, clothes that make me feel special. Sexy.’ She bit her lip on the last word as if wanting to recall it, but it hung in the air, thickening it, until Deangelo could hardly breathe.

‘Okay then. Take the rest of the afternoon and buy whatever you need. You still have your company card?’ Harriet nodded mutely. ‘I’ll meet you once I’ve finished here. We can put in some practice at being newlyweds. Book us in somewhere appropriate. That will be all.’

He didn’t allow himself to look up until Harriet had finally left the room, but he could feel her wide blue eyes fixed disbelievingly on him, her scent lingering along with the echoes of that word. Sexy. Harriet was bright, incisive, tactful. She was tall and curvy and too demure. She hid her attractiveness behind shapeless clothes and her glorious hair spent most of its life tied up in a tight bun but Deangelo had always seen—seen and resolutely ignored—her potential for real beauty. He had never considered her sexy, though, but now the thought was in his head there was no recalling it. And tonight they would be getting to know each other as newlyweds should.

Only this was all business, and the blood rushing around his body, the thrum of his pulse beating through every pressure point, needed to remember that. Attraction was one thing, acting on it quite another. Not that he had any intention of acting on anything. Fake honeymoon or no fake honeymoon.

Honeymooning With Her Brazilian Boss

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