Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘This assignment is very—’ he paused ‘—unusual.’

  The curiosity she was trying to keep at bay flared. ‘Unusual?’

  ‘I need someone I can trust. This is not simply a matter of accompanying me as my PA.’

  ‘Then...’ But before she could formulate the question her phone rang. Pulling it out to silence the jaunty tune, she caught sight of the name of the caller, her heart stopping as it flashed on the screen: her father’s care home. ‘I’m sorry; I really need to take this.’

  She barely registered the surprise on Deangelo’s face—he probably hadn’t been asked to wait once in the ten years since he’d set up Aion as an undergraduate—getting to her feet and walking out of the office and into the mercifully empty kitchen. ‘Hello? Harriet Fairchild.’

  Numbness consumed her as she listened to the home manager explain that there had been another incident, another fall, that her father’s physical health was beginning to deteriorate along with the disease destroying his brain. Blinking back tears, Harriet tried to concentrate as the manager calmly took her through the options for stepping up his care. It was so unfair! So wrong that this should happen to her brave, strong, funny dad, who had cared for her after her mother’s death, after already raising her half-sisters alone before that. He’d deserved the most relaxing of retirements, the travels he’d never had a chance to go on, the opportunity to play golf and drink fine wine and read all the books he had planned to get around to. Harriet had never cared that he was older than her friends’ fathers, that people often mistook him for her grandfather. He was her wonderful, loving father and she’d do anything for him.

  But the truth was she had done all she could; now he needed her the most she had no idea how not to fail him. She’d only got enough for six months’ fees as it was. The extras the manager was detailing were bound to be way beyond her reach.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘I understand. Of course. If you could send me a forecast of how much extra you think the enhanced care will cost I would be very grateful.’ On autopilot she thanked the manager for the home’s quick response and promised to be there in time for the doctor’s visit in the morning. As she finished the call Harriet stood still for a moment, blinking rapidly to stop the threatened tears, trying to get her face back to cool and professional.

  But it was hard to turn her hostess persona back on, not to think about how much this new level of care would cost. Hard not to panic when even six months no longer seemed possible. She could try her sisters again, see if this time they would help out with the cost. Beg them if need be.

  They were her last hope. And she knew that meant that she had no hope. ‘Damn,’ she whispered, the tears this time refusing to be kept away, no matter how she swallowed and blinked.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  How had she not heard Deangelo creep up behind her? Harriet half jumped, swiping her eyes swiftly. ‘I’m not,’ she lied.

  Before she had a chance to compose herself properly, Deangelo had taken hold of her elbow and marched her through the galley kitchen and into the room beyond. The kitchen had been purposely made a contrast to their calm public space, the walls of the narrow room a bright, warm pink, polka-dotted crockery in the same colour on the white-painted dresser. It opened out into a bright glass-roofed conservatory, furnished with a red velvet sofa and chairs and a round table set with four dining chairs. It wasn’t a huge space for four grown women to cook, eat and relax in but so far it had done very well. Deangelo deposited her on the sofa before sauntering to the fridge, returning with a large glass of white wine.

  ‘Drink this,’ he commented as he handed it over.

  ‘That’s Alexandra’s; she’s the only one with any palate between us.’ And the only one happy to spend her hard-earned cash on luxuries like expensive wines and luxury make-up brands.

  ‘Why were you crying?’ Deangelo asked again, small talk and niceties dismissed now the tears had stopped.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, desperate to get the conversation back on track, the thought of the commission from the Aion millions slipping away filling her with panic. ‘I’m sorry; this is so unprofessional. Let’s go back to the office and begin again. You said this was an unusual assignment?’

  ‘Is it your father?’

  Harriet stared. ‘My father?’

  ‘He’s in a home, no?’ The brusque voice was gentle, Deangelo’s usually subtle accent stronger, as if the effort cost him.

  ‘I...yes. How did you know?’

  ‘Harriet, you worked less than six feet away from me for a long time; the door is not soundproof.’

  Oh. God. She had always thought him oblivious. Did that mean he had heard every tear-filled begging phone call to her sisters, every long conversation with the healthcare professionals? ‘I’m sorry. I always made the time up.’

  ‘Harriet, your professionalism was never in doubt.’

  ‘No.’ She closed her eyes for a brief moment, rallying herself. ‘My dad has dementia,’ she said, the hated words sticking on her tongue. ‘He needs specialist care and just before I came to work for you I had to make the difficult decision to put him in a home. I sold his flat to fund it, saved all I could, contributed my own money, but that kind of care is just so expensive and I’m almost out of money, which means I’m going to have to find somewhere a lot cheaper. The problem is he’s so settled there. It’s like he has a new family. He doesn’t ever recognise me any more but he knows his care workers,’ she finished sadly.

  ‘And yet you left your job? Why not ask me for a pay rise?’

  She couldn’t help laughing at that. ‘There’s no way, even if you doubled my salary, that I could afford to keep him there, not even if I slept in the office and lived on noodles. In a way, knowing there is nothing I could do made my decision to leave a little easier.’ The only tiny positive in all the darkness.

  ‘I’ll make things even easier. Come with me to Rio and I’ll pay for your father’s care for as long as he needs it. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘I...’ Harriet put the wine glass down carefully, aware she was shaking, hope and grief and adrenaline combining. ‘Deangelo, that’s very generous.’

  ‘Not at all. You need money and I have plenty.’

  ‘This could be thousands of pounds, tens of thousands.’

  But he shrugged as if the vast sums were insignificant. Which for him, she supposed, they were. ‘So do we have a deal?’

  Yes, her heart cried, but she couldn’t agree, not just like that, not without knowing more. ‘Just how unusual is this job?’

  For one tiny moment Deangelo’s gaze shifted, and foreboding stole over her as he spoke.

  ‘I need you to pretend to be my wife. Now, do we have a deal or not?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  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 n
ever 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. Harr
iet 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.’