Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘THIS WASN’T WHAT I was expecting.’ Deangelo turned to the large mirror and grimaced. ‘I look ridiculous.’

  Harriet suppressed a grin. ‘Come on, you weren’t born in a suit. You must have worn shorts when you were growing up.’

  ‘Nothing this lurid.’

  The shorts were bright, streaks of pinks and oranges and yellows edged with navy. They looked surprisingly good. Deangelo was in fine shape but he wasn’t lean; h
is muscles gave him breadth, his strength apparent in every move. With an effort Harriet pulled her gaze away from the toned brown legs. Thank goodness he was wearing a T-shirt. She couldn’t have coped with a bare torso. Which just went to show how crazy this whole honeymoon idea was. Hopefully Deangelo would come to his senses and realise that.

  ‘Pierre is the most sought after personal shopper in London. Amber had to pull in every favour she had to get this appointment as I didn’t think you’d want me to use your name. If he says this is what’s hot in Brazil right now then you need to trust him.’

  The look he gave her from underneath lowered brows promised retribution. ‘When I said we would meet to practice being comfortable with each other, I did not mean shopping.’

  Harriet was well aware of that. Completely aware that he had expected her to book some exclusive restaurant so that they could sit in an uncomfortable silence and poke at their food. The thought made her stomach twist in panic. Far better to be busy while they sorted out the parameters of what to say and how to be. ‘I realised when I was sorting out my clothes for the trip earlier that you could do with a refresh as well.’

  ‘I have clothes.’

  She folded her arms. ‘Deangelo. You travel, a lot. You must notice that people on holiday do not wear wool suits.’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t take holidays.’

  ‘No. You don’t. But you are claiming to. That means you should be wearing shorts and loose shirts or T-shirts, maybe a couple of light suits but not that...’ She waved her hand at his perfectly tailored suit hanging in the dressing room behind him. ‘I am completely kitted out now; you need to match.’

  Harriet’s initial plan to buy just a couple of dresses had been dismissed by Amber, who had accompanied her into Sloane Square and the high-end shops along the King’s Road. ‘You need to feel the part completely,’ her friend had said and, although Harriet had stopped short of the whole new wardrobe Amber had urged on her, she had bought enough clothes for the entire two weeks with cosmetics, accessories and shoes to match, and designer luggage to pack it all in. It was all waiting for her back at the townhouse; tonight she was defiantly wearing one of her own long skirts and baggy blouses, despite Amber trying to persuade her to slip on one of the pretty new dresses for the evening.

  She felt safer in her own clothes. More confident, which, after those peculiar moments in Deangelo’s office when she hadn’t been able to catch her breath, when her chest had seemed to tighten till she could barely speak, her stomach dissolved and her cheeks caught fire, was important. If the mere discussion of pet names and physical closeness could discombobulate her in such a way, what would actually acting as a lover be like? Tonight was supposed to be a practice for the next two weeks and she had agreed to that, but it would be on her own terms. And she would be her own person. Straight, boring Harriet in her boring clothes. It was safer that way.

  Hopefully the shopping trip that preceded the practice would be the cure she needed, the magic tonic to restore her to her normal professional self. Surely nobody could be attractive in lurid board shorts and a matching pink tee, no matter how he was built? She allowed herself another peek at Deangelo and stifled a sigh. He had to be the exception that proved the rule. Maybe it was the way the board shorts clung to strong thighs, the T-shirt moulded itself to impressive chest and stomach muscles.

  ‘Stop complaining. This whole escapade was your idea; I’m just trying to make it work.’ There, no nonsense and slightly bossy. The perfect PA tone. Boundaries firmly set.

  She pretended not to see the gleam in his amber eyes. ‘Harriet, you could have ordered me these clothes online. Are you just trying to put the reason for this evening off?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said as airily as she could manage. ‘I’m completely prepared for Project Rio.’ Giving the next fortnight a codename made it all seem a little easier.

  ‘Project Rio?’ But anything else he was planning to say was curtailed by the arrival of Pierre, wheeling a rail which held several pairs of light trousers and a dazzling array of brightly coloured shirts. Harriet sat on the plush sofa designated for waiting friends and family while Deangelo was ushered back into the thickly carpeted and mirrored dressing room. A reprieve. She’d better make the most of it.

  Pierre had wheeled all the clothes into the privacy of the dressing room and Harriet suspected she had a lengthy wait in front of her. Taking a sip of the champagne she’d been presented with, and popping one of the delicious dark chocolate truffles into her mouth, she reopened the book she’d started earlier during the suit fittings. But for once the words didn’t grab her, absorb her. Instead, every time the hero spoke she saw Deangelo, heard the way his voice had turned to molten honey as he called her querida.

  Harriet sat back, the book half-closed in her hands. Alexandra was right when she teased her for living through books instead of in the real world. Why wouldn’t she? In the books she read families were reunited and dreams came true and love conquered all. Sisters didn’t stay away and leave all the burden on one small pair of shoulders, lovers didn’t fade away, put off by too many cancelled dates and the reality of dating someone with caring responsibilities. She needed, craved the happy-ever-after she got from books, from her imagination. It was much safer than risking her happiness with someone else. Other people left, even when they didn’t mean to. And not always physically or intentionally. Sometimes they just drifted away.

  But what wasn’t safe was casting her boss, no matter how inadvertently, in the role of hero. Deangelo’s longest relationship she knew of had lasted three months—and he had been in Australia for half of that time. His proximity might make her body heat up, but she had to stay cool. She’d been doing so for three years; what difference would another two weeks make?

  Suddenly restless, she jumped to her feet and walked to the door of the personal shopping suite, opening it to peer outside. The exclusive department store stayed open late to cater to its demanding customers, and to the tourists who came in to buy small gifts and marvel at the baroque elegance and the designer goods and prices. Her gaze fell on a couple, a few years older than her, flicking through jumpers. The woman pulled one out to hold against the man, desire clear on her face as she surveyed him, before leaning in for a long, lingering kiss. Harriet leaned against the door. Had she ever looked at anyone that way? Had anyone ever looked at her? Had she ever kissed anyone like that, been kissed like that, as if there was nobody else in the world?

  The answer was a resounding negative. Nobody had ever treated her as if she was everything. She was safe and reliable—she’d had to be; her father’s health had demanded it. But she wanted more. She just needed to be brave enough to step away from her books and find it. Maybe she could practice a little in Brazil, while she was busy being someone else. The kind of woman who owned bikinis and little dresses and whose new husband was mad about her. A taste of the world she was nearly ready to step into.

  Harriet was uncharacteristically quiet as they exited the shop, the clothes Deangelo had picked left behind to be delivered straight to his apartment. His car was waiting for them outside and he directed it to take them back into Chelsea.

  ‘You were right,’ he said as the chauffeur pulled out into the lighter than usual evening traffic.

  Harriet looked up, surprise widening her eyes. ‘I was? Can I have that in writing?’

  She smiled, but it seemed forced, not her usual grin, the smile that seemed to come from nowhere to light up her whole face. For the first time Deangelo couldn’t help wondering if he had done the right thing. The idea of pretending he was on honeymoon had occurred several weeks ago. He knew his tracks were pretty well covered business-wise, and was as sure as he could be that the Caetanos wouldn’t remember that Marcos was his middle name—if they ever spared him a single thought. He doubted it; they’d never come looking for him, after all. But the scar was a problem. Bruno Caetano hadn’t stayed around t
o see what damage he’d inflicted after lashing out at the just fourteen-year-old Deangelo, but the scar was the first thing anyone noticed about him, one of the reasons he preferred to stay in the shadows. He didn’t want them to be sidetracked by it and start wondering...

  Plus there was the family resemblance. Deangelo had enough of his mother in him to dilute the fierce hawklike Caetano genes, but he couldn’t rely on the famously self-absorbed Caetanos not to notice his eyes, the shape of his jaw. He needed a decoy, a distraction—and another person seemed the best way. Someone who would automatically draw their attention. Who better than a bride, especially as the Caetanos wouldn’t want the conversation to be too businesslike or for him to start asking any awkward questions that might reveal just how tangled their affairs really were?

  But asking someone to step into the role of pretend wife meant allowing them unprecedented access to his life, to his past. Even if he concealed his relationship to the Caetanos, his real reason for the takeover, and stayed away from his mother’s family and the projects they ran for him, he would still be returning to Rio de Janeiro for the first time in twelve years and that made him vulnerable. Plus, he wanted the whole affair to be as discreet as possible, his role in the Caetanos’ downfall hidden. And the only person he trusted absolutely was Harriet.

  But he was asking a lot of her. She had her own burdens, burdens he’d watched her carry uncomplainingly, with grace and courage. And one of the reasons she was perfect for the role was that she was as perennially alone as him. There was no jealous boyfriend to protest the charade. But that loneliness made her vulnerable. He had to be aware of that. Work hard to keep the professional distance between them, even as they pretended intimacy.

  Good. Now to put his new resolve into action. Deangelo deliberately lightened his tone to something as near to playful as he could manage. ‘You’re right as in I did need new clothes. The kind of clothes Marco Santos might wear.’ The kind of clothes he might have worn if he’d stayed in Brazil and made his fortune there.