Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘See, you should always listen to me; life is much simpler when you do.’

  ‘It would be easier if you hadn’t resigned.’

  ‘True, but you could retain me as a consultant. A couple of hours of advice every week.’

  ‘I might just do that.’ Although he kept the light tone the idea appealed to him. Deangelo knew all too well that all relationships were transient, personal and business, but he wasn’t ready yet to lose Harriet’s quiet common sense. If she wasn’t around to be his PA any longer then maybe some kind of consultant role would work.

  ‘At an appropriate hourly rate of course.’

  ‘Naturally. Now, unless you think I need a haircut or new socks or anything else, maybe we could get to the purpose of this evening.’

  ‘Right, Project Rio.’

  ‘Project Rio,’ he confirmed. ‘Pretending to be newlyweds.’

  ‘Yes. So...er...how do you want to do this?’ Her voice trailed off without specifying what this actually was.

  ‘It might help if we find out a little more about each other,’ Deangelo suggested.

  ‘Or about our personas?’ She turned to face him, eyes lit with enthusiasm. ‘I mean, I’m not pretending to be married to Deangelo Santos, famously private Brazilian billionaire, CEO of Aion and workaholic, but Marcos Santos. Who is he? And who is he marrying? Not a boring woman of twenty-six whose idea of a fun weekend night is a new book and a clean pair of pyjamas.’

  Harriet’s words conjured up an irresistible vision of her in simple white pyjamas, curled up on a sofa in front of the fire, book in hand. It wasn’t the sexiest vision he’d ever had, but Deangelo’s whole body ached with a wish that his life could be so simple and perfect, that his evenings could be spent with something, someone, so uncomplicated and pure.

  And that ache, that need, was dangerous. He’d trained himself not to need or want anything other than safety and security. Maybe her idea of being someone else entirely, not just in name, was a good one. A safe option.

  ‘Okay, personas it is. Who is Harriet Santos?’

  She sat back, eyes half-closed as she thought. ‘How did we meet? Where did we get married?’

  Deangelo already knew the answers to her questions, dropped into emails to the Caetanos when setting up the investment. ‘We married at the weekend, in New York. We live there.’

  Harriet’s eyes flew open. ‘But I don’t know New York!’

  ‘You’ve been there many times.’

  ‘Yes! But I don’t know it; how could I? We get a limousine straight from the steps of your private jet to the hotel. We always stay in some exclusive luxury hotel right in the financial district. We might get another limousine to a Michelin starred restaurant but otherwise you hold all meetings in the hotel. I could be anywhere. I’ve never actually walked around New York. There’s no way I can act like I live there. What’s wrong with London?’

  ‘London is too close to the truth.’

  She stilled in a way he knew all too well, a way that meant she was thinking furiously, her brain coming up with solution after solution. Her ability to think on her feet was one of the reasons he had employed her, despite her youth, barely in her twenties when she’d started at Aion. ‘Okay. I work for a business contact of yours. We met when I was on a business trip with him in New York and you pursued me back to London. We’ve carried on a long-distance courtship, weekends in Paris and Rome and exclusive resorts where we barely set foot out of the bedroom.’ Her cheeks reddened. ‘Not that they need to know that explicitly, but we can infer it if they ask too many questions. I haven’t had a chance to see New York yet; it’s all been so whirlwind. We had a private ceremony at City Hall, but plan to have parties back in New York and London after our month-long honeymoon.’

  ‘Good, that will work.’

  ‘Great. What about you, Marcos? Why this investment?’

  ‘Because I want to impress you. I’m not secure in my wealth. I grew up in São Paolo, lower middle class. We got by, but now I have money I want to buy my way into the upper circles of my country, show my bride that I am someone.’

  ‘And how much money does my new husband have?’

  ‘A few million. He founded a tech firm which he’s sold on so he’s sitting on the profits. The newlyweds are very comfortable indeed.’

  ‘But not in your league?’

  ‘No. And although Marcos Santos probably is richer in real terms than the Caetanos it’s not enough to wipe away his nouveau riche stain. Expect the Caetanos to be very condescending.’

  ‘I can cope with condescending.’ Harriet’s mouth folded in a way that suggested she had first-hand experience.

  ‘Good. Because we are easy to please and slow to take offence. Overwhelmed with our good luck.’

  She nodded and as she did so the car drew up and the chauffeur got out to open her door. ‘This isn’t my house,’ Harriet said in surprise as she exited the car and looked around.

  ‘No.’ He followed her out of the car. They were in a pretty tree-lined street, the mighty River Thames just visible in the distance. ‘We are about fifteen minutes’ walk from your home. I will accompany you there. Maybe we could have a drink on the way. I’ll see you back here in an hour,’ he told his chauffeur. It wasn’t often he walked. Ran, yes. But that was exercise, done for health and to ready his brain for the day ahead. Just to walk, for the sake of the air and the view, with no discernible purpose? He couldn’t remember the last time he had done that.

  Nor could Harriet, judging by the puzzled look on her face as he turned towards the river. It was a clear spring night, a chill still hanging in the air, stars bright in the purple sky. ‘Only two months until the summer equinox,’ she said. ‘I love this time of year, every day a little more light, a promise of warmth.’

  ‘April showers, wind...’

  ‘It just means we appreciate summer more.’

  ‘I may have lived here for over a third of my life, but I still can’t consider what you call summer to be summer. A few weeks of humidity and everything coming to a standstill because there’s no air conditioning isn’t a real summer.’

  ‘That’s the true joy of a British summer. You have to plan for rain and cold, hope you get humidity and warmth, but occasionally the skies clear and everything is perfect. Like life, I suppose.’ They reached the end of the road, the river path before them, and Deangelo turned left towards Harriet’s road, she in step beside him. ‘So, it’s not that I don’t appreciate this starlit walk,’ she added. ‘But it would have been a lot quicker to just drop me off.’

  ‘But Project Rio isn’t finished yet.’ Business, just business, he told himself as his heart began to thump. He stopped and held out his hand in silent invitation. Harriet’s eyes flew to his. He expected to see uncertainty, distaste, maybe even fear, but instead curiosity gleamed in their blue depths.

  ‘Is this the physical proximity and pet names part of the pretence?’

  ‘That’s the one. Querida.’ He added the endearment as an afterthought, the word thick on his tongue.

  ‘Querida sounds so much more romantic than darling or honey.’ She made no move to take his hand. ‘Which do you prefer?’

  Deangelo shrugged. ‘Whichever is easiest?’

  Twisting her hands together, she looked up at the sky. ‘I loved acting at school, wanted to take it further at one point but my dad, well, you know. Anyway, when I was sixteen I was in a play and I had to kiss this boy. I didn’t fancy him at all, and he certainly didn’t fancy me, that was very clear. It made me realise just what acting meant, the physicality of it. Being put in situations you might not choose. How exposing the business was.’

  Of course she didn’t want to touch him, not even in pretence. He was monstrous, inside and out. He curled his other hand into a fist, the urge to touch his scar, that physical reminder of his mental wounds, strong.

 
‘But on the night itself it was fine. Somehow we managed this amazing chemistry on stage, despite never interacting off it. And then I realised that acting made you take risks, go places, inhabit feelings you would maybe shy away from. It’s a long time since I’ve done that.’ And with that she slipped her hand into his.

  Her hand was smooth and cool and fitted into his as if it were meant to be there. Deangelo inhaled. This was acting; she was right. A chance to be someone else for a moment out of time. He started walking again and she fell into step beside him, their conjoined hands between them, an anchor and a barrier. Deangelo was preternaturally aware of her every movement, the swing of her step, the way her hair moved, the swish of her skirt around her ankles. Harriet always dressed like she wanted to fade into the furniture, but the shapeless beige and grey she favoured just set off her hair, her porcelain skin, moving with her body, not concealing it.

  Deangelo’s pulse sped, beating faster and faster. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking of her body, but it was impossible not to when she was near enough to feel her warmth, smell her fresh strawberry scent. What had he been thinking about? Harriet was right. A honeymooning couple was a ridiculous idea—how could they pull it off for even five seconds? How could he remember who he was and what he needed to do with her so close, the boundaries they so carefully maintained blurred?

  ‘This is my street. You don’t need to see me to my door.’

  ‘Fine.’ He hadn’t noticed that they had reached the road. ‘So I’ll see you at the airport. A car will come for you at six tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good. Thanks.’

  He nodded brusquely and yet he was exquisitely aware that her hand was still in his. That she had turned towards him, her face tilted towards his, and that same glint of curiosity and adventure danced in her eyes.

  ‘I think,’ she said in a low voice, her gaze still fixed on his, ‘that you’re not really a babe or a hun, or even a darling. Sweetheart doesn’t work; you’re more savoury than sweet. I think I’ll keep it simple. How does love sound?’

  How did it sound? Foreign. Alien. Nobody had spoken a single word of love to him since his mother had died. His aunt had been affectionate in a no-nonsense way, various girlfriends had been romantic when they’d felt it necessary, but love? No. And he preferred it that way. Usually.

  Somehow he managed to speak. ‘That will be fine.’

  Understanding warmed her eyes. ‘Okay, love. In that case I’ll see you in the morning.’ And she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, a quick, sweet caress on his cheek. Deangelo froze as the warmth from the kiss spread through him at lightning speed and he caught her hand as she pulled away, so she turned to face him again.

  ‘Thank you.’ He leaned in only to return the brief kiss, to seal their unspoken contract, but instead of her smooth cheek his mouth found hers, warm and sweet and lush. He froze, every sound, every sensation fading except for her hand in his, her mouth under his. He needed to step back now, apologise, call an end to this whole crazy idea, but before he could move Harriet sighed and, leaning in, deepened the kiss, her free hand creeping up to his shoulder, his own resting on the curve of her waist. It was a sweet kiss, tentative, a millimetre space between their bodies apart from those touch points. The urge to deepen it further thrilled through him, the roaring of his blood drowning out all other sounds, wanting, needing to pull her against him, to feel her curves pressed close, to possess and learn her. But with the thought warning bells sounded loud and clear. He needed nobody, wanted nothing. It was safer. Necessary. He stepped back, releasing her, and instantly the evening chill hit him.

  ‘There,’ he said, trying not to notice the dazed look on her face, her sweetly swollen lips. ‘I think we’re prepared. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He turned without another word and walked away, fighting the urge to go back with every step. Revenge. That was what mattered. And nothing and no one was going to get in his way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘CAN I GET you anything else?’

  The receptionist smiled brightly and Harriet summoned up all her courage, stepping closer to Deangelo and slipping her hand through his arm. Think newlyweds, she told herself as she leaned into him. This is quite normal. But the fizz zipping up her spine was far from normal. Nothing about this situation was normal.

  Take her floral sundress, for instance. Not only was it bright and yellow—two words that hadn’t described her clothes since she had hit her teens—but it was cut daringly low for a day dress, the pattern louder than she was comfortable with, her wedge sandals precipitously high.

  At least Deangelo was also in unfamiliar clothes, his usual handmade suit replaced by chinos and a short-sleeved shirt in a bright blue that contrasted nicely with her yellow dress. He looked good casually dressed, more relaxed. Women still looked at him, not because he exuded wealth and power but because of his sheer attractiveness, the scar and muscle adding a dangerous vibe to his good looks.

  No. That was not a road she was going down. Not after the humiliation of last night. Could it have been only yesterday when she had lost herself in a kiss that was nothing but a pretence? Shame and embarrassment engulfed her. But as long as Deangelo didn’t suspect the kiss had affected her she could keep her chin high and pretend the whole thing had never happened.

  At least neither of them had alluded to it today. They were very much business as usual, the flight taken up with business for the first few hours before Harriet had retired to the smaller cabin, ostensibly to nap and read, in reality to lie on the narrow bed and relive every kiss and brief caress over and over until she’d had to have a Stern Word with herself.

  ‘Senhora...?’ the receptionist prompted her and, pulling herself together as much as was possible under the circumstances, Harriet looked up at Deangelo with her best imitation of a besotted gaze. She just hoped she didn’t look ill instead.

  ‘Thank you, but I think we have everything, don’t you, my love?’ and if there was an infinitesimal pause before the ‘love’ and if Deangelo tensed up at her touch just as Harriet tensed up touching him, she didn’t think it was too bad an attempt at marital affection.

  ‘Sim, querida. Obrigado,’ he added to the receptionist, giving her the benefit of his most charming smile, one that was usually only unleashed when he was about to pull off a business coup. Which, Harriet supposed, he was.

  ‘And can I make you dinner reservations for tonight? We have a very fine restaurant here or I could recommend somewhere?’ The receptionist’s smile widened even further, revealing brilliant white teeth in her perfectly made-up face, her glossy mane of dark hair more suited to a catwalk than a reception desk. But then again, Harriet was beginning to realise that beauty standards in Brazil were very high indeed. Even if she hadn’t needed a new wardrobe to play her role as the new Mrs Santos, her sensible work clothes simply wouldn’t have cut it here.

  Deangelo turned to her, his smile warm and intimate. ‘Querida, what would you like? If you’re tired we could always order room service?’

  Did he have to make room service sound so very indecent? Harriet wanted to concentrate on the conversation but she was far too aware of the solid feel of Deangelo’s arm under her hand, of his hip pressed close to hers, the way she could feel the rise and fall of his breath and how her own breath responded, her heart speeding up at the proximity. If only she didn’t know how it felt to hold his hand in hers, how he tasted, decadent and dark and yet tinged with sweetness. Like a sinful dessert, wrong yet so very right.

  ‘Room service sounds perfect. Is that everything? Great, then let’s go.’

  With an exhaled breath of relief Harriet pulled him away, not caring if the receptionist thought that Harriet was pulling her new husband away from the desk and up to their honeymoon suite with indecent haste.

  It took a few minutes for the old lift to reach the top floor where their penthouse suite awaited them. The bellboy escorted
them to the ornately gilded door and Harriet waited until Deangelo had tipped him before speaking, doing her best to sound amused rather than hurt. ‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to flinch when I touch you.’

  On the one hand, if Deangelo flinched every time they were in touching distance, then she was in no danger of repeating yesterday’s mistake. On the other, no woman wanted to make a man recoil in horror.

  ‘I didn’t flinch.’

  ‘Okay. You didn’t flinch, you reacted negatively.’

  ‘Harriet, let me make one thing clear.’ Harriet’s stomach dropped at the low purr in Deangelo’s voice and she took an involuntary step backwards, towards the door. ‘My reaction was one of surprise, but it was in no way negative.’

  ‘Fine.’ Oh, my goodness, was that an actual squeak she’d just emitted? ‘I mean, that will make things easier. If we can be positive about this, I mean.’ She inhaled, a long deep breath designed to stop her babbling on as much as to try and settle her jangled nerves. ‘Okay. I’ll set up the office and unpack. Shall I unpack for you, too?’ It wasn’t one of her normal duties when they were abroad, but then usually they had separate suites.

  She would have preferred separate suites this time—with several floors and acres of corridors between them. A safe space where she could hide with her book and her daydreams.

  ‘I can manage, but thank you.’

  ‘Great!’ Another squeak, but at least this one was audible to human ears. ‘I’ll just check out the rest of the suite.’

  It was all going to be fine, she reminded herself. The kind of hotel suites Deangelo stayed in were bigger than most people’s flats. Houses in some cases. She would have her own room and bathroom and office and he would be comfortably tucked up in his own bed and everything would be perfectly normal and she just needed to stop thinking about beds before she sent herself crazy...

  Grabbing the new designer bag that cost more than her own entire wardrobe, Harriet took a look around the suite. The sitting room was opulent but dated, the heavy velvet curtains and soft furnishings and the bronzes and golds too heavy for the sunny, nature-heavy city she’d passed through, eagerly taking in every sight on the sun-drenched journey from the airport. The furniture was good quality but dark and chipped in places and as she looked around the signs of neglect were clear, from faded paintwork to a missing light bulb. Five-star on the outside, three in reality.