Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

by Jessica Gilmore

  Frowning, she noted that the dining area was situated in an alcove off the sitting room and there was no sign of a separate study. That was going to be awkward; she needed to have some space away from Deangelo. He was so overpowering his presence took over every space. Hopefully there was a desk in her room...

  She also didn’t see any kind of hallway or corridor, just one door the opposite side to the alcove. She walked slowly to it, dread creeping over her as she turned the ornate glass handle, opening the door to see one huge bedroom. One huge bedroom, with one bathroom, dominated by a bed big enough to sleep an entire family. If, Harriet thought numbly, she was ever called upon to design a nineteenth century bordello, she would be able to draw on the room for inspiration. It featured a lot of red and gold velvet, the bed swathed in heavy curtains.

  ‘Deangelo?’ She tried to suppress the quiver in her voice. ‘There’s only one bedroom. Only one bed. I’m sorry, I should have made myself clearer when I booked. I’ll call down to reception and get them to find us another suite.’

  * * *

  Deangelo stilled. Dammit. The last thing he needed was for this trip to slip out of his control in any way. He needed Harriet focused and on game and he needed to be focused on the end result as always—and that meant forgetting just how soft Harriet felt when she leaned into him, the way her hip tucked perfectly under his, the light touch of her hand on his forearm. And it certainly meant forgetting about the trusting way she’d accepted his kiss last night, the way she’d returned it, stoking it to a heat he hadn’t dared contemplate. What would have happened if he hadn’t broken it off? He’d not been able to banish the thought all through the sleepless night.

  And that was a big problem. Thoughts and feelings that were nothing but distractions—worse, they were dangerous. Whoever had said that no man was an island was wrong. Every man and woman was exactly that and if they were sensible they stayed that way.

  Striding to the door, Deangelo stepped into the oppressively decorated room, his gaze bouncing from gilt mirror to heavy chandelier to oil portrait before finally resting on the huge bed dominating the space. ‘How many throw pillows do they think a person needs?’ he asked, mentally totting them up and arriving at twelve.

  Harriet folded her arms and glared at him, one foot tapping the floor. ‘Never mind the pillows, what about the bed?’

  He eyed it critically. ‘I bet the mattress is soft.’

  ‘Soft or not, there’s only one. I didn’t think to check. They offered us the best suite in the hotel and that usually means at least two bedrooms. I’m sorry. I’ll phone down and see if I could get another room, but I can’t order us a new suite or a second bedroom without alerting the kind of questions you need to avoid so either we tell them that you snore so loudly I need a different room or I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Nonsense. I will sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘No.’ Her glare intensified. ‘That’s ridiculous. I work for you—and this was my mistake. There’s no way I am allowing you to sleep anywhere but in that bed.’

  ‘Harriet, I have slept in many places much less comfortable than that sofa, I assure you. Please don’t think that I will allow any woman under my protection to not take the bed.’ And with that an old memory came unbidden to his mind. He, snug in the one small bed whilst his mother curled up on a pallet on the floor. Shame engulfed him once again and he straightened. ‘This conversation is over.’

  She glared for one long second. ‘Fine. You’re the boss.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said silkily. ‘I am.’

  ‘In that case—’ her smile was anything but conciliatory ‘—I’ll leave you in peace. Please close the door behind you.’

  To his surprise, Deangelo found himself in retreat for the first time in many years, the bedroom door closed firmly in his face.

  He stood there for a second before shrugging and turning away from the firmly closed bedroom door. It was unlike Harriet to show her feelings so clearly, but he preferred annoyance to the dangerous spark that seemed to have ignited between them. Striding over to the curtained windows, he wrenched the heavy drapes aside, cursing the stupidity of people who cloaked such magnificent old windows in overly fancy fabrics. It was one of the many contradictions of Rio that the best views were often to be found in the poorest, most dangerous parts, the favelas clinging to the hillsides looking down at the city and sea beyond, but, Deangelo had to admit, this view of Copacabana Beach was gut-wrenchingly beautiful. Miles of golden sand, never-ending blue sea matched by never-ending blue skies. He found the window catch and flung it open, letting the sweet, salty air permeate the room. The air of home.

  He was home.

  The stone balcony looked as neglected as the rest of the hotel but, after testing it with his foot, Deangelo stepped out, gripping the wrought iron rail as unwanted, long-pushed-away feelings assailed him: nostalgia, grief, anger and a fierce pride at the beauty of his city. A city of contrasts, stunningly beautiful, unbelievably ugly, wealthy beyond belief and horrifically poor. Fun-loving and violent... Rio was all this and more. There was nowhere else like it.

  Right now Rio was at its most beguiling. Beneath him, gorgeous people of both sexes sunbathed and paraded perfectly toned bodies shown off by the flimsiest of swimsuits. Children played football on one area of the beach, teens threw a volleyball right next to them, whilst people of all ages swam or waited, surfboard in hand, for the perfect wave. Once he’d been one of those footballing urchins, but never a surfer or a volleyball player and definitely not a beautiful beach boy with no thoughts beyond the sun and the sea. This Rio wasn’t his. Could never have been. That was why he had had to leave, to reinvent himself, to lock the part of him that needed and wanted and hoped deep down. He’d thought the chains rusted and the key long lost, but last night, during the brief moments of that kiss, the chains had slackened and for a few beautiful seconds he had needed and wanted and hoped...

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ Deangelo half turned at the soft voice to see Harriet on the neighbouring balcony gazing wistfully out at the view. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’

  ‘You’ve travelled all over the world.’ He didn’t mean to sound so brusque, but he also didn’t want to get drawn into a talk about Rio, not when his defences were so unexpectedly lowered. He’d thought he’d be able to come here, wrapped in the layers of cynicism and blankness that had kept him safe for all these years, but the combination of revenge so tantalisingly in reach and his new vulnerability around Harriet were battering away at his defences. Made him realise how tired he was of always keeping everyone and anything other than business at arm’s length. A curiously hollow feeling ached in his chest. Who knew what would motivate him once he’d achieved his vow, the years stretching ahead devoid of purpose. Making even more money no longer his driving force.

  He didn’t know how to do anything else, be anyone else.

  Harriet stepped closer, her hand still on the stone wall, gaze directed out to the view. She was almost within touching distance; he could reach over the partition that separated them and cover her hand with his. But he wouldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to.

  ‘I have been all over the world, you’re right. But it’s like I said yesterday about New York. I’ve flown to every continent on your private jet, where we get picked up at the airport by a limousine with blacked-out windows. We’re driven to some gorgeous five-star hotel, eat in their world-renowned restaurants and the view from my window is usually the hotel gardens. Sometimes I forget where I am. But this place, despite the Victorian English vibe in there, is real. I’m in Rio. I can’t wait to explore. You know—’ her voice was wistful and, turning to look at her fully, Deangelo was surprised to see her face was equally so ‘—everywhere else I went with you I was so busy being the perfect PA I didn’t take a single chance to actually see the cities we visited. Sydney or New York, Bangkok or Beijing? Just a hotel room. I’d order room service
, use the gym and then read, even when I knew you were busy for hours and wouldn’t need me. I think I was just too afraid to venture out alone. But no more. I have to go out and live my life; it’s the only one I have and I just can’t spend it afraid of what might happen. There’s a city out there waiting to be explored and I am going to explore it.’

  Wait. What?

  Deangelo narrowed his eyes, noting the light wrap she’d added to the sundress, the change of shoes from vertiginous sandals to flatter, more comfortable-looking espadrilles, the bag clasped in her hand, her sunglasses. ‘You can’t go out alone. It’s not safe.’

  ‘This is a tourist mecca.’

  ‘Exactly. Where tourists are, so are those who prey on them.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’s early evening, I won’t take any expensive jewellery or all my money or anything silly. I’m just going to walk down the street and find somewhere where I can eat and watch the world go by.’

  Deangelo could feel the muscle pulsing in his cheek. His plan was simple. Come to the hotel. Get to know his prey up close. Pounce, bite, win. Watch the expression in their eyes as they conceded defeat. Strip all they had from them, including their name, and then return to London—his real home—with his past firmly, once and for all, behind him. What his plan did not include was any kind of engagement with the city which had allowed him to be slung out like trash, the city which had allowed his mother to die for want of affordable treatment.

  But he couldn’t allow Harriet to go out into Rio’s uncertain streets alone. Nor could he forbid her, although that would certainly make things easier. He stood there for a moment, knuckles whitening as he grasped the top of the balcony, contemplating insisting that they had work to do and she would need to do her outing some other time, with a guide he would hire for her. But then he glanced over again and saw the anticipation shining on her face, the excited smile as she stared down at the beach. ‘I will come with you,’ he said instead, the words almost as much a shock to him as they evidently were to her.

  ‘You don’t need to do that.’

  ‘No. But I would like to. If you would allow me?’ He made himself add the last part. He had every intention of accompanying her, whether she was comfortable with him there or not.

  ‘It would be nice to have some company,’ she said. ‘And I suppose it would look a little odd if we went out separately on the first night of our honeymoon. Thank you. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Be ready in five minutes.’ Deangelo gave a curt nod before walking back into the hotel room, stomach tightening at the thought of the evening ahead. But whether he was more nervous about going back out into the Rio streets or it was the prospect of spending the evening in an informal setting with a woman he had vowed to maintain a strictly professional relationship with he wasn’t sure. Either way, he needed to keep his guard up this evening. The walls he’d erected were there for a reason, to protect him, to protect others from him, and a balmy evening in the cidade maravilhosa wouldn’t change that, no matter how beautiful and enticing the view—or his companion.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘I CAN’T BELIEVE I am actually walking on Copacabana Beach.’

  Harriet skipped with excitement, her eyes drawn everywhere. For the first few minutes she’d felt self-conscious in her low-cut, floaty dress, her skin so pale that even in the early evening she’d slapped on the factor fifty and a wide-brimmed hat, miserably aware that all those mornings she’d decided on an extra fifteen minutes sleep rather than getting up to run, all those second biscuits and her cake habit meant she would never be able to achieve the toned goddess-like proportions of the women parading up and down in itsy-bitsy bikinis, held up more by luck than gravity. But the sights and sounds were too exciting for her to feel down for long.

  Deangelo merely raised a disdainful eyebrow. ‘It’s looking a little better than the last time I was here, but Copacabana is for tourists. The beach scene is better in Ipanema and some of my favourite beaches are out beyond Leblon. We should be there, or a little north of here, Gávea or Botafogo. Or maybe Santa Teresa.’ He slanted an unreadable look her way. ‘I think you would like Santa Teresa.’

  Was that a good or a bad thing? Harriet made a note to look up Santa Teresa as soon as she got back to the hotel room. ‘So why aren’t we staying in any of those places?’

  ‘Because the Caetano family offered us a free stay at their flagship Rio hotel and under the circumstances it would have looked odd to refuse.’

  ‘It’s a little faded glory.’ She watched him carefully as she spoke. Deangelo had made it very clear that they were here to take the hotels over, but he hadn’t said why, just stated something obscure about justice. Despite herself, Harriet slid a glance to his scar. She’d been careful when she first went to work with him not to look at it, always keeping her gaze direct and at eye level, and then in time she didn’t notice it any more. It wasn’t the scar itself that was so shocking, it had healed to a thin, puckered white line; it was more the length of it that jarred. At some point Deangelo’s face had been torn apart and no one she knew had any idea why. Was that the justice he spoke of? Were the Caetanos responsible for the scar? For the closed-off way he lived, alone and shut away?

  If so, she would happily take everything they owned away from them herself.

  Because it was increasingly clear that whatever, whoever had shaped him had scarred him inside and out. But he hadn’t been closed off last night. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget the moment his hand had slipped around her waist and the kiss had caught fire. He had wanted her, she was almost sure, even in her relative inexperience. There had been something about the careful way he had held her—and released her—that had suggested that he was only just keeping control.

  Or was that wishful thinking on her side? Allowing her imagination to run away with what might have meant nothing at all?

  Either way, she had made that happen. Hadn’t stepped back in shock after his brief caress. No, she had demanded more and for a brief time had got it. It was a lesson to her to be bolder. What was the worst that could happen? She was used to rejection. She shouldn’t fear it. She tried to imagine taking hold of his hand, strong and tanned and so close, but her imagination, usually so vibrant, failed her.

  Coward, she told herself.

  ‘Back in the nineteen-twenties the Caetano Palace was one of the most prestigious hotels in the city, if not the country,’ Deangelo said, and Harriet turned her attention back to the conversation with some relief. ‘It’s that name, that history they want me to invest in. And,’ he added, ‘the kind of businessman naïve enough to want to make this kind of investment is the kind who would think staying right here is the epitome of sophistication. Still, once the deal is complete we’ll move somewhere more appropriate.’

  ‘Well, I think Copacabana is beautiful. Everyone seems to be having a good time. You know, I still can’t get my head around how big Brazil actually is. In my head there’s Rio and then the Amazon, but that’s like saying Europe is Paris and the Danube and missing out on all the other cities and coasts and rivers. Is there anywhere I should try and visit while I have the opportunity? There’s a few free days in the itinerary and if you can spare me I’d like to see something of the country.’ This was the start of a new page—she was going to live her life, not just read about other people’s.

  Deangelo didn’t answer for a long moment, as unreadable as ever. She’d worked for him for three years and still knew nothing about him apart from his coffee order. He never took leave so she didn’t know the kind of holiday he enjoyed, she’d never seen him read a book, heard him listen to music. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet she could barely make out the words. ‘I don’t know anywhere in Brazil but here; the first time I left Rio I was eighteen and on a plane to England.’

  Harriet opened her mouth but could find no words, so shut it again, feeling a little like a landed fish. Deangelo was so sure o
f himself, he was the very epitome of sophistication. She knew nothing about his past, but she’d assumed he came from money, or at least a comfortable existence. Everything about him exuded privilege, from the way he wore his handmade suits to his austere but impeccable taste. He’d been educated at Cambridge, for goodness’ sake.

  But he’d never mentioned his family, or even a single childhood anecdote. Maybe the slight hint of street fighter, one amplified by the scar on his cheek, was more than a hint. Harriet glanced around again, her gaze alighting on a gaggle of boys kicking a football, their clothes old and worn, feet bare, hair cropped close to their heads. She looked back at Deangelo and saw his gaze also fixed on the boys, a bleak sadness in his eyes, and realised with a jolt he saw himself in their skinny limbs and dirty clothes.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, desperate to change the subject and wipe that sadness out of his amber eyes. ‘Let’s get some food. I’m hungry.’

  Harriet swiftly overruled Deangelo’s suggestion that they look for one of the new crop of critically acclaimed restaurants that had recently opened up as Copacabana tried to shake off its slightly seedy tag. ‘You came along on my evening out, remember?’ she said. ‘And I don’t want fine dining. I want to sit and soak in the atmosphere. In fact—’ her eye was caught by one of the kiosks that were prevalent along the golden strip of sand ‘—let’s eat here.’

  ‘At a kiosk? Outside?’ He couldn’t have sounded more outraged if she’d suggested stealing food out of the hands of the small group of children picnicking nearby.