‘Sounds perfect, doesn’t it? Let’s see what they’re serving.’
They had passed several of the iconic beach kiosks, some the traditional wood, others, like the one they were approaching, a silver metal glinting in the sun. The large round kiosk was surrounded by several tables, each shielded from the sun by a huge umbrella, all with an unparalleled view of the sea. From the kiosk itself an enticing smell wafted out and Harriet realised just how very hungry she was. She peered over at the menu, squinting as she tried to read the scrawling handwritten sign. ‘They serve espettos—they smell good, whatever they are.’
‘Kebabs,’ Deangelo told her. ‘Usually meat or fish, sometimes vegetables.’
‘Perfect. I’ll get these; what would you like?’
It took a few minutes to convince Deangelo that she both could and would buy dinner, his argument that she’d only be claiming the dinner back on expenses waved away. ‘It doesn’t matter that I’ll be using the corporate card. I want to go up and order the food.’ She knew it sounded a little pointless, but Harriet had spent so long not doing, waiting for life to start, she just didn’t want to wait any more, just like she hadn’t wanted to spend another night waiting for room service in an anonymous hotel room.
The young man in the kiosk was perfectly charming, praising her halting phrasebook Portuguese, his appreciative gaze resting on her in a way that managed to combine respectfulness with a playful flirtatiousness and a sense that if Harriet was willing the flirtatiousness would be amped up. She’d never been flirted with quite so expertly before and carried the cold beers back over to the table where Deangelo sat glowering, feeling sexier and more feminine than she had for a long, long time. ‘I ordered a selection so we can try all the different types, along with bread and salad; is that okay? What’s wrong?’ she asked, as his glower intensified.
‘Was that boy being disrespectful?’
‘What? Who? No! He was being nice. He’s not really interested in me, I’m at least a decade older. But I appreciated the gesture, he flirted so charmingly.’
‘As far as he is aware you’re a married woman.’ The glower intensified and a sense of the absurd mingled with a weird moment of wishing this was real, that she really was carrying the drinks back to someone who cared deeply about her, deeply enough to mistake practised flirtation for genuine interest. Harriet inhaled, trying to quell that note of wistfulness. Deangelo was being overprotective, that was all.
‘Actually, there’s one thing we forgot.’ She held up her bare left hand. ‘No ring, so he couldn’t have known about any marriage, real or fake. But I was thinking we’d say we left the rings behind because of safety concerns, so there’s no need for us to buy any.’ Harriet wasn’t comfortable about accepting valuable jewellery, even temporarily, and the thought of wearing rings on her fourth finger made her uncomfortable in ways she didn’t know how to articulate.
Deangelo’s frown merely deepened. ‘It’s been taken care of; they will be here tomorrow.’
Wait, what? ‘No, no, there’s no need. Honestly.’
His brows drew together but, before he could respond, the waiter brought over a bowl filled with delicious-smelling bread, a mixture between a dough ball and a bread roll, and the conversation stalled as the delicious aroma floated towards them. Harriet managed to remember her manners and wait until the bowl had been set down before picking up a roll, her stomach gurgling in anticipation. The roll was still warm as she bit into it, the texture crisp on the outside, soft in the middle and filled with cheese. ‘Oh, my goodness. These are amazing.’
She looked over at Deangelo for confirmation and, to her surprise, his face had softened to a melancholy nostalgia. ‘Pão de queijo. My mother used to make them. I haven’t had these since I left Brazil.’
‘There must be somewhere in London you could buy them. Now I’ve discovered them I’m not going to let them simply walk out of my life. This is a long-term relationship, I can just tell.’
But Deangelo was shaking his head. ‘In London I like to forget about Brazil. There’s no time to look back. Living in the past is for fools. Better to move on, find new things.’
‘But—’ Harriet said, watching him carefully as she spoke; this could be her chance to find out exactly what was going on ‘—you’re back here, playing games to buy an overpriced money pit hotel chain. It can’t be a coincidence that you’ve chosen to do something so uncharacteristic in the city you grew up in...’
His expression shut down immediately. Harriet had never realised before just how high the walls were that Deangelo lived behind. Nor just how much he cut himself off from all human interaction. She knew his existence was focused, that he didn’t socialise or relax, that he had no hobbies and he had no obvious vices nor any obvious virtues. He ignored the many fundraising messages that crossed her desk—no gala balls for him, no charity concerts. He chose to live alone, whereas circumstances had meant that for too many years she had had little interaction with people outside work. The loneliness had nearly broken her. How could he choose to live like this? How could he bear it?
But then again, he had bought her that beautiful cashmere coat last Christmas. It had fitted her like a glove, the colour bringing out the blue of her eyes. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever owned. For her birthday he’d given her lifetime membership to the London Library, a gift she hadn’t realised she’d coveted until she received it. He must have noticed that she always had a book or two in her bag, that her only spending splurges were on books...
He must have noticed her...
She looked across and realised he was watching her intently, warmth suffusing her as his gaze seemed to strip her to the bones, see inside her. She tried to suppress a shiver, the urge to reach out and touch him almost overwhelming her. She wanted to feel his touch again and, God help her, she wanted him to kiss her again.
* * *
With the first bite of the herby, cheese-filled bread he was home, seeing his mother balling the dough, slapping away his hands as he had tried to grab the cheese. Grief, for her and the innocent boy he had been, rose thickly in his throat and Deangelo washed the roll down with a swig of beer, almost afraid of the emotions one taste had unleashed, afraid of the urge to confess his sins to the woman opposite him as her gaze snagged his, warmth and understanding in her smile and something that looked very like desire in the depths of her clear blue eyes. His own body responded instantly, blood heating as he allowed himself one long look, one moment of pretending that this was, could be, real before tearing his gaze away. Why would a woman like Harriet, one with so much to give, want a man who was nothing, despite the billions in the bank?
Suddenly he wanted to know the heart of her, even if he could, should, do nothing with that information. ‘You told me you left Aion to build a family. What did you mean?’
Harriet picked up another of the cheese balls and began to tear small pieces off it as she looked over towards the sea, her gaze wistful. Deangelo followed her line of sight, his eyes resting on a family playing on the beach, the parents laughing as they threw a ball to their small children, smiles filled with love and pride. ‘Like I said, I just wanted a family.’ Her voice was so low Deangelo wasn’t even sure he’d heard her correctly. He snapped his gaze back to her. The loneliness in her eyes would be like looking in a mirror, if he ever allowed himself to feel anything at all.
‘You have a family. Your father...’
‘I love my dad more than anything. At least, I love the man he used to be more than anything. I can’t help but resent the person he is now.’ She ripped another roll to shreds, then pushed her plate away. ‘It’s like my own dad was kidnapped and replaced with a stranger who looks like him but is in no way my funny, kind daddy. But then occasionally there are glimpses and I know he’s trapped in there somewhere. Those moments are the worst of all.’ She looked up, stricken. ‘I don’t mean that exactly...’
�
��And you have no other family?’
Harriet shook her head. ‘Both my parents were only children and already pretty elderly when I was born—it was a second marriage for both of them. Mum said I was her late life miracle. She died when I was eleven, so it was just me and Dad. I do have two half-sisters, but they resented my mother—and me, I think—and I don’t see much of them.’
Deangelo couldn’t help but see the parallels. One dead parent, one ill parent and a family who weren’t interested in helping out. Some stories were universal, and always damaging. ‘Don’t your sisters help out with your father?’
‘No.’ There was a world of heartbreak in that answer. Deangelo could have warned her—never put your faith in the goodness of others. But it was clearly too late for Harriet.
‘No,’ she repeated. ‘Like I said, they resented me, resented Mum. They loved the big house Dad provided, their allowances and cars and horses and all the rest of it. Dad was a merchant banker. He worked so hard; Mum was always telling him to slow down. He’d leave for work really early, come back late.’ Her face softened. ‘On Thursday night he’d always ask us what we wanted him to bring home for the weekend. My mother always asked for flowers and so I did, too; I wanted to be just like her. My sisters laughed at me for that but I loved it when he’d present me with a perfect rose. I’d give anything for him to give me a rose one last time.’ She blinked rapidly, before taking a long swig of her beer.
‘Anyway, after Mum died he decided he needed to cut his hours, to look after me. He quit his job to become a lecturer at LSE, and sold our house so we could live close to his work. He bought a flat in Crouch End and shared the rest of the money between us; mine was supposed to put me through university. My sisters were appalled; they couldn’t bear the loss of their lifestyle but, to be fair, they took that money and multiplied it. They own a chain of tanning and beauty shops; they do really well. But when I asked if they would help out with his costs they didn’t even return my calls. They haven’t visited him—or me—in years.’
‘And your share of the money?’
He was sure of her answer and unsurprised when she answered. ‘Oh, well, it was clear Dad was having problems when I was still at school. By the time I was eighteen, leaving him so I could head to university was out of the question so I did a PA course, working part-time so I could look after him. We managed okay for a few years, but then it was more than I could do on my own; he just wasn’t safe to leave on his own. I felt so guilty. So guilty.’ She stopped, swallowed. ‘If I couldn’t look after him then he had to have the best and if that meant selling the flat and donating my trust fund to pay for it then of course that’s what I would do. Only this meant I needed a full-time job—and to pay rent—so I got a job at Aion. A year later I was promoted to work for you. I thought maybe things would change for me, but they didn’t. I’d lost part of myself in those years with Dad. My confidence maybe? Sense of self. Whatever it was, I just seemed to be as lonely as ever.’
She stared out at the beach. ‘When you spend your teens and early twenties looking after your dad it’s hard to meet people and relationships are pretty much out of the question. I lost touch with my school friends and going out in the evening was impossible anyway. Once I started renting it didn’t get easier. London can be pretty anonymous when you don’t have money or connections and you have to keep moving because rents are so expensive. And then I met the girls.’
‘The girls?’
‘Emilia, Alex and Amber. The Christmas after I had just started working directly for you. It was Christmas Eve and we were all free to go at noon, only I had nowhere to go so I stayed.’
Dimly, Deangelo remembered. He usually worked over Christmas, so hadn’t thought it odd that Harriet had stayed until six. ‘I didn’t know.’ And if he had what would he have done? Probably nothing. Other people’s tragedies weren’t his business.
She smiled a brief sad smile. ‘How could you? Anyway. I finally left. I was dreading Christmas Eve evening more than Christmas Day in some ways. I had planned a walk, bought some food for the day itself, but the evening seemed unbearably long. And then in the lift I met Alex. I didn’t really know her—she’s a little intimidating, so posh and cool, you know? Anyway. I asked her if she had any nice plans for that evening and she just looked, for one second, as bleak as I felt and said no. It was a takeaway and an early night. So I gathered up all my courage and suggested a drink. To my shock, she said yes.’
Her mouth softened. ‘We gathered up Emilia in the lobby; she was trying to get up the courage to walk out into the lonely night. Amber was outside, fruitlessly trying to find a taxi. We went out for wine and pizza and it was the best Christmas Eve I had had in about ten years. The next day we met and walked through Hyde Park then found a little café selling fry-ups and had bacon and eggs for our Christmas lunch. And somehow we knew. We had found a family, not one of blood but a family nonetheless. A year later we started talking about setting up an agency and here we are.’
The arrival of the espettos interrupted anything Deangelo might have said, but he couldn’t help but mark the difference between them. Life had stripped all they loved from them, but he had closed himself off and made money, each million, each billion, another brick in the wall separating him from humanity. From feelings. But Harriet? Rejected by what remained of her family, she’d gone out and built herself another one. He had made money but she was the richer by far.
Harriet deserved all the love, all the happiness in the world. He’d lifted her financial burden from her; the least he could do was to make this final fortnight together special too. Show her the real Rio de Janeiro, even if it meant showing her a tiny part of the real Deangelo Santos, too. Show her just how worthy of love and happiness she was. One final gift. Before she walked out of his life for ever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHAT WAS WRONG with her? One beach walk and one kiss and she was spilling her guts like a low-level hoodlum with a plea bargain. Harriet cringed. How could she have said so much? It was so unlike her—and so unprofessional. So exposing.
But for a moment there, the amber eyes had been full of empathy, as if he truly knew what it felt like to have nothing, to have no one.
‘These are good,’ she said a little awkwardly, picking up an espetto and waving it around. ‘First night and I’m already converted to Brazilian food. What else do I need to do to fit in around here?’
‘Sport.’ Deangelo nodded at the footballers to one side and the volleyballers on the other just as, as if to prove his point, a gorgeous couple jogged past. ‘Football, of course. It’s not just the national passion, it’s the national reason for existing.’
‘I don’t mind football. My dad supported Arsenal.’
‘Don’t mind is better than nothing. But it lacks passion, and passion is one of the most important Brazilian traits. If you want to know Brazil, then you must remember this...’ He leaned forward, eyes molten gold, reflecting the evening sun. ‘Brazil is a land of hedonism, of pleasure and relaxation and sensuality.’
Harriet swallowed, almost choking on her bread. ‘It’s what?’
‘Oh, we don’t mind work.’ His usually almost imperceptible accent deepened. ‘After all, it takes a lot of dedication to look like that.’ He waved his hand towards a group of young people drinking at the counter, the girls in tiny dresses showing off lean, toned limbs and dramatic curves, the men all chiselled as if carved by Michelangelo himself. ‘But Brazilians don’t sweat the small stuff; we like to make sure there’s plenty of time to enjoy the finer things in life. Food, music, the outside, love, dance...’
The way he lingered on love called to mind something a lot more carnal than romantic, a physicality inherent in the word, and she was instantly transported back to last night, her hand in his, the feel of his shoulder, strong under her palm, the decadent richness of the kiss. Warmth suffused her cheeks, spreading down to touch every part of her.
‘Dance?’ she said, as coolly as she could, despite the intensity in his face, his scar setting off his saturnine handsomeness rather than marring it, reminding her he was both out of her league and her skillset.
‘Of course. In Argentina they like to tango. To follow rules, to embody drama and violence and repression. In Brazil we samba. The samba is all about passion. About being free.’ His gaze met hers, bold and intense, and Harriet shivered at the wildness in the depths of his eyes.
Passion? Where had this come from? Deangelo was the kind of man who probably slept in his suit. He was organised and predictable and proper. But her body knew full well he hadn’t been any of those things last night and, good intentions aside, how could she be anything but intrigued by the dangerous glint in his eyes, the wolfish smile playing on his sensual mouth?
Swallowing hard, she tried to drag the conversation and her mind back on track. ‘Samba? That’s the dance with the bright costumes, right? All feathers and big hats?’ And barely-there outfits, but she wasn’t going to mention that.
‘Traditionally yes, but samba is more than costume. A samba can be danced in any clothes at any time. It’s about rhythm, about intent. It comes from the heart, through the hips.’
‘The hips, right. Then I’d better not give it a go. My attempts at baby ballet were not a success. Dance is obviously not for me.’
Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss Page 7