Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

by Jessica Gilmore

  She was doing the right thing, responding sensibly, not allowing the sensual haze creeping up to envelop her. Last night was a one-off—and Deangelo had ended it before it had gone anywhere. She was putting it firmly behind her to concentrate on enjoying this opportunity to explore Brazil. So why did she feel like a coward, a sense of opportunities lost once again creeping over her?

  She was tired of doing the sensible thing—after all, even quitting her job to set up the Happy Ever After Agency had been cushioned by Alexandra’s inheritance and the knowledge that, no matter what, she would have a roof over her head. She was in a city known for its laid-back attitude, a city made for fun, for letting go. What was it Alexandra had said, the first time they had discussed working for themselves? ‘You can’t experience life through books alone, Harriet. At some point you have to go out and start living it.’

  Harriet had laughed the comment off, clutching her beloved romance hardback to her, exclaiming that all she needed was in the pages of the book. But the words had stayed with her, came back to her now.

  Something had changed in the last twenty-four hours. For her, for them. A line had been crossed and there was no going back, not now she’d finally admitted to herself just how attracted she was to Deangelo. Desire flaring in the pit of her stomach, warming her whole body, setting every nerve on edge with awareness. Awareness of his surprisingly elegant hands, the broadness of his shoulders, the muscles that could make him seem heavyset if he didn’t move with such lithe grace, the sensual lines of his mouth, his heavy brows, the utter masculinity of a face that wasn’t handsome exactly, but undeniably attractive, the scar running down his cheek adding a rakish sensuality. For the first time Harriet knew why rooms went quiet when Deangelo strode in, why every woman, and plenty of the men, turned as if magnetically pulled in his direction. It wasn’t just the money or the power; it was utter sensuality. How had she not noticed before?

  Or maybe she had noticed but hid it even from herself.

  He sat back, eyes issuing a challenge she knew she was going to accept. ‘English people can’t samba because they have no idea how to let go.’

  Harriet narrowed her eyes at the dismissive comment. ‘You live in England now.’

  ‘It suits me. I like the control. I’m not criticising the English; I’m just stating a fact. You said yourself, you couldn’t even manage ballet, and ballet is all about rules. The samba twists the rules...’

  ‘So, let me get this straight. You like the rules yourself, but can still let go enough to samba?’

  ‘If I chose to, of course.’

  ‘Okay then.’ Harriet pushed back her chair, standing up, nerves competing with an excitement she couldn’t quite name. ‘Prove it.’

  He didn’t move for one long moment, only a pulse beating in his jaw showing any sign of life at all. Harriet stood still, watching him, the nerves tumbling in her stomach, her whole body aching with the need to act, to do. This evening was already unusual: the sharing of a meal, the location, the frank speech. Why not carry it on, rediscover the easy intimacy they had shared last night, would need for tomorrow? Then they would, no doubt, move on, to another hotel where they had their own space and normality would resume until they returned home and she walked away once again.

  Besides, she was intrigued. This was his home. She knew little more about the enigmatic billionaire than anyone else, despite their close proximity. The opportunity to find out who he really was seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.

  But, more than anything, she wanted to keep feeling the way she did right now: full of possibilities and possibility. Attracted and attractive. Desiring and desired. Because there had been a minute there, when his gaze had locked on hers, when something had flickered between them, something new and dangerous.

  She’d been good for so very long.

  She needed to start living outside the pages of her book.

  And it was only one dance.

  So she waited, her gaze locked on his, daring, provocative until he nodded. One firm gesture.

  ‘So be it.’

  * * *

  There was only one place to samba. Oh, sure, there were bars all over Rio, even a couple of decent ones here in Copacabana, but to really get to the heart of the dance then they needed to head to Lapa. Without a word to Harriet, Deangelo summoned a taxi, ushering Harriet into the back, joining her as the car headed along the beach.

  This was crazy; he knew that. Crazy on so many levels he didn’t even know where to begin. To spend an evening together like this under normal circumstances was risky; to do so in the city of his birth, in the city where all his secrets lay buried, was playing with fire.

  And that was before he considered the change in Harriet this evening. It wasn’t just physical, although he wasn’t used to seeing her strawberry-blonde hair loose, her lush curves shown off rather than hidden away by sensible if shapeless office wear. It wasn’t the bolder way she interacted with him, her usual reserve replaced with a sharp curiosity and a new openness. It was the way she made him feel: a little protective, a little possessive, as if he wanted to show her his world, impress her. As if he wanted her to know him, the real him. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

  But he was in Rio. Tomorrow the game would begin. Tonight was his.

  At one time he’d known all the bars in Lapa. The ones where the tourists were funnelled to, the ones they’d never see. The places where only the best dancers took to the floor, and those where every beginner was welcome. Tiny bars carved into alleyways, large glitzy bars where light glittered from every sequin. Would they recognise him if he went there? Unlikely; back then he’d just been another street rat.

  No. Not a bar. He wanted to make this visit special for Harriet; that meant taking her to the very best, most spectacular place.

  Harriet didn’t speak as they travelled through the darkening streets, staring out of the windows, concentrating on every street scene they passed, absorbing the city, but she let out a gasp as the car pulled up outside the grand stone building. It looked impressive, every window ornately decorated with stone carvings, lights blazing from the open double doors at the top of the wide steps. Deangelo helped Harriet from the taxi, keeping her hand in his as they started to ascend the steps, trying not to notice how much her touch felt like home as he led her into the huge hallway, light bouncing off a dozen chandeliers. Deangelo kept hold of her even as he muttered a few words to the hostess greeting them, and they followed her to a corner table, one both discreet and yet with an enviable view of the dance floor.

  It was still early but the room was already half-filled and couples had taken to the floor, showcasing moves that would win awards in Europe, music filling the room from the stage at the other end of the room, the musicians already lost to the beat. Usually he would have ordered the ice-cold beer customary in these establishments but, after glancing at Harriet, her eyes shining as she took in the scene, Deangelo changed his mind and ordered champagne.

  ‘This is incredible.’ Harriet took her seat, still transfixed by the dancing in front of her. ‘When do the normal people start dancing?’

  ‘These are the normal people.’

  ‘What?’ She turned and stared at him. ‘They can’t be! Look at her feet. And his—and that leg-kick. Normal people can’t do that.’

  ‘They can in the gafieiras. But everyone is welcome, whatever their level.’

  A bow-tied waiter interrupted them at that moment, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket in one hand, two frosted glasses in the other, and conversation stopped as the cork was popped, the champagne poured and Harriet sat back, glass in hand, to watch the dancing.

  The beat swelled, the music thumping through him, every note, every key change calling to him. Almost without noticing, his foot began to tap along, his body to shift in time with the beat. The room was steadily filling and the accomplished dancers on the floor
were joined by more and more couples, of much more varying levels, including a few tourists who, although clearly game, had more enthusiasm than ability; they were soon swooped upon by experienced dancers who whirled them away to teach them the proper steps to their evident equal delight and trepidation.

  It was time.

  Deangelo pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand. ‘Come along.’

  Harriet clutched her glass. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You wanted to learn how to be a Brazilian? Right there.’ He nodded at the dance floor. ‘That’s where you’ll find out.’

  She clutched the glass harder. ‘I can’t go out there!’

  ‘Why not? If he can—’ he nodded at a rotund tourist, furiously jiggling away, his face serious as he tried to remember the steps his partner was teaching him ‘—you definitely can.’

  ‘But...’

  He didn’t wait for her to finish the sentence, removing the glass from her hand and drawing her to her feet.

  ‘The thing to remember about samba,’ he said, ‘is you have to find the rhythm. It’s three steps to two beats, the middle step is the quick one. Once you have that, then add bounce, keep your knees soft. So it’s back, feet together, forward...’ They were on the dance floor and Deangelo swept her into his arms, murmuring the steps to her. ‘That’s it, back, together, forward, knees bent, let your body roll through the steps, don’t be afraid to roll your hips.’

  Harriet was clearly nervous, clutching his hand as she shuffled through the steps, her eyes on her feet.

  ‘Look at me,’ he murmured. ‘Feel the beat; let it guide you.’

  The music was getting louder and louder, the beat stronger and more insistent, the dance floor busier and busier. Deangelo lost track of time, knowing nothing but the woman in his arms, the softness of her under his hands, the way his pulse was connected to the music, the light in her blue eyes as she moved, the sheen of perspiration on her forehead as the heat intensified. How had he thought running would be the same as dancing? The solitary sport against this communal celebration of music and passion? No wonder he’d only felt half-alive the last twelve years, replacing joy with monotony, the thud of his feet on the pavement instead of the thud of his heart to the beat. It was necessary, that half-life, but such a relief to let the walls tumble for one night, to let the young man who had loved and laughed and dreamed emerge from the cold professional persona he was caged in. Tomorrow would be time enough to tame him again.

  As Harriet got more confident he encouraged her to move in a processional step, her hips moving as if she’d been born to do this, hair swirling in time with the beat. He twirled her, then twirled her back and Harriet lost her footing, falling into him, her face upturned, laughing. Time slowed, each musical note drawn out to an almost unbearable crescendo, every couple moving in slow motion. All Deangelo could see was Harriet’s parted mouth, her laughing eyes, all he could feel was her soft weight colliding with his, her breasts against his chest, hip to hip, leg to leg, the heat of her, her pulse racing in unison with his.

  He was consumed by her and all she represented—freedom and need and happiness and sensuality—hair around her shoulders, her dress slipping off her shoulders, revealing the deep vee of her breasts, her lush mouth tilted towards his as if offering. How could he resist?

  He’d been the king of resistance for so many long years, ruthlessly squashing any need and want that didn’t align with his goal. Not for him romance or love. Not for him the false comfort of human relationships. Work and enough exercise to keep his body and mind fighting fit. That was enough. That was all he allowed himself. Harriet represented all that was forbidden. That was what made her so intoxicating.

  He could still have walked away, led her back to their table, called a taxi and escorted her back to the hotel, put tonight down to courtesy, if she hadn’t moved in a little closer, if her hand hadn’t slipped around his waist, if she hadn’t put her other hand on his shoulder, aligning herself even closer to him. If she hadn’t flicked her tongue nervously over her mouth, her eyes fixed on his. She wanted him and he was powerless to resist, the memory of how sweet her kiss felt consuming him.

  His hand slid down her back to the glorious curve of her hip, his gaze watching her throughout the slow caress, waiting for further permission. She sighed as her eyelids fluttered shut, leaning in to his touch, her own hands tightening their grip. Permission granted.

  The first kiss was fleeting, a mere brush of lips. She tasted of champagne sweetened with honey, her mouth soft under his. The second kiss was barely a second longer, Deangelo still needing to know that this was what she wanted.

  Once again it was Harriet who made the next move, standing on her tiptoes to press her mouth to his, opening up under him. This was no mere brush, no polite enquiry. Deangelo pulled her tight against him, deepening the kiss, his hands roaming over her body as they moved to the beat of the drums, stepping in perfect time, hips moving, lost in the rhythm they created.

  With an effort, Deangelo pulled himself away. ‘Want to get out of here?’

  ‘Can we return? Before we leave Rio?’

  ‘It’s a date.’ The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them and he paused. ‘I mean...’

  But she laid a finger over his mouth. ‘No. You don’t have to say anything. I know what this is.’

  She knew more than him, then. Deangelo still wasn’t sure how he’d allowed everything he’d spent the last twelve years building to be swept away in just a few hours, even if it was temporary. ‘You do?’

  ‘Everything has changed. For both of us. That’s confusing how we relate to each other, how we interact.’

  ‘So this right now is just confusion?’

  She laughed. ‘Maybe. No, definitely. But I think we’re two of a kind, you and I. We don’t allow ourselves what comes so naturally to others, for different reasons probably, but still. I want to change that, I want to start living like everyone else. To stop being afraid to reach out for what I want. And tonight...’ She swallowed. ‘Tonight I want you. I’m not looking for more. Good God, I don’t think I could handle more, not from someone as intense as you. I need training wheels for a little while longer; I’m very out of practice when it comes to relationships. So I have no expectations, except that tomorrow things revert to normal. But we’ve a while until tomorrow. And I’d like to spend that while with you...’

  Deangelo couldn’t imagine the courage it must have taken to be so very honest, to be so very vulnerable, and his lack of worthiness, his inability to be so open hit him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘No,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I should, I think, but no.’

  ‘Good.’ And now it was Harriet’s turn to take his hand. ‘I was hoping that’s what you’d say.’

  Stopping to draw her back into his arms, Deangelo banished the doubts still lurking in his mind with another kiss, her ardent response a welcome reminder that this was a two-way sudden attraction. Harriet was right. Tomorrow would take care of itself—and tonight? Tonight was up to them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HARRIET WAS USUALLY awake with the dawn, trained into early rising by the need to be up before her father and then by the early start demanded by Deangelo’s timetable. But, it turned out, Deangelo was an earlier riser still. And when she finally stirred it was to find Deangelo already dressed, seated by the side of the bed.

  ‘What time is it?’ she managed to say, her voice embarrassingly croaky with sleep. It would have been easier to wake up alone, or for him to occupy the now cool place beside her, but this halfway house put her at a disadvantage. To look at him, she would have assumed that Deangelo had slept for eight peaceful hours. He was already dressed in blue chinos and a crisp white shirt, the most formal of the informal clothes they’d purchased, his hair still wet from the shower.

  But Harriet
knew better. Deangelo had had as much sleep as she had—and that wasn’t very much. She pulled the sheets higher, horribly aware of her nakedness, the way she ached deep down, that mixture of satiation and too much. Last night had in every way been too much.

  And she, uncharacteristically confident, had loved every sensuous moment. She’d never known sex could be like that, so tender one moment, so fiery the next, pushing her on and on until she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began and she didn’t care. For the first time in a long time she’d felt that the exaggerated curves of her hips and breasts weren’t too much but just right, her fifties hourglass shape fitted into Brazil, fitted into Deangelo’s muscled breadth, perfectly.

  ‘It’s just past eight. Breakfast is ordered. I’d like to go over our notes during it. Can you be ready in twenty minutes?’

  And good morning to you too, Harriet managed not to say, rising onto one arm and pushing the tangle of hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ she said easily. ‘Can you pass me a robe?’ She lay watching him as he strode across the room to collect the silk robe she’d bought just two days ago, but when he returned he didn’t hand it to her; instead he stood there frowning. Harriet eased herself into a sitting position, sheet high across her chest. She knew what was coming. The talk.

  Harriet had been totally honest last night when she’d said she didn’t want a relationship with Deangelo. She had such a long way to go to find out who she was when she wasn’t spending every moment worrying about her father. She had a business to build. Single-minded, taciturn, control freak billionaires were in no way part of her plan. Last night wasn’t her life’s purpose, wonderful as it had been, just a memory in the making, so when she looked back she didn’t see a grey, solitary, dull existence but glints of fire and adventure.

  ‘Thank you for ordering breakfast.’