For the first time since she’d known him, Deangelo looked disconcerted. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘And thank you for last night. The dancing and, well, everything.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I know how important today is, and I know what last night was. You don’t need to worry. I don’t expect you to suddenly be magically in love with me and I’m not magically in love with you—it was just two people exploring an attraction. Maybe a goodbye in a way.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, if you want me to be ready in twenty minutes you’d better give me some privacy.’ She smiled again. ‘I promise not to take too long.’
‘Right. Okay.’ His eyes flicked to the sheet covering her and for one millisecond Harriet could have sworn that his gaze heated up, but immediately his habitual blank expression was right back in place. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
She breathed a sigh of relief as he handed her the robe and turned and left. So much better for her to deliver the about last night speech rather than receive it—and she was a sensible grown-up woman who was not going to feel disappointed that he hadn’t argued for a continuance.
It didn’t take Harriet too long to shower, quickly washing her hair, bundling it, still damp, into a loose chignon, smoothing on tinted moisturiser, mascara and a little lipstick. She pulled a face as she surveyed her fresh-faced milkmaid wholesomeness in the mirror; she definitely didn’t look sophisticated enough to be a naïve but rich investor’s wife, but she’d never got the hang of a five-minute full makeover. Her outfit would have to talk for her. She opted for wide silky trousers in navy blue with a white and gold pattern, partnering them with a loose gold vest top, layering up the gold bangles Amber had assured her would make the outfit, and slipping her feet into the kind of wedges that made her relieved that Deangelo usually got chauffeured everywhere.
Exactly twenty minutes later she left the bedroom. The heavy velvet curtains had been pulled back and the French doors opened, allowing the morning light to flood into the overly ornate room. Deangelo was seated at the small table in the dining alcove, his laptop open, ignoring the food spread out before him. An ache in her stomach reminded Harriet that she’d only eaten a couple of the small cheese rolls, some grilled vegetables and prawns last night.
‘This looks amazing.’
Deangelo looked up. Had he really been so lost in work he hadn’t heard her approach? Was he really as cool as he appeared? It didn’t matter, she reminded herself; they had made an agreement. The sort Deangelo always made—brief companionship with no expectations on either side. Harriet just had to act like one of the sophisticated women he usually dated.
‘Is that coffee?’ she continued in the same overly bright voice. ‘Excellent. I need something to wake me up.’ At that exact moment she remembered just why she was so tired—and, judging by the heat flaring in Deangelo’s eyes as he looked up, he was having exactly the same memories. Cheeks burning, Harriet slipped into the empty chair. The food looked incredible. Whatever the hotel’s failings, the kitchen clearly wasn’t one of them: freshly baked bread rolls were heaped into a basket, an array of cheeses, meats, jams and fresh fruit spread out on attractive platters, joined by pots of yogurt and a jug of fruit juice. Harriet accepted a cup of milky coffee gratefully, before piling her plate high. Deangelo, she noted, had a few slices of papaya and a black coffee. She looked down at her own teetering pile of food ruefully.
‘My sisters are like you. Food to them is a necessity they barely tolerate. Growing up, they were always a little scathing about my appetite. I used to try and eat like they did, then sneak food later. Silly really. I just wanted to be like them, for them to take notice of me in a good way. To include me, as if they were ever going to want to hang out with a half-sister a decade younger.’
She was surprised to see Deangelo’s forehead crease as if in pain and stopped abruptly, roll still in hand. ‘I’m sorry; you don’t need to know this.’
‘Half-siblings can be very cruel.’ There was a chilling note to his voice and foreboding shivered down Harriet’s spine. His face straightened, his expression resolute.
‘I’d like to say unthinking rather than cruel.’ She stared at her plate. Part of her still hoped that one day Emma and Jayne would act like real sisters. Even after they’d excluded her from their weddings, failed to tell her when nieces and nephews were born, sent Christmas cards to their father only. Even as their visits became more and more infrequent as their father’s illness progressed, after they stopped taking her calls and ignored her pleas for help. It wasn’t just their financial help she’d wanted. It was their input. For someone else to make the difficult decisions, to reassure her she was doing the right thing. For someone to care.
But someone had. While he still could. Even amidst his own grief, her father had helped her cope with the loss of her mother in every way he could. ‘After Mum died I just couldn’t eat at all. For weeks. Then one day Dad took me out to Mum’s favourite Italian. Nothing fancy, one of those family-run restaurants that are a staple of every small town. The kind where they ply you with garlic bread as soon as you sit down, where every portion could actually feed a family, where they insist you try pudding. And he reminded me that eating together brought Mum more happiness than anything. That cooking together was her favourite pastime.’
Why on earth had she told him all that when the time for confidences was at an end?
‘My mother loved to cook too.’
She stilled, barely daring to look at him. She’d never heard Deangelo speak about any member of his family before.
‘And she always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day, that you never knew when you’d next get the time or money to eat.’ Deangelo said nothing else, but he did add a roll and some cheese to his plate.
Harriet continued to eat automatically, turning that comment over and over in her head. It suggested poverty, not knowing when or where the next meal was coming from.
And the past tense hadn’t escaped her either. He’d lost his mother, too. Empathy ached within her, but she didn’t know what to say, whether any gesture would be welcomed, last night’s intimacy muddying the waters between them, making reaching out to another human being an unwelcome overture rather than a gesture of sympathy.
Neither spoke for the next few minutes. Harriet’s appetite had deserted her and she picked at her breakfast, grateful for the bitter coffee. It wasn’t until she pushed her plate away that Deangelo looked up again. He picked up a small parcel that lay beside his laptop and handed it to her.
‘These arrived this morning; they should be the right size.’
Opening the padded envelope cautiously, she drew out a turquoise ring box and her stomach tumbled with a mixture of fear and anticipation. She’d always dreamt of receiving a box like this, maybe on a moonlit evening by the sea. Never over an awkward breakfast in order to perpetuate a charade.
‘I said not to...’
‘No one would believe a bride wouldn’t wear her wedding ring. Open it.’
With a doubtful glance at him she did, her gasp as much delight as shock as she took in the twisted platinum band and delicate sapphire ring, obviously designed to fit together. They were beautiful. Too beautiful. She’d much rather have worn a huge diamond solitaire or something else not to her taste than the exact same rings she would have picked out for herself.
‘These are too much. What if I lost them...?’
‘It’s no matter.’ And of course it wasn’t. Deangelo could buy rings like this for every single one of his employees and not even notice. That didn’t make it seem right though.
‘What about you?’
But he simply shrugged. ‘Not all men wear rings.’
‘I would never marry someone who didn’t want to wear a ring.’
‘Then it’s a good thing this is not a real marriage. Come on, Harriet, see if they fit. We have a lot to go through.’
Gone was the tender, considerate lover, gone her usually courteous boss. Deangelo’s lips pressed tightly together, his forehead pinched with what she assumed was rarely seen annoyance. Harriet gingerly lifted the rings out of the box, swallowing as she held the engagement ring up, admiring the etchings of leaves decorating the delicate band. This was no standard ring. It was the ring.
The perfect gift, just like the coat, just like the library subscription. Only this wasn’t a gift she could keep and receiving it just made melancholy settle over her. It seemed so wrong that the person who knew her best was the person who would no longer be in her life. The person who lived a life pretty much devoid of any human warmth and liked it that way.
Silence stretched as she slid first the twisted platinum band and then the sapphire ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. Of course they fitted perfectly.
‘Do you like them?’
‘I love them,’ she half whispered. ‘I’ll take care of them.’
He waved away her assurance as if it mattered not at all.
Unease sat heavily on her and Harriet stood up, needing to put some distance between herself and the food.
Some distance between her and Deangelo. He was such a stranger this morning, and she didn’t know if it was because of the night they had just shared or the meeting they were preparing for. She suspected a little of both; either way it unnerved her. He usually seemed so impenetrable, but then even superheroes had their vulnerabilities, as Achilles had found out in the end. Coming back to Rio was obviously his. The night they’d shared was because of that weakness, not instead of. No wonder he wanted to pretend it had never happened. The sooner she felt the same the better.
But as she turned to look back at him she couldn’t help wishing for a little of last night’s courage, for the right to take him in her arms, to thank him for the rings, to wipe away the sadness that still lingered in his eyes. She didn’t know what his reasons for being here were, but she hoped that whatever he planned would set him free. He deserved love, as did she. Maybe last night was the first step they both needed.
But part of her wished they could take the next step together.
She bit her lip, pushing the traitorous thought away. Maybe sex had addled her brain. She’d better ensure strict boundaries for the next two weeks or she’d start naming imaginary children and picking out dream homes...
‘Right—’ she was relieved to hear her voice sound so steady ‘—let’s get to work. We have an hour before the meeting; what do you need me to do?’
* * *
The initial meeting was to start off in the lobby. The three Caetano siblings had offered a tour of the grand-if-decaying hotel before taking the formalities up to the boardroom. Harriet could feel the butterflies tumbling through her stomach as the lift took them back down to the lobby. She’d sat through hundreds of high-powered business meetings in her time with Aion, many involving much higher stakes monetarily than this, but it was clear this particular deal had nothing to do with money. How could it? It was a terrible investment.
Deangelo was tense as he stood next to her, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists, a muscle beating in his jaw. He looked dangerous, more like a prize fighter than a newly rich businessman, and Harriet, steeling herself, slipped her hand into his. ‘We’re meant to be on honeymoon, remember?’
Taking his hand wasn’t purely about their charade. A casual observer might detect no emotion in Deangelo, but Harriet had never seen him so preternaturally still, apart from that one muscle, as if he was concealing some strong emotion, not, as she often thought, a stranger to it.
Whoever these Caetanos were, there was history here. Personal history. History worth spending a great deal of money and time on.
Deangelo didn’t respond as she took a firmer grip of his hand, stiller than she’d ever thought any human could be, until the lift doors opened, revealing the marble lobby beyond. In that moment it was as if he’d flicked a switch, turning himself on, as he strode out of the lift, towing Harriet alongside. His smile was wider than she’d ever seen it, eyes beaming with a frank bonhomie as he slipped an arm around Harriet’s shoulders and held her close.
‘Senhor and Senhorita Caetano? Ola, I’m Marcos Santos and this, this is my beautiful bride, Harriet.’ His accent was thicker than usual, and subtly different. A regional accent, she assumed. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me, and thank you for the beautiful suite. It’s really made our honeymoon perfect, hasn’t it, querida?’
Harriet forced a matching smile onto her own face. ‘Oh, yes, it’s lovely.’
‘It’s okay if we use English?’ he asked. ‘My wife—’ he squeezed her shoulder proprietarily, and her body jumped to attention, the memory of his touch still imprinted in every nerve ‘—my wife, she doesn’t speak Portuguese.’
The Caetano trio turned to look directly at Harriet as he spoke and she stifled a gasp of shock as they did so. The siblings were all a good fifteen years older than Deangelo, but there was no escaping the similarities in the shape of their eyes, the strong jawline. The arrogant set of all four pairs of shoulders. Maybe a casual observer wouldn’t see the resemblance—Deangelo was taller and broader, his hair curled, his mouth wider, his nose more Roman, eyes amber rather than brown. But she knew every inch of him and could see where the similarities overlapped as if laid out on a map.
She’d known this deal was personal, as personal as it could get. She should have known that meant family.
Another squeeze on her shoulder reminded her of her role in this soap opera and she hastily pinned the smile back onto her face, hoping the shock and recognition didn’t show in her eyes. There was no answering recognition in the avaricious smiles greeting them, but maybe they saw simply what they wanted to see.
She held out a hand automatically. ‘No Portuguese yet. Marcos keeps promising to teach me, but we’ve just not had a chance. It’s all been such a whirlwind.’ She forced a giggle.
As introductions continued, Harriet covertly studied the Caetanos, aware that she was being studied in turn. Isabela Caetano was making no secret of her comprehensive summing up and Harriet was relieved that Amber had insisted that she be kitted out so thoroughly. The glamorous older woman would have instantly noted a high street bag or cheap shoes; as it was, her gaze lingered disdainfully on Harriet’s rough and ready chignon, her own hair perfectly styled to match her fully made-up face and manicured nails. Her deceptively simple dress was obviously, even to Harriet’s inexperienced eyes, haute couture, fitting every dramatic curve perfectly. Her brothers were no less expensively dressed, whereas she and Deangelo were in showy designer labels that screamed money but lacked the old-world class the Caetanos wore as if they had been born to it.
Somehow Harriet managed to keep up her bubbly, if a little naïve and aspirational, persona during the rest of the introductions, making small talk about her first impressions of Rio de Janeiro and how it compared to London and New York. But while she smiled and chatted her mind continued to whirl, adding two and two over and over again but never quite managing to make four. Was she looking at Deangelo’s cousins? His uncles and aunt? Why did they not know who he was? Why the secrecy? Did the Caetanos really not see the predator behind the mask? See their own features mirrored in his smile?
Before the day was done she would have answers, whether Deangelo wanted to tell her or not.
* * *
The morning went as flawlessly as planned, the Caetanos so busy trying to impress them that they didn’t take any time to assess the situation, just as Deangelo had predicted. This was no gamble. It was the execution of a well-honed plan and all the sweeter for it. The only time he had stumbled was when Bruno’s gaze had lingered on the scar bisecting his left cheek. Deangelo didn’t know whether he was more relieved or angry when his gaze had moved swiftly on. Did Bruno not remember inflicting such a scar? Had Deangelo really been so far below
him that he had no memory of the brutal assault? But he remembered clearly how the older man had turned his back the second the whip descended, not caring about what damage he had inflicted or where.
He’d care soon enough.
The tour of the hotel was heavy on prestige and history if light on detail; likewise, the portfolio of other properties in the Caetano empire showcased the symbolism of their name, interspersed with the glossy new resorts developed by Isabela. It was easy to see where the money had gone. Deangelo had barely had a chance to look at the portfolio before the contract was produced. It had already been to both sets of lawyers, this meeting just a formality. Deangelo made a show of flicking through it, aware of the hunger beneath the Caetanos’ smiles, the concern and curiosity in Harriet’s eyes, the trembling in his own hand as he lifted the heavy fountain pen and stared at the X awaiting just his signature.
This was it. He was not about to make himself part of the family business, whether his siblings wanted him there or not. He was about to become the majority shareholder. The illegitimate street rat was about to be the new Chairman of the Board and they had no idea.
He glanced up at their wide, disingenuous smiles, no doubt gloating as they fleeced the naïve investor for three times what the shares were worth. If they’d just agreed to pay his mother’s medical bills that day. If they hadn’t literally thrown him out, taking a riding crop to him as they had done so, then he wouldn’t be here right now.
But they had and he was.
Deangelo signed LDM Santos, the looping script making the initials hard to read.
He pushed the contract over to Bruno, who barely glanced at Deangelo’s signature before scrawling his own.
The deal was done. He’d won.
The meeting ended with an offer to send the new shareholder and his bride to one of the new island resorts for a week: an offer Deangelo smilingly accepted.
He needed time to regroup, time to talk to his lawyer and start to put in motion the second part of the plan, which would be implemented at the shareholders’ meeting in a couple of weeks. The Caetanos might have realised by then that they had managed to hand over more than fifty per cent of the company, but they would have no idea that they had handed all the power into the hands of one man. He couldn’t wait to see the self-satisfied smirks wiped off their faces for good.
Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss Page 9