Maybe then he would actually feel something. Because right now he still felt numb. As numb as he’d felt the day his mother died, as numb as he’d felt every day since, driven by nothing but cold revenge. The only time he hadn’t felt numb was last night.
Last night... He’d lost control and that was unacceptable, especially now, with everything he’d worked for at his fingertips. There was no time for any kind of emotion, not until his siblings were stripped of everything they held dear: their inheritance, their position in society, their good name. Maybe that day he would finally be free.
Harriet said nothing after they’d said their goodbyes and walked back to the lift and to their suite, her thoughtful expression giving little away. She unlocked the door, preceding him into the suite’s sitting room, walking straight over to where the French doors were still unlocked, letting the slight sea breeze into the room. She stood with her back to him, looking out towards the sea.
Her shoulders straightened as she inhaled. ‘You should have told me,’ she said at last.
He didn’t need to ask what. ‘There was no reason for you to know. You’re not here as my guest, Harriet. You’re an employee.’ Was he reminding her or himself? He strode over to the sideboard and poured some water. ‘Here.’
She turned, accepting the glass he held out to her. ‘Yes, I am aware of that.’ If he’d hurt her with his casual dismissal of last night and all they’d shared she didn’t show it. ‘I know I’m here because you trust me to do a good job. You trust me so much that you are paying me well over the odds for me to be here...’
He held up a hand dismissively. ‘I have more money than anyone can comprehend. The price was irrelevant.’
‘Maybe. But you still wanted me by your side for this deal, not because I was the right person to act as your bride—although I am probably the only person you can trust to keep quiet, to not run to the press, but because I am damn good at my job, at looking out for your interests. But your secrets are stopping me from doing that, from doing my job properly. I’m not prepared. If I’d known that the Caetanos were your family...’
‘What? What would you have done differently? Because, make no mistake, Harriet, those people back there? They are not my family.’
She stared. ‘Of course they are! I can’t believe they couldn’t see it; it was almost blindingly obvious.’
‘You said it yourself—you left Aion to make a family. Families are forged, not made just because we’re unlucky enough to share blood with people.’
Harriet flushed, folding her arms as she confronted him. ‘I did say it. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. Because I don’t see you forging anything, not one human relationship at any time in the whole time I’ve known you. All you forge is more money. What’s it all for, Deangelo? What use is all the money in the world if you’re all alone?’
It took everything he’d worked at over the last twelve years to stay completely still, to not betray any emotion even though every word she spoke struck him with deadly aim, striking straight through the armour he’d encased himself in, the armour he’d thought was impenetrable, causing physical pain.
‘Some of us deserve to be alone, Harriet,’ he bit out.
Her eyes softened. ‘No one deserves that, Deangelo.’
He stabbed at his chest, contempt dripping from every pore. ‘You think money and handmade suits and private jets make a person worthwhile?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You want to know what’s under this veneer? You want to know who Deangelo Santos is? He doesn’t exist. He’s a fake.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Deangelo’s my middle name. My mother called me by it sometimes. It means from the angel. She used it when she wanted me to know she loved me, no matter what, that she didn’t regret having me, no matter what. For eighteen years I was Luciano Deangelo Marcos Santos. But I left Luciano behind me when I moved to London.’
‘Why?’ She took a step closer.
‘Why? Because Luciano was a nothing. He was a no-good street rat. A boy who couldn’t save his dying mother, whose failure was carved into his face, who has to stare at it every damn day. A man who deserves that reminder. Who deserves to remember that he came from nothing. That he is nothing. That he failed.’
Harriet didn’t move for a long moment and then she took one long step until she stood next to him, and then her arms were around him, holding his unyielding body close. ‘That’s not true,’ she whispered. ‘No one is nothing, that boy wasn’t nothing, the man isn’t nothing. Let me in, Deangelo. Let me help.’
He stood still, trying to ignore her soft curves pressed against him, trying to keep numb. Feeling nothing protected him; it always had. This simmering heat, this need igniting in his veins made him vulnerable. And yet he stayed as Harriet pressed even closer, trailing kisses along his jaw, swift and sweet and tantalising.
‘Let me help,’ she said again and oh, God, she was so warm, so alive. She was comfort and life and when he’d been with her last night he’d managed to feel, to forget. Dangerous. And so, so seductive, just like her touch, those light kisses.
With a smothered curse Deangelo captured Harriet’s hand in his, tilting her chin with his other hand, gazing at her lush mouth and half-closed eyes with a mixture of helplessness and need. Now was the time to step away; they’d established the rules last night and he never broke the rules.
But he was back in Rio and he’d been a very different person here—and that young man who had everything to prove was still imprisoned inside him; somehow here the walls were thinner, the distinctions blurred.
‘Show me,’ Harriet said softly, her gaze burning into him, and Deangelo knew he couldn’t stop now, not while she was willing him on. He slid his hand round to the nape of her neck, trailing his fingers along her jawline as he did so, splaying his hand wide as he finally gave in to her plea, to the demands of his body and, lowering his head, captured her mouth with his. Her soft moan of satisfaction was all he needed, deepening the kiss ruthlessly, demandingly, knowing she matched him in every way, her hands raking through his hair, down his back.
Revenge was there waiting for him. Let it wait for now. He had the rest of his life to enjoy what he’d put in motion today. Right now there was sensation and heat and, most intoxicating of all, there was hope.
CHAPTER NINE
RIO WAS TURNING out to be more of an adventure than Harriet could ever have anticipated. Over the last few days the mornings had been reserved for work, the afternoons for exploring. Harriet had tried to surf on Ipanema beach, taken the cable car to Sugarloaf Mountain and wandered through the Jardin Botanico. In the evenings they danced until late, returning to the hotel to make love. There was no talk about stopping—just as there was no talk about the future—an unspoken agreement that all rules and plans were to be put aside for this brief spell.
But today was different. Deangelo had mentioned over breakfast that he was planning to visit his aunt and that Harriet was welcome to accompany him if she chose. He’d sounded offhand, as if her decision meant nothing either way, but Harriet was learning to read him and the tightness around his mouth and the muscle beating in his cheek indicated that he did, in fact, care very much.
She hugged that knowledge to herself. She was wanted and needed and even if it was short-term it was glorious. She was living the charade and she was loving it.
It was more than the fun of being a tourist, more than the sex; it was the companionship. The feeling that she understood and was understood in turn. The only cloud was the secrets she didn’t quite dare to pry into. She still didn’t know how or when Deangelo’s mother had died and why he took all the blame on himself or where the Caetanos fitted in. Maybe today would provide some answers.
But maybe it was better for Deangelo’s secrets to remain just that, because their existence was a barrier between them, a reminder that, no matter
how much fun they were having, it wasn’t real.
Walking back into the sitting room, she saw Deangelo standing, staring out of the window, expression utterly inscrutable.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m ready.’
He turned, eyes darkening to gold as he looked her up and down in a way that made Harriet feel as if her clothes were utterly transparent. One thing was clear; in the unlikely event he ever tried to hire her again, she would never be able to accept. And as Deangelo didn’t do relationships, once this trip was over their paths would part for good. She couldn’t help a pang of regret at the thought.
But it was done—and she had been equally culpable in instigating the shift in their relationship.
‘Are your shoes comfortable?’
She blinked. That was probably the last thing she’d expected him to say. ‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Good. We have some walking to do. Keep your bag close. You don’t have any valuables in it?’
‘Work phone and card and a lipstick.’
‘The phone’s encrypted?’
‘Of course.’
‘If anyone tries to take your bag, let them. Okay. Let’s go.’
‘Okay. I thought we were visiting your family.’
His expression didn’t change. ‘We are.’
Deangelo barely spoke again until they were in the taxi. The sun shone bright with mid-afternoon intensity and the beach and pavements seemed to have taken on a sleepy quality as sun haze mixed with the pollution to produce a shimmering curtain that dulled and slowed the passing scene.
‘The Caetanos live in the other direction,’ he said at last. ‘Past Ipanema and out to the outskirts. They live in the kind of area where the city is like a distant dream, where the rich don’t worry about rubbing shoulders with the people who clean their houses and streets. They live in an estate patrolled by security guards, on a street where pampered young senhors and senhoritas are chauffeured in air-conditioned cars to private schools and exclusive beach clubs so that they too can grow up believing themselves masters of all they can see.’
‘Is that where you grew up?’
He’d alluded to poverty and she’d seen its scars in his eyes. But at the same time Deangelo was so at home with his wealth; it didn’t seem newly won. Not for him gaudy trimmings or ostentatious displays. Even his watch was discreet: the best Swiss engineering presented in a neat grey package. Tasteful and the very best engineering and craftsmanship. A sneak thief would probably pass it by, but it cost twice as much as the diamond-covered branded watches favoured by the Caetano brothers.
‘I grew up there, but I’m not from there.’
He retreated into silence and after a while Harriet turned her attention to the window, watching Rio live and breathe as the car inched its way through busy, noisy traffic away from the beach and into the heart of the bustling, vibrant city. The minutes ticked away but she barely noticed, caught up in the sights and sounds. Eventually the taxi began to make its way up one of the city’s steep iconic hills, the traffic lessening as they progressed. The neighbourhood felt very different to Copacabana, the faded mansions and old houses giving the impression of a once fashionable area in decline, although there were enough signs of refurbishment to suggest some regeneration, a suggestion confirmed by the boutique hotels and art galleries they passed as they continued their journey, the trendy little cafés rubbing shoulders with older, shabbier bars.
‘This is cool,’ she said. ‘It makes me think of how Chelsea must have been in the sixties, before it totally gentrified and big money took over.’
‘Santa Teresa? Yes, there are parallels.’
Harriet remembered his offhand comment on their first evening that he thought she would like to stay here. She noted a quirky antique shop. He was right. Which once again begged the question—how did he know her so well when for three years he had barely seemed to notice her at all?
At that moment the car pulled up in front of a pink mansion surrounded by vibrant gardens and Deangelo paid the taxi driver before exiting the car, Harriet following suit, joining him outside the imposing wooden gates. ‘What a beautiful house.’
‘This was built by Marcos Caetano in the nineteenth century. Only one generation actually lived here; my great-great-grandfather joined the exile of the well-heeled to the outer edges of the city, my father moved yet again. But this was where the family empire was built.’
‘And now?’ She sensed there was much more going on here than some retelling of old family history.
‘Now? Now it belongs to me. I bought it five years ago. Anonymously, of course.’
‘To you? But you never come here!’ Not that it mattered. Deangelo could probably afford a home in every city in the world if he so chose. But in a city where so many had nothing it seemed obscene to own an empty house.
Although, the more she looked, the more signs of life she saw. The gates weren’t locked, just closed, and the house looked lived in, signs tacked neatly to outside walls, the formal path running to the front door maintained.
Deangelo raised a surprised brow. ‘I don’t need to come here. It’s a training centre, for teens and young people from the neighbouring favelas.’
Of course it was. And another piece was added to the jigsaw that made up this intriguing man—only every time she slotted in a new piece the jigsaw trebled in size. ‘What kind of training centre?’
‘Hospitality. It’s a budget hotel, and runs like any other hotel except here most of the staff are being trained and that, of course, is reflected in the price.’
‘What a great idea.’ Harriet smiled brightly, trying to bury her shock. How hadn’t she known he was involved in an initiative like this? She’d spent three years handling his correspondence, managing his inbox and yet she’d had no idea. Oh, he was philanthropic, but in a hands-off way. Cheques written and sent, all invitations to gala events declined. But this was personal in every way, located as it was in the house belonging to the family he was trying to destroy. His family.
‘I started out funding schools and places at university, I still do, but that kind of study isn’t for everyone. This place gives kids a chance; it’s not easy to find legitimate employment when you come from the undocumented side of town. We provide training, work experience, first here and then later in other establishments, more specialised to individual skills. We offer maths and languages for those who need or want them, business studies, too. We then help them find their first job.’
‘And now,’ she teased, ‘you own a whole chain of hotels to provide that extra training!’
But her smile wasn’t answered, his forehead creasing as if he were trying to find the answer to an insoluble riddle. ‘I suppose I have,’ he said slowly. ‘I hadn’t considered that side of things. Come on.’
With that he pushed open the gate and strode into the front garden, Harriet a step behind. As they neared the front door it opened. They were clearly expected, lines of young adults in neat uniforms waiting to greet them like something out of a country house drama. At the front, wreathed in smiles, stood a young woman with abundant hair coiled into a complicated knot and a man of Deangelo’s own age who greeted him with a shout of delight and a complicated handshake followed by much backslapping. Harriet stared. She’d never seen Deangelo so relaxed, a smile so warm and real on the usually stern face.
‘This is Harriet,’ he said at last in English.
Just Harriet. Not ‘my PA.’ Not ‘my fake wife.’ Just her name. Even so, the glances the pair flashed her way were frankly curious and Harriet was glad she’d left her new rings in the safe in the hotel.
‘Harriet, I’d like you to meet my cousins, Milena and Luis. They run the hotel for me.’
She smiled, but her hands shook as she accepted their welcome embrace. Deangelo was letting her in, showing her who he was and where he came from.
This could change eve
rything, if Harriet was just brave enough to let it. If she could admit to herself that she wanted him, too. Wanted him. It had been so long since Harriet had thought about what she wanted, put her happiness first, the agency her first tentative steps towards a future she chose. Falling for someone as intense, as troubled, as enigmatic as Deangelo could derail all her plans.
But as she looked at the welcoming smiles of Deangelo’s cousins, looked behind them at the gleaming paintwork and lovingly polished wood in the hotel entrance hall, the pride and dignity of the assembled staff, ready to show off their hard work to the man who made it his mission to provide them with a future, she knew it might already be too late. It wasn’t just the sex, the hormones flooding through her newly awakened body, that was the issue here. It was the man who had awakened her.
* * *
Let me in, she’d asked just a few days ago. And here he was doing exactly that, or as close to that as he could possibly get. Deangelo glanced over at Harriet as she chatted to Milena and Luis, her face alive with interest and curiosity during the tour of the hotel.
‘This half is very simple, more a hostel than a hotel,’ Milena explained. ‘The students start out here, learning to deal with simple bookings and queries, to prepare buffet meals and snacks. Then, after six months, they move to the other side, which operates as a boutique hotel. Some know by this point whether they prefer the kitchens or hospitality, others are still not sure.’
‘It’s such a good idea.’ Harriet stopped to peek into one of the pristine family rooms. ‘I much prefer this to where we’re staying, and I love that the tourists get to give back to the community as well.’
Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss Page 10