‘That’s Deangelo for you,’ Luis said. ‘So many schemes, but nothing is just given away. Everything he does is designed to get people to help themselves, whether it’s the university scholarships or the schools and childcare or the community centres...’
‘That’s enough.’ Deangelo interrupted his cousin. ‘Harriet doesn’t need to hear all about this stuff.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ she said. ‘So there are classrooms here on site?’
‘Yes, at the back. Practical classrooms—kitchens and a workshop. But also language labs. We try and make sure as many leave here with reasonable English as possible, others also add Spanish and French. The more languages they have, the more employable they are, the more opportunities they have.’
Deangelo was as interested in the tour as Harriet; he might have designed the hotel but this was his first visit. It was incredible, seeing his concept made flesh.
It was the only tangible thing he felt was his. His entire empire was built on shifting networks and clouds. On third parties and their needs for his technology. Whether car sharing or restaurant finding or holiday booking or room letting—he facilitated millions of exchanges every single day, but he owned none of them. There was nothing he could look at and say ‘This is mine,’ The office block he owned and lived in had been designed by someone else; it was a place of utility, that was all. Not of passion.
Possessions didn’t motivate him. He didn’t dream of a home or a family. He didn’t deserve such things. But he provided thousands of jobs all over the globe and he was making a difference right here in Brazil. Maybe that would be enough on Judgement Day.
But this hotel was filled with passion and pride, not least from his cousins: Luis, whose footballing dreams had crashed and burned like so many thousands of other not-quite-talented-enough boys, leaving his future uncertain, and Milena, widowed too young, left with two small children and no income. He could have housed and supported them without even noticing the spend; instead he had asked them to help him turn his dreams into reality, and in doing so had given them purpose.
The tour ended in the bright sunlit restaurant, tables spilling out onto the flower-filled terrace. Two graduating students served the coffee and delicious little tarts, answering Harriet’s questions in near-perfect English as she quizzed them about their futures. Both had jobs lined up, one here in Santa Teresa, in one of the boutique hotels further up in the hills; the other was heading to one of the city’s restaurants.
‘That is one of the most inspiring things I have ever seen,’ Harriet said as they left, promising to return before their visit ended.
‘It’s nothing.’ He shrugged her words off, uncomfortable with her praise, but she shook her head stubbornly.
‘It’s not nothing. You heard that boy, Paolo, in there. He was living on the street five years ago! On the street. Headed nowhere safe. Now he has an education, a job, a future, and you made that happen.’
‘No. He made that happen. I simply provide the place and the opportunity. The rest is down to him.’ Her praise made him uncomfortable. It was Luis and Milena and the other staff and teachers who really deserved it; it was the kids themselves, their ability to learn and grow and hope—things Deangelo had never learned despite his degrees and business empire.
He lived locked away. No friends, his family a continent away, no relationships that lasted longer than a few convenient weeks, no ties. Every day he looked in the mirror and his scar would remind him of all he had failed to do. Of who he really was. What he deserved.
But today, visiting the hotel, seeing Harriet’s face lit up with interest, seeing his vision come to life, he had felt just a little less of a failure. Every night, Harriet’s curves entwined around him, her lips on his, her breathing in time with his, he felt less alone. But he didn’t deserve the way he felt with her. And if she knew it all she would agree.
‘So where are we going now?’ she asked.
‘For many tourists the favelas are a place to avoid, unless they’re on a tour. A few are more sanitised and some tourists even stay there, another tick on their places-to-see list. But many are not safe for strangers, especially strangers with money.’
‘Does that mean we’re heading to one?’
‘It does. But don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me.’
Her answering smile was unexpected, as was the trust in her eyes. Trust that warmed him even as it warned him to be careful. ‘I know.’
It had been twelve years since he’d last walked into the twisty streets of the favela, but he still knew his way instinctively. The boys playing football hadn’t been born when he’d left, but they had the same hope and determination in their eyes as they tackled each other, performing tricks in the hope some scout might chance by and transform their lives. The old men sitting outside the bar were as familiar as his view from his office window, the noises and smells and vibrancy making his chest ache with a nostalgia he’d thought he’d trained out of himself many years ago.
All the time he was hyperaware of Harriet by his side, taking everything in, her hand in his, her stride matching his. ‘I thought you grew up on the other side of the city,’ she said.
‘I did.’
‘But this is your home, too. Unless you’ve pioneered some navigation chip and that’s beaming directions straight to your brain?’
‘Not yet, but good idea. I’ll get the tech guys to get started straight away.’ He stopped outside a bar, newly opened since he’d left, tables and chairs on the terrace looking out over the spectacular view. ‘Drink?’
Harriet nodded and he led her through the brightly painted bar and onto the terrace, ordering a couple of cold beers as he did so.
He looked around, admiring the bright, clean decor, the simple menu scrawled onto a board. ‘When I lived here places like this, where outsiders could come, just didn’t exist. The way some of the favelas have been cleaned up is controversial, and not always long-lasting. That’s why everything I do is about changing from within, giving the residents the opportunities they need to change things, and to make sure those changes are what they need, rather than what some politician who has never set foot in these streets thinks they need.’
‘Like what?’
He shrugged. ‘Education, healthcare, community initiatives, jobs and training. The problem isn’t that people aren’t always documented, or that the settlements have no infrastructure. It’s the lack of opportunity and hope. Every boy out there dreams about being a footballer. That’s the way out. When it doesn’t happen, and for ninety-nine point nine per cent of them it won’t happen, they have no backup plan, and the only future they see is in the gangs. And so the cycle continues. I just want to change that cycle.’
The beers arrived then, with a smile and a message that they were on the house. The owner had recognised him, then? The fund he’d set up to help entrepreneurs fund businesses such as this had proved popular. He took a sip of the tart, icy drink, sitting back, his gaze flitting between the incredible view of the city and the girl opposite. She looked so cool and put together, only her eyes betraying her excitement and her curiosity. ‘So how did you end up here?’
‘My mother was from here.’ He took another drink, weighing his words carefully. Nobody, not even the family who still lived here, knew his whole story. He’d kept it within his whole life, but the urge to unburden himself was almost overwhelming, even knowing that she might turn away if she knew it all.
But she should know just who she was sleeping with, that he was no hero.
‘So Luis and Milena are cousins on your mother’s side?’
He nodded. ‘She was a dancer; she used to frequent dance halls just like the ones I have taken you to. She was so beautiful and so talented; she got a lot of attention, including from my father.’
‘Augusto Caetano.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘He was a lot older, with three teenag
e children and a wife he didn’t live with. He offered my mother a job as his housekeeper. It was her chance to get out of the favela, to earn money, to live somewhere safe, in beautiful surroundings. She had her own cottage in the grounds of his estate, her own car, could use the pool. She said it was like a dream come true, that she felt like a princess when she first went there. And she didn’t have to do much manual work; she managed cleaners and cooks. More like the woman of the house than an employee.’
‘Did she love him?’
‘I don’t know. I think so, by the end. I don’t know if she went there knowing he wanted her to be his mistress or if it just happened. But she stayed and a couple of years later she had me; she was only just in her twenties.’
‘Did you know Augusto was your father?’
‘Not in so many words, but as I grew up it was clear. We still lived in the cottage in the grounds, but I went to an exclusive local school, played tennis and learned to ride. Augusto’s wife lived in the countryside—she never came to Rio; he always visited her—but occasionally his other children, his other legitimate children, would come and stay and my mother and I would fade into the background. It was clear that they knew, that they hated us, though.’ He picked up his beer, needing to touch something tangible, anchor himself to the here and now. ‘I worshipped them. Not so much Isabela—she always had a mean streak—but Bruno and Tiago. They seemed so cool, everything I aspired to be. Occasionally, if they were alone, they might be kinder. As if I were a puppy. Play a game of ball. Once Tiago took me to the beach on his scooter. I spent my life hoping it would happen again.’
‘Sounds like your brothers would be good matches for my sisters.’
He smiled at that notion. ‘Can you imagine?’
‘All too well. So you were what—ten when Augusto died? That’s very young. I’m sorry.’
‘His death would have been hard enough, but what followed was worse. He’d told my mother that he’d made provision for her, for me. Whether that’s true or not I don’t know. All I do know is that we were thrown out before the funeral was held. That there was nowhere for us to go apart from back here. No more work for my mother, no more school for me. We belonged nowhere, had nothing. My aunt took us in, in her tiny house, gave us a room to share. I had the bed and my mother the floor. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for that.’
‘You were a child.’
‘I was ten. Round here that’s old enough to grow up, to start being a man. But I was too busy feeling sorry for myself, blaming her for the loss of my life, not knowing how to fit in.’ He paused, not wanting to relive those months. ‘The only way to survive was to forget all I had been. To play football and run errands for the men, knowing that half the time they were illegal. My mother did her best to get me into school, but I didn’t see the point. I think I broke her heart. Young, arrogant, entitled fool.’
Harriet reached across the table and laid her hand on his. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘I deserve it. And more.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But then she got sick. There are no hospitals here, no doctors we could afford. I knew that Bruno was living back at the family estate so I went there to beg him to help. Despite everything, a part of me still worshipped him, still thought that he might have some feelings for me. I even fantasised that he would offer us our old house, welcome me as a brother. Idiot.’
‘I take it that your plan didn’t work.’ Her eyes flickered to his scar as if she guessed the next step in his sorry saga.
‘He told me I was nothing, that my mother was nothing, that we deserved nothing, street rats and vermin that we were. He threw me out, but not before taking his riding crop to me—he gave me this.’ He ran his finger down his cheek, feeling the ridged skin underneath. ‘Told me he never wanted to see me again, gave me one parting lash; he didn’t even wait to see where it landed. I went home with my face torn and empty-handed. I’d failed. And she died a few weeks later.’
‘Which is not your fault,’ Harriet said fiercely. But he shook his head.
‘If I’d not run around with the gangs but found a job, if I’d approached Bruno differently, if I’d noticed she was ill earlier. If I had just let her have the bed...’
‘Then maybe nothing would have changed. You can’t blame yourself, Deangelo.’
But he could and he did. ‘After she died I managed to find a school to take me, then got a scholarship to another, better school, and from there the scholarship to Cambridge. I vowed that I would make sure no other woman or child died in the favela because of lack of healthcare, that every child would get an education and a chance to be someone. And I vowed that Bruno Caetano will know exactly what it’s like to have his life torn apart and be left with nothing.’
‘And then what? Will that make you happy?’
‘I don’t do happiness,’ he said softly. ‘It’s not in my DNA. Come on, I want to introduce you to my aunt. I think you’ll like her.’
‘Everyone deserves happiness, Deangelo. And I think your mother would want you to have that above all else.’
He didn’t need absolution, didn’t deserve it, but the warmth in her voice, the empathy in her eyes, allowed the first tendrils of something new to start unfurling. Something that felt like a future.
CHAPTER TEN
‘YOU KNOW...’ HARRIET said as she rubbed more suntan lotion onto her exposed legs. ‘I really liked Rio, but I have to say this is paradise. At least, it will be.’
‘Really? What’s stopping it from being paradise right now? The hammock is maybe not comfortable enough? The ocean views not quite spectacular enough? Your breakfast not prepared exactly to your liking? Book not gripping enough?’
The teasing tone in Deangelo’s voice was new, as was the humorous glint in his eyes. Harriet glanced over, her eyes lingering on every exposed muscle and sinew as he lounged on a large sunbed situated next to her hammock. She knew every inch of that body, how it felt, how it tasted. A week after they’d first made love, it still seemed incredible to her that they had reached this place.
So, they hadn’t discussed what happened next, what returning to London would mean for this very new, very delicate closeness. There was still a week to go. They’d figure it out.
She swallowed, a little voice warning her that this was all too good to be true. She just wasn’t a wanton goddess who lay in hammocks on sun-kissed beaches next to gorgeous men. She was even wearing a bikini, shy as she had been to put on something so revealing, but the light in Deangelo’s eyes—and the way he had instantly removed it—had emboldened her and now she walked around without wanting to pull on a cover-up, secure in her skin for the first time in a long time. She loved the confidence he gave her, how desirable he made her feel. As if she could do anything, be anyone. If she could just keep that feeling when she returned to London, it was the greatest gift imaginable.
Turning her thoughts firmly back to Deangelo’s question, she tried to articulate what she meant. ‘The hotel is perfect in many ways. It’s in a lot better shape than the Rio hotel, although it should be, it’s so new. The location is amazing and the attention to detail is great, but it doesn’t utilise the location properly. We’re surrounded by all this amazing wildlife; the hotel should educate and protect, not just use it as a backdrop. Plus, as this place is all-inclusive, it does nothing for the local economy. Visitors should be encouraged to explore, not live in a bubble.’
‘Some people like a bubble.’
‘True, but this place is half empty. Rebranding it as a wildlife paradise, getting the locals involved and supportive, could transform everything. Differentiate this from all the other identikit beach resorts and transform lives.’
She shifted, enjoying the way the sun saturated her very bones with heat. She’d been surprised when Deangelo had taken up Isabela Caetano’s offer of a week in one of her island resorts. Although they had two weeks of little activity between si
gning the contracts and the first shareholder meeting, vacations just weren’t his style. It would have been more usual for him to return to London in the interim; she’d assumed that he would spend the two weeks visiting his new acquisitions. As usual he was holding his cards very close to his chest. His broad and bare chest.
She did know that he was planning a big reveal towards the end of the trip—some kind of showdown—and it unnerved her. The anger he felt was completely understandable, but it isolated him, had twisted him into a machine, bent on revenge. Neither of them had done much living over the years, but she had chosen her path out of love and duty. His path was much darker.
But somehow, these last few days, he had seemed lighter. Maybe being back here, confronting some of those demons that haunted him was helping to set him free? The evening they had spent with his aunt had seemed cathartic, but the next day he had decided to leave Rio and head here; she couldn’t help wondering if the ghosts in Rio were proving too much.
All she knew was that at some point he was going to have to forgive himself and move on, but his plans for the Caetanos didn’t speak of moving on; instead it seemed to root him in the past, and she ached in sympathy when she saw the clouds in his eyes and knew that he was brooding on what might have been.
The rest of the morning passed peacefully. Their room opened straight out onto the beach and Deangelo had retreated to the shady terrace to work, waving away her offer to help. ‘I know you want to finish that book,’ he said. ‘Your eyes keep straying towards it.’
‘Yes, but I’m here to work,’ she protested half-heartedly, her hands curling around the book.
‘Don’t worry, I have plenty for you to do later, but right now you are free to read. Take advantage of it.’
‘Well, if you insist...’
It was lovely to soak up the sun and read, but as noon approached and she finally finished the last chapter Harriet began to get restless. She rolled out of the hammock and padded over the hot sand. ‘Okay,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s enough.’
Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss Page 11