Honeymooning With Her Brazilian Boss

Enough. She had clients to woo and impress and moping over her old boss’s indifference would help nobody. She smiled even though there was no one there to see it, tilting her chin and pushing her shoulders back. Fake confidence if you don’t feel it was Amber’s mantra. It was one she was going to adopt.

Harriet’s own job for the evening was, by choice, greeting guests at the door, handing out brochures and booking in appointments and jobs. Small talk had never been her forte; she much preferred having an actual task to do. Besides, this was her job, just as networking and promoting was Alex and Emilia’s. She would be managing the office for all four of them as well as recruiting and placing the army of temps she hoped to have in place before too long, providing emergency PA cover herself if necessary. She liked the tidiness of admin work, sorting and solving problems, organising. She liked to be needed.

Outside this house there was nobody who needed her any more, nobody who even noticed her. Somehow, between school and now, she’d turned into the invisible woman. She would never regret the decisions that had taken her to this place. Never regret the years she had spent as her dad’s carer, the dates she had turned down, the potential friendships that had never come to fruition, the two fledgling relationships that had never progressed beyond possibility, the university place postponed until she had finally, regretfully withdrawn her application. She had no one but her father, and he had no one but her.

But now his dementia had progressed to a level in which she didn’t even exist. So where did that leave her?

Harriet summoned up a smile as a couple of guests passed her on their way out, copies of the agency’s promotional brochure in their hands. Stop being so self-pitying. She had her friends now—and more. She had a new way forward. Thanks to Alex’s inheritance she had a new job, a new home, a new purpose and with it a new resolve: that it was time to stop living on the sidelines, time to step out, actually try living not merely existing. To try and live a life that was more than work and responsibility, now that her father didn’t know who she was, now she no longer needed to spend every spare hour by his side. She would start by signing up for the evening language courses and the local book group and see about local volunteering opportunities. Not the wildest activities for someone just turned twenty-six, but a lot wilder than a night in alone with a herbal tea and a book.

And maybe while she was in this spirit she should stop skulking in the hallway with a tablet and a handful of leaflets and go and circulate as the other three were so effortlessly doing. She’d been to many work receptions while she worked at Aion, all over the world. She could do this... Resolutely she turned around but, as she did so, the old-fashioned doorbell rang its sonorous chime.

Pausing, Harriet cast a quick glance in the mirror to make sure she still looked like the professional, aspirational businesswoman stroke hostess that she was trying to be. Okay. Her strawberry-blonde hair hung in a silky sheet, the frizz ruthlessly tamed and controlled, and a discreet coating of lipstick still covered her overly generous mouth. Her wrap dress wasn’t gaping and she hadn’t spilt anything down it. All that counted as a win. For the umpteenth time in the last two hours Harriet pinned an appropriately pleasant yet professional smile onto her face and opened the door. ‘Welcome to...’ She looked up before she could complete the sentence and her gaze met a pair of hard amber eyes. She faltered, the door swinging back as she stepped back in shock.

Was she dreaming? Imagining things? Tentatively she reopened the door and looked again. No. No imagining. Tall, broad, the body of a street fighter, face of a fallen angel, marred—or enhanced—by the scar that ran right down one side of his face, temple to chin. A face she knew as well as she knew her own—better, she’d seen it every day for the last three years. ‘Deangelo? I mean, Mr Santos, what are you doing here?’

‘You’re holding a party, aren’t you?’

‘Erm...yes,’ she managed.

‘Then aren’t you going to invite me in?’

‘I...of course.’ Harriet was hurriedly running through the many invitations they’d sent and no, she didn’t recall the billionaire businessman’s name on any of them. Aion’s HR staff of course, some of their old colleagues, but not the man himself. He wasn’t exactly the party type—and, even after working in close proximity with him, they weren’t on invite terms. But, invite or not, Deangelo Santos was not the kind of man to leave cooling his heels on a doorstep, not even a Chelsea doorstep. Besides, she would be mad to turn a man with his money and influence away, and the gleam in his eyes told her he was well aware of the fact. Harriet stood back and nervously, as if she were inviting a predator into her home, said, ‘You’d better come in.’

The air seemed to shift as he stepped into the hallway and Harriet was reminded irresistibly of the old vampire movies and the dangers of inviting the powerful over your doorstep. ‘Okay, the party is this way. We’re actually expecting a few people from Aion.’ She smothered a smile at the thought of the shock on their faces when they walked in to see their famously reclusive boss at the party. ‘Let me show you around.’ She started towards the open partition which linked the hallway to the reception area but Deangelo made no move to follow her.

‘Why did you say no?’

Harriet stopped and turned back to face him, startled by the abrupt words. Was that why he was here? Surely not. She was a good PA but not that good. ‘No? You mean to the temping offer? Because I work here now. It was kind of you to think of me...’

He brushed away her words as if kindness was a foreign concept. ‘You are a temp agency. I am in need of a temp. I want to hire you. It makes no sense for you to refuse.’

‘But you have a PA. I trained her myself.’

Distaste flickered across Deangelo Santos’s face. ‘She rustles. And she jumps when I speak.’

‘She rustles?’ Harriet blinked. Maybe she had fallen asleep at her desk and this was some kind of surreal dream. It wouldn’t be the first time she had dreamed about her dangerously distracting ex-boss. But the pinch at her toes from Amber’s too-small shoes and the noise from the office and reception area were all too real. ‘Look, come and get a drink; we can’t discuss this in the hall.’ And there was safety in numbers.

Safety? Where had that come from? She’d never had even a cross word from the formidable Brazilian before. But then she had never thwarted him before either.

Lightly, lithely for such a tall and muscled man, Deangelo followed her into the office and reception room and the hubbub quietened as he entered. Nobody there would know who he was; he shunned all publicity. Not for his gushing newspaper profiles or charity galas—he protected his privacy with the fierceness of a secret agent—but his sure, confident presence was enough to cast a spell over the moneyed gathering. Avoiding her friends’ curious gazes, Harriet led him to a chair in a quiet alcove at the very back of the room. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

She didn’t need to ask what. It was past six at night which meant no more of the dark, bitter coffee he favoured; instead he’d settle for ice-cold water. No alcohol, not unless entertaining and even then he rarely drank more than one glass. She knew his habits better than she knew her own. She walked quickly into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, pouring it into a glass and adding ice and lemon.

Any hope that Deangelo would be on the back foot in Harriet’s own space disappeared as soon as she walked back into the office. He sat at perfect ease, his penetrating gaze raking sharply over every object, person and detail in the room, assessing and adding and coming to goodness knew what conclusion. Harriet had never been able to read him. She set the water down in front of him and leaned against the desk opposite. ‘Welcome to the Happy Ever After Agency.’

Slowly his gaze returned to meet hers. ‘This is a nice house. Yours?’

‘No, it belongs to Alex—Alexandra Davenport?’ She looked down the room until she located Alex. ‘There, by the fireplace. She was your head of media.’

His eyebrows drew together. ‘You set up a company with another Aion employee?’

‘Three, actually.’ Harriet’s incurable honesty had her babbling answers to questions he hadn’t even asked. ‘Emilia Clayton, who headed up events, and Amber Blakeley, who was your client concierge manager.’

For a moment Harriet thought she saw incredulity cross his face, but when she checked again his expression was shuttered as usual. ‘You didn’t earn enough at Aion?’

‘It wasn’t about money.’

‘Everything’s about money,’ he said flatly.

‘We all earned far more at Aion than we will earn here for several years; maybe we’ll never make what we made there. But we all wanted to try to own our own destinies.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I can respect that, I suppose, even if I think the risk foolish.’

‘You set up your own business.’

His expression closed down even further, just like it always did when she inadvertently touched on anything personal. ‘But I had nothing to lose. You had security, a good salary, a good pension. What do you have to gain from this freedom?’

‘A family. The four of us, we’re like a family.’ Harriet snapped her mouth shut. Why on earth had she said that?

Luckily he didn’t press it any further. Why would he—what did family have to do with business? ‘Tell me, Harriet. What’s your price?’

Three years, three long years, she had spent every working hour with this man and not once had he looked at her this way, so intently, as if he could see right into the beating heart of her. She swallowed, fingers itching to grab one of the flutes of champagne Amber was offering round and down it to try and cope with the magnetic focus of Deangelo Santos’s full attention.

What was wrong with her? She’d never felt so wrong-footed, so unsure of herself around him before. But then she’d never been quite so aware of him. Never allowed herself to notice how his shirt strained across the broad planes of his shoulders, the barrel of his chest, how physically imposing he was. How magnificent. Her stomach dropped. Get a grip. Straightening, Harriet sat up as tall as she could, trying to exude authority and wishing she wasn’t perched on a desk. This was her business, her office, her home, after all. She was in charge here.

‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid. There is too much for me to do here. But I could spend some time with Jenny and help train her in how you like things? Or we do have some excellent temps already signed up. Would you like me to find you someone suitable while HR recruits someone permanent?’

She mentally ran through the CVs she had already received. Deangelo needed a certain type of temp. Someone strong enough to cope with long hours, no thanks or gratitude and brusque interactions, but also someone calm enough to deal with abrupt volte-faces, exceedingly high standards and comfortable working with extremely privileged information. Someone prepared to travel. And, most importantly, someone who wouldn’t develop a crush on the very rich, very masculine man lounging opposite her. That was why Jenny had seemed the ideal candidate—experienced and newly married. No rustling, she added to her mental list—whatever that might mean. And no jumping. Maybe she could test for both at interview.

Deangelo leaned forward, his penetrating gaze still fixed firmly on her. ‘I want you to come back.’

Heat suffused her cheeks. ‘That’s very flattering...’

‘I have no interest in flattering you.’ That was her told. ‘It’s a fact. I have an extremely important trip coming up and I need everything to run seamlessly. I don’t have time to train someone new or worry about details.’

‘The trip to Rio?’ She couldn’t stop curiosity creeping into her voice. Harriet had no idea why Deangelo had turned his attention to buying a chain of hotels an ocean away. He was from Brazil, but had left at the age of eighteen to take up a scholarship to Cambridge and, as far as she knew, hadn’t been back in the intervening twelve years. ‘The paperwork was sorted before I left, the jet already notified of your timings, all that was left to do was book the hotel and...’

‘I need you to accompany me.’ He cut her off ruthlessly. ‘All I ask is a month of your time. Then you are free to do whatever you would like.’

Harriet managed to bite back a retort that it was very kind of him. If they could start to supply temps to Aion then that would be a huge coup, exactly the kind of contract that would propel them straight into the top league. But could she really take off when she’d just started up her new business—and, more importantly, did she want to take a step back, even for just a month?

‘Why me?’

‘This assignment is very—’ he paused ‘—unusual.’

The curiosity she was trying to keep at bay flared. ‘Unusual?’

‘I need someone I can trust. This is not simply a matter of accompanying me as my PA.’

‘Then...’ But before she could formulate the question her phone rang. Pulling it out to silence the jaunty tune, she caught sight of the name of the caller, her heart stopping as it flashed on the screen: her father’s care home. ‘I’m sorry; I really need to take this.’

She barely registered the surprise on Deangelo’s face—he probably hadn’t been asked to wait once in the ten years since he’d set up Aion as an undergraduate—getting to her feet and walking out of the office and into the mercifully empty kitchen. ‘Hello? Harriet Fairchild.’

Numbness consumed her as she listened to the home manager explain that there had been another incident, another fall, that her father’s physical health was beginning to deteriorate along with the disease destroying his brain. Blinking back tears, Harriet tried to concentrate as the manager calmly took her through the options for stepping up his care. It was so unfair! So wrong that this should happen to her brave, strong, funny dad, who had cared for her after her mother’s death, after already raising her half-sisters alone before that. He’d deserved the most relaxing of retirements, the travels he’d never had a chance to go on, the opportunity to play golf and drink fine wine and read all the books he had planned to get around to. Harriet had never cared that he was older than her friends’ fathers, that people often mistook him for her grandfather. He was her wonderful, loving father and she’d do anything for him.

But the truth was she had done all she could; now he needed her the most she had no idea how not to fail him. She’d only got enough for six months’ fees as it was. The extras the manager was detailing were bound to be way beyond her reach.

‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘I understand. Of course. If you could send me a forecast of how much extra you think the enhanced care will cost I would be very grateful.’ On autopilot she thanked the manager for the home’s quick response and promised to be there in time for the doctor’s visit in the morning. As she finished the call Harriet stood still for a moment, blinking rapidly to stop the threatened tears, trying to get her face back to cool and professional.

But it was hard to turn her hostess persona back on, not to think about how much this new level of care would cost. Hard not to panic when even six months no longer seemed possible. She could try her sisters again, see if this time they would help out with the cost. Beg them if need be.

They were her last hope. And she knew that meant that she had no hope. ‘Damn,’ she whispered, the tears this time refusing to be kept away, no matter how she swallowed and blinked.

‘Why are you crying?’

How had she not heard Deangelo creep up behind her? Harriet half jumped, swiping her eyes swiftly. ‘I’m not,’ she lied.

Before she had a chance to compose herself properly, Deangelo had taken hold of her elbow and marched her through the galley kitchen and into the room beyond. The kitchen had been purposely made a contrast to their calm public space, the walls of the narrow room a bright, warm pink, polka-dotted crockery in the same colour on the white-painted dresser. It opened out into a bright glass-roofed conservatory, furnished with a red velvet sofa and chairs and a round table set with four dining chairs. It wasn’t a huge space for four grown women to cook, eat and relax in but so far it had done very well. Deangelo deposited her on the sofa before sauntering to the fridge, returning with a large glass of white wine.

‘Drink this,’ he commented as he handed it over.

‘That’s Alexandra’s; she’s the only one with any palate between us.’ And the only one happy to spend her hard-earned cash on luxuries like expensive wines and luxury make-up brands.

‘Why were you crying?’ Deangelo asked again, small talk and niceties dismissed now the tears had stopped.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, desperate to get the conversation back on track, the thought of the commission from the Aion millions slipping away filling her with panic. ‘I’m sorry; this is so unprofessional. Let’s go back to the office and begin again. You said this was an unusual assignment?’

‘Is it your father?’

Harriet stared. ‘My father?’

‘He’s in a home, no?’ The brusque voice was gentle, Deangelo’s usually subtle accent stronger, as if the effort cost him.

‘I...yes. How did you know?’

‘Harriet, you worked less than six feet away from me for a long time; the door is not soundproof.’

Oh. God. She had always thought him oblivious. Did that mean he had heard every tear-filled begging phone call to her sisters, every long conversation with the healthcare professionals? ‘I’m sorry. I always made the time up.’

‘Harriet, your professionalism was never in doubt.’

‘No.’ She closed her eyes for a brief moment, rallying herself. ‘My dad has dementia,’ she said, the hated words sticking on her tongue. ‘He needs specialist care and just before I came to work for you I had to make the difficult decision to put him in a home. I sold his flat to fund it, saved all I could, contributed my own money, but that kind of care is just so expensive and I’m almost out of money, which means I’m going to have to find somewhere a lot cheaper. The problem is he’s so settled there. It’s like he has a new family. He doesn’t ever recognise me any more but he knows his care workers,’ she finished sadly.

‘And yet you left your job? Why not ask me for a pay rise?’

She couldn’t help laughing at that. ‘There’s no way, even if you doubled my salary, that I could afford to keep him there, not even if I slept in the office and lived on noodles. In a way, knowing there is nothing I could do made my decision to leave a little easier.’ The only tiny positive in all the darkness.

‘I’ll make things even easier. Come with me to Rio and I’ll pay for your father’s care for as long as he needs it. Do we have a deal?’

‘I...’ Harriet put the wine glass down carefully, aware she was shaking, hope and grief and adrenaline combining. ‘Deangelo, that’s very generous.’

‘Not at all. You need money and I have plenty.’

‘This could be thousands of pounds, tens of thousands.’

But he shrugged as if the vast sums were insignificant. Which for him, she supposed, they were. ‘So do we have a deal?’

Yes, her heart cried, but she couldn’t agree, not just like that, not without knowing more. ‘Just how unusual is this job?’

For one tiny moment Deangelo’s gaze shifted, and foreboding stole over her as he spoke.

‘I need you to pretend to be my wife. Now, do we have a deal or not?’

CHAPTER THREE

ORDER WAS RESTORED, for now at least. Harriet was back in her rightful place, at her desk, her little cactus by her screen.

Life was back to normal.

Almost...

Deangelo glanced through the open office door to the foyer where Harriet hummed as she typed. On the surface she was her usual efficient self, but something was different and Deangelo couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Aside from the humming.

She had a sweet, tuneful voice. He’d never realised that before. But then again, she had never sung in front of him before. Maybe that was what was different. Harriet was perfectly respectful, but she was acting more like his equal, business owner to business owner rather than his diffident PA.

The new confidence suited her, added a glow to her usually pale cheeks and a spring to her step. A step now headed towards him, tablet in hand.

‘I just want to check the final timings with you before I head home to pack.’ Harriet glanced down at the itinerary she had been adjusting for the last two weeks. ‘I can’t believe we fly tomorrow. I’ve never been to South America. Are you looking forward to going home?’

Deangelo frowned. ‘Home? London is my home.’ He’d created his home, carved it out of grit and stubbornness and flashes of brilliance—or desperation.

‘Yes, now, but you grew up in Rio, didn’t you?’ Her blue, long-lash-fringed eyes were alight with curiosity. ‘You must have family and friends there, people you want to catch up with.’

Deangelo had no idea how to answer. His past was a closed book and that was exactly how he wanted it to be. He didn’t court publicity, invite questions or disclose any personal details to anyone and there were very good reasons for that. He wasn’t ashamed of his rags-to-riches story, or of his climb out of the Rio favela to a penthouse on the South Bank. No, it was the other side of his life story he was ashamed of. The side he had taken for granted until it had been ripped away from him. The spoilt boy who had lived in luxury, utterly ignorant of the poverty just feet away from his air-conditioned life.

‘We’re not there for family.’

Only that wasn’t true, was it? His return was all about family. The family that had denied him. The family who had turned their back even as he had swallowed his pride and begged.

‘I’ve been reading up on the city and it sounds incredible; I can’t wait to explore a little. Surely there will be time for some sightseeing. Revisiting old haunts?’ she pressed.

Haunts was the word. Anywhere he visited in the city would be crawling with ghosts and the kind of memories he had locked away years ago. Deangelo stared out of the window, mouth compressed. Going back was a risk, he knew that. He also knew it might finally set him free. If he dared to reach for it. Funny, he usually thrived on taking risks, but this freedom from the past seemed like a step too far.

‘I lost touch with my friends long ago,’ he said stiffly. ‘I will try and make time to see my aunt, my cousins. If possible.’ But it was unlikely. He hadn’t even told them he was returning. He knew his aunt wouldn’t approve of what he planned to do. He couldn’t bear to see disappointment in eyes so similar to his mother’s.

Besides, Harriet didn’t need to know about his aunt or his cousins, or the work they did for him, work he managed away from the office, away from his PA. Nor did she need to know about the low thrum in his veins, the tingling in his nerves, at the thought of Rio. England was the place where he had reinvented himself, London the city he had conquered, but there was a tinge of grey in his life—grey buildings, grey weather and a grey formality. It suited him, but part of him, the impulsive, hopeful part of him, a part he kept well and truly squashed down, would always hanker for the vibrancy of his childhood home, the colours and the smells and the music. The ability to turn any gathering into a party.

Enough. Deangelo pushed the past back into the past, where it belonged. ‘So the itinerary is finalised at last?’

A swift wrinkle between her eyes showed that Harriet had noted the abrupt subject change, but she didn’t comment, merely placing her tablet on his desk, the timetable displayed on the screen.

‘Yes. You wanted to arrive in the late afternoon so we leave Heathrow early tomorrow morning. A car will meet us on the airfield and it’s booked to take us straight to the hotel and your first meeting with the Caetanos is scheduled for the following day. I can’t believe how much chopping and changing they’ve done. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get another three rearrangements between now and then.’ She didn’t add anything else but Deangelo knew she was confused by his acquiescence to the Caetanos’ ever-changing schedule when normally such capriciousness would make him walk away.