Honeymooning With Her Brazilian Boss. Jessica Gilmore
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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.
She placed one delicate fingertip on the screen. ‘Okay, hotel. I changed the booking as you requested. I guess it makes sense to stay in the hotel you’re buying into but, I have to warn you, it’s not up to your usual requirements.’ She swiped and a picture of a huge white building studded with balconies and overlooking a golden sweep of sand filled the screen. ‘Here you are, The Caetano Palace. As you can see, the position is great, although the hotel is apparently a faded version of its former grandeur; the reviews are less than enthusiastic. I’ve done some digging on the Caetanos—they’re like something out of a soap opera, an old Brazilian family, practically aristocracy. Until around twenty years ago one man, Augusto, controlled the whole business: all the hotels, investments, the lot.’ She pressed on a link and the screen changed, Deangelo’s chest tightening painfully as he looked down at the photo displayed there. A man in late middle age. Upright, silver-haired, a shrewd look in the laughing eyes.
Augusto Caetano had controlled the company until twenty years ago this very week, the date engraved on what remained of Deangelo’s heart. He stayed silent, the old toxic mixture of grief and anger bubbling inside. Grief for the life he hadn’t appreciated until it was gone. Not the money, but the safety, the family he had taken for granted. And anger that the safety had been nothing but an illusion. That the man on the screen hadn’t cared enough, not when it counted.
‘As you have arranged, we’re meeting his heirs, the current owners. There are two sons and one daughter, Isabela,’ Harriet continued. ‘Rumour has it that the business was all they managed to inherit; none of them have the old man’s brains. They expanded quickly into luxury island resorts. They aren’t popular with the locals or environmentalists from what I can tell. There are claims of bribery and extortion, and complaints of poverty wages for the locals who work at the exclusive resorts, along with some pretty worrying environmental infractions. All this has cost an absolute fortune and so they’ve been allowing investment by outsiders in order to continue with their spending spree and to keep up their lavish lifestyles.’ Harriet’s forehead crinkled. ‘It doesn’t sound like a very good investment, not financially or reputationally.’
‘Investment? No. Takeover? Yes.’
‘Takeover?’ Her eyebrows arched with surprise. ‘But the contracts only specify two per cent.’
‘When have you known me to bother about two per cent of anything? Fly across the world for something so insignificant? No, Harriet, this is no investment. The Caetanos have been careless. Not only did they sell off a share of the business overall, they’ve each been chipping away at their own bits, selling a little here and a little there independently. The result? None of them know how much in total has been handed over to outsiders.’
‘But you do.’ It wasn’t a question. He answered it anyway.
‘Forty-nine per cent. And even if they knew it was so much, they would assume the majority was held by hundreds of investors all over Brazil and South America, that they can carry on as majority owners unchallenged. Their assumptions would be very wrong. That forty-nine per cent is currently owned by Aion subsidiary companies. Oh, the trail is clear enough, if they had ever bothered to look. I have done nothing illegal, nothing shady. But here we are. They are ready and willing to woo me, not knowing that if they convince me to invest this week, I will hold the controlling stake.’ Deangelo’s chest tightened in anticipation.
‘It seems like a lot of effort for a chain of failing hotels. I mean, yes, the buildings are gorgeous old world creations, but I’ve been on the review sites and they need a lot of updating. And the islands are incredible, but they’re riddled with corruption and bad feeling. If you’re planning to own your own hotels wouldn’t you be better off starting from scratch?’
‘It’s not about the hotels, Harriet. It’s about justice.’
Justice and fulfilling the promise he’d made to his mother.
Without quite meaning to, he reached up and traced the line of his scar as it bisected his cheek, running his finger along the thin line that ran from forehead to chin. He would make them pay, every one of them, and wipe the Caetano name from the city. No price was too high to pay for that. Abruptly, he changed the subject. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, at least...’ She paused. ‘It’s just when you hired me it was because...’ She paused again. Harriet wasn’t usually chatty, nor had Deangelo ever seen her lost for words.
He tried to hide his amusement at her uncustomary colour and the flustered way she was wringing her hands. ‘Because I need you to pose as my wife?’
‘Yes. That.’ Her colour heightened even more. ‘At least, as Marcos Santos’s wife. That was the name you wanted me to book the room in?’
‘It’s still me, I’m afraid,’ he said drily. ‘Marcos is my middle name.’
As was Deangelo. Luciano, his first name, he’d left behind him in Brazil. Only his father’s family had ever used that name anyway; to his mother he had always been Deangelo. Her angel.
‘Right. I’m still not clear. Why the name change?’
‘Think, Harriet. I have managed to stay out of the press, but this way I can be sure the Caetanos have no idea who I am. If they think Aion are interested in their hotels the price will