Honeymooning With Her Brazilian Boss. Jessica Gilmore
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him beneath them. Denied his very existence and claim to kinship. Why, sixteen years after their last encounter, would they suddenly remember his mother’s surname, his own full name? Recognise the skinny boy in the man he had become?
Well, the Caetanos would remember. Remember and rue the day they had disowned him and disinherited his mother. He’d make damn sure of that.
Harriet still looked unconvinced. ‘The tech firm is one of your subsidiaries, I suppose? Okay, I concede the name change, but I don’t understand why you need a wife.’
‘To make the meeting seem more like a social gathering, to put them off guard.’
‘Right.’ She picked up her tablet, her hair falling across her face, a rose gold cloud. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying that this whole plan seems utterly insane.’
‘You can say whatever you like, as long as you perform your part properly. Just remember we’re on our honeymoon and everything will be fine.’
Harriet was already at the door, but as he spoke she stopped and pivoted, eyebrows arched. ‘I’m sorry. For a moment I thought you said honeymoon.’
‘I did. It’s the perfect cover. As far as the Caetanos are concerned we are in Rio for our honeymoon and the investment talks are just a side project. I’m ensuring they won’t be tempted to look further. I’ve covered my tracks well, but I’m more comfortable with an extra layer of safeguarding.’ Deangelo wasn’t sure what the incredulous look on Harriet’s face meant, but it didn’t seem wholly positive. ‘You already agreed to pose as my wife,’ he added. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything we haven’t discussed.’
‘Honeymoon?’
Surely he’d been quite clear. ‘Yes.’
‘But—’ she gestured wildly, the most exasperated gesture he had ever seen from the usually cool and contained Harriet ‘—a honeymooning couple is quite, quite different to a married couple, you must see that. If we’d been married for ten years or even two, then some kind of coolness, or lack of physical affection wouldn’t be noticed. But people expect honeymooners to be, you know, honeymoony.’
‘Honeymoony?’ Was that even a word?
‘Yes!’
Deangelo stared at his PA, who seemed uncharacteristically agitated. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate tinge of pink, her lips full and red, her blue eyes brighter. Indignation and embarrassment had stripped her of her professional air and it was as if a veil had been lifted, the full force of her personality shining through, turning conventional prettiness into something deeper and more vibrant.
Something—someone—infinitely more dangerous.
Harriet swallowed and, fascinated, he watched her throat move. When she spoke her voice croaked. ‘Does it have to be a honeymoon? It’s so intimate. Exposing.’
Intimate. Exposing. Was it getting hot in the office? Deangelo pulled at his collar. ‘We’re not going to be spending the whole two weeks in Rio with the Caetanos, just the initial meeting when they try and convince me that they’re not conning me to invest in a failing business, and the shareholders’ meeting a fortnight after. The honeymoon is just a cover, not a role-play. I am recently wealthy, from the wrong side of the tracks, desperate to ally myself with the right people and with my eye firmly off the ball thanks to my new bride. It’s not complicated.’
‘Even so...’ She paused again, biting her lip. ‘A honeymoon is really tricky to pull off. If we act just like we usually do then no one will believe that we’re newlyweds for more than a minute. You need to convince anyone looking at us that you’re mad about me and I need to do the same. Just where people can see us,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Obviously.’
Deangelo had never been mad about anyone in his life. Never even been tempted to allow a relationship to progress beyond mild desire and liking. But he’d insisted on having Harriet with him for exactly this kind of feedback: not just because he trusted her, but because he also respected her opinion.
‘Obviously,’ he echoed. ‘And how do you propose we convince people we’re mad about each other?’ The words felt strange on his tongue, heavy and sensuous, and as he spoke them he had a sudden vision of Harriet smiling at him, her hand in his, her lush body warm against him, and with that vision a sense that he was stepping over a line and into the unknown. That the walls around him suddenly didn’t feel quite as solid as they always had. He breathed in deep and slow, willing the walls to solidify.
‘Well...’ She walked back into the office, placing her tablet onto his desk. Deangelo stilled, very aware of her wild strawberry scent, of the curve of her hips, the grace in her long limbs. ‘I’ve not actually been on a honeymoon, but I suppose it’s about showing that you’re together, standing a little closer than normal, touching each other’s hands or arms.’ He watched her hand as it fluttered close to his shoulder before jerking firmly away, but he could feel a warm sensation on the tip of his shoulder blade, as if her fingertips rested there.
He straightened, trying to dislodge the ghostly caress. ‘Is that how you behave when you’re in love?’ He both did and didn’t want to know the answer to that question.
‘I... I’ve never actually been in love. I’ve dated,’ she added, chin tilted and eyes bright. ‘Obviously. But this isn’t about me; it’s about what other people do and what they’ll expect. Like always looking into each other’s eyes. Pet names...’
‘Pet names?’
‘Yes, you know, like darling or honey or something...’
‘In Brazil,’ he said, ‘we would say querida, minha amada, me amor.’
Where had that come from? He never spoke Portuguese any more. Thanks to the private international school he’d attended for his first ten years he’d grown up bilingual, unusual in Brazil, and as soon as he had moved to the UK he’d worked hard to speak, think and even dream in the language of his adopted country. When he could control his dreams that was.
So why was it so easy to imagine saying such words to Harriet?
‘Yes,’ she said a little unsteadily, stepping back. ‘That’s the kind of thing. So you see why it would be easier to forget about the whole honeymoon thing.’
‘I disagree, querida.’ Again the endearment slipped out with ease. ‘I’m sure we can manage, if we try.’
‘Plus—’ another step back ‘—we haven’t factored in a honeymoon wardrobe. I own nothing that says bride or rich husband—and I would be surprised if you have a single item suitable for a beach holiday. We’re much better sticking to what I assumed was the original script, a wife accompanying her husband on a business trip and dressing accordingly.’
‘What do you need?’
‘Need?’
‘For a honeymoon?’
‘Dresses and swimsuits and nice shoes. I don’t know, clothes that make me feel special. Sexy.’ She bit her lip on the last word as if wanting to recall it, but it hung in the air, thickening it, until Deangelo could hardly breathe.
‘Okay then. Take the rest of the afternoon and buy whatever you need. You still have your company card?’ Harriet nodded mutely. ‘I’ll meet you once I’ve finished here. We can put in some practice at being newlyweds. Book us in somewhere appropriate. That will be all.’
He didn’t allow himself to look up until Harriet had finally left the room, but he could feel her wide blue eyes fixed disbelievingly on him, her scent lingering along with the echoes of that word. Sexy. Harriet was bright, incisive, tactful. She was tall and curvy and too demure. She hid her attractiveness behind shapeless clothes and her glorious hair spent most of its life tied up in a tight bun but Deangelo had always seen—seen and resolutely ignored—her potential for real beauty. He had never considered her sexy, though, but now the thought was in his head there was no