Beauty’s bargain...

...with the brooding billionaire!

In this Fairytale Brides story, there’s one thing ruthless tycoon Deangelo Santos needs to complete his business deal and free himself from the guilt of his past—a bride! Striking a bargain with his former assistant, Harriet Fairchild, he whisks her away on a pretend honeymoon to Rio. Harriet’s vivacity makes Deangelo feel alive for the first time, but can she convince him redemption is nothing without someone to share it with?

A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and seafront trader, JESSICA GILMORE now works for an environmental charity in York, England. Married with one daughter, one fluffy dog and two dog-loathing cats, she spends her time avoiding housework and can usually be found with her nose in a book. Jessica writes emotional romance with a hint of humour, a splash of sunshine and a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes!

Also by Jessica Gilmore

Her New-Year Baby SecretA Proposal from the Crown PrinceThe Sheikh’s Pregnant BrideBaby Surprise for the Spanish BillionaireSummer Romance with the Italian Tycoon

Fairytale Brides miniseries

Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

And look out for the next story Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

Jessica Gilmore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09091-9

HONEYMOONING WITH HER BRAZILIAN BOSS

© 2019 Jessica Gilmore

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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For Nana and Papa.

I wish I didn’t know so much about how dementia

robs us of loved ones too early,

and I wish you had both been spared.

I hope you’re happy and at peace now xxx

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘COME ALONG, HATTY. Leave that!’

Harriet Fairchild looked up from her computer screen, eyes full of spreadsheets and numbers and projections, and smiled at the petite woman jiggling impatiently from foot to foot by the side of the pretty antique desk.

‘I just need to finish this and I’ll be right there. Five minutes, Amber, I promise.’

‘You said that ten minutes ago,’ Amber pointed out. ‘Our guests will be here in fifteen minutes and we haven’t had our private toast yet. Those spreadsheets will still be there in the morning.’

‘Along with everything else I haven’t managed to do yet. I can’t believe I’m so behind, when we haven’t even opened the agency.’ But Harriet was saving the documents as she spoke, closing down the laptop and shutting the lid with a sigh she did her best to hide from the bubbly redhead. Her new business partners—and best friends—had been more than understanding when Harriet disappeared across London most days to sit with her father after yet another fall, but with the Happy Ever After Agency due to open its doors imminently she knew it should have been all hands on deck back at the elegant Chelsea townhouse where they now lived, worked and dreamed.

‘I can’t believe it’s actually happening.’ Amber bounced up and down on her trainer-clad tiptoes as Harriet slipped her laptop into the desk drawer and locked it. ‘That we’ve made it.’

‘We’re not there yet; we need some clients first.’ But although Harriet was trying to maintain her usual calm and sensible manner, excitement fizzed inside her like the champagne Emilia was getting ready to uncork on the other side of the room.

‘Well, that’s what tonight’s about. Launching the business. After tonight we’ll have more work than we can cope with, you’ll see.’

‘We will if the other two have anything to do with it. Between Emilia’s event skills and Alex’s PR skills, how can our launch event be anything but a success? And if it isn’t, well, we can live off canapés and champagne for the next week!’

She followed Amber through the office and into the freshly decorated reception area, where the other two co-owners of the Happy Ever After Agency were waiting for her. As she joined them Emilia finally let the cork go with a resounding pop, Alexandra deftly holding a glass under the bottle to catch the first rush of golden bubbles, handing the filled glass to Harriet with a smile.

‘Thank you!’ Harriet took the glass and held it out, waiting till the other three each held their own to join her in the toast. ‘To dreams coming true and happy-ever-afters,’ she said.

‘To happy-ever-afters,’ Emilia echoed, her answering smile for once full and frank, the shadows that usually haunted her eyes nowhere to be seen.

‘And to all our dreams.’ Alexandra could never be anything but cool and collected, but her even, polite smile was genuinely warm, the excitement in her voice unfeigned.

‘To us.’ Amber was never less than sunny and her smile lit up the room. ‘We’ve done it. I’m so proud of us!’

Harriet turned to Alexandra, her heart full of gratitude. ‘And earlier than planned, thanks to you, Alex.’

The tall, slim girl shook her immaculately coiffed head. ‘Thanks to my godmother, you mean. She left me this place. Without her, our dreams would still be just that, only dreams.’

‘To your fairy godmother, then.’ Amber raised her glass in another toast and the small group responded with a respectful murmur. They all knew how lucky they were. Alexandra’s inheritance meant that not only were they opening the agency a couple of years earlier than planned, they didn’t have to worry about renting premises or any of the overhead costs starting a new business usually entailed.

Harriet took a sip of the champagne, trying to work out just what it was that made this vintage twenty times more expensive than her usual brand of corner shop Prosecco, and looked around the room, unable to stop herself critically surveying it, looking for flaws or potential problems. Her stomach settled, the squeeze in her chest relaxing as she saw nothing out of place. They were ready, and after tonight’s launch the great, good and wealthy of Chelsea would know that they were here and that they were open for business.

Luckily the small Chelsea townhouse Alexandra had inherited was structurally perfect, if outdated in decor, but between them they had saved just enough to knock down the wall between the front sitting room and back dining room to create the light, inviting reception and office space they now stood in. Wooden floorboards shone with a warm golden glow, the replastered walls were freshly painted matt white above the picture rails and a light grey below and the original tiled fireplaces had been scrubbed until they shone. Two comfortable-looking sofas sat opposite each other at the front of the room, inviting spaces for potential clients or staff to relax in, and their own desks, an eclectic mixture of vintage and modern classic, faced the reception area in two rows, paperwork neatly filed in the shelves built into the alcoves by the back fireplace. Flowers and plants softened the space, a warm floral print on the blinds and curtains, the same theme picked up in the pictures hanging on the walls. They wanted their public-facing space to look professional and yet unique. Like the services they offered.

The door at the back led to a narrow kitchen and a sunny conservatory extension they used as a sitting/dining room. Usually the door would remain closed, keeping the area private, but today it was flung open to welcome their new neighbours and potential clients to their launch party, the fridge filled with a much less expensive champagne than the one they were currently drinking, the tables and counters covered with an array of tempting canapés baked by Amber over the last two days. The scent of warm spices and fresh bread mingled aromatically with the beeswax polish and fresh flowers.

Upstairs, each of the two floors housed two bedrooms and a bathroom. Thanks to Alexandra’s generosity, this was all theirs. The bills were to be paid out of the agency profits, each partner only drawing enough salary for simple needs, the rest to be pooled back in until they had enough for what each of them truly dreamed for—security. Security and a home. Harriet inhaled, letting the unique scent fill her lungs. Security, home and a family.

‘Ten minutes, girls.’ Emilia brought Harriet back to the here and now. ‘Are we ready?’

‘The office couldn’t look more perfect,’ Harriet said. ‘And we’re all looking presentable, too.’ She grinned at the understatement. As usual her friends looked stunning; they had agreed to all wear black, and if Harriet’s sensible wrap dress looked dull next to Alex’s elegant shift, Amber’s vintage-inspired swing dress and Emilia’s pretty floaty skirt and lace top, well, she was more than used to fading into the background. Preferred it in fact.

‘I’ve been chatting up all the neighbours,’ Amber said. ‘They’ve all been invited personally and I managed a subtle sales pitch at the same time. I’ve identified several in need of an emergency childcare provider, dog walkers and housekeeping and I’ve already been approached for some light cleaning and shopping for a couple of elderly residents I spoke to in the park. And while chatting I made sure they know that I have all the contacts. I reckon we’ll hear from some time-poor, cash-rich families wanting their date nights organised from babysitters to impossible-to-get-into restaurants before the week is out...’ Amber specialised in providing bespoke concierge services. At Aion, the company they had all recently left, her role had been to run the small team who ensured VIP clients wanted or needed for nothing, no matter how short the notice.

‘And I’ve already got a couple of events lined up and the clients are, of course, invited tonight. First up a charity brunch and then two birthdays; one is for a child, Amber, so maybe we can combine on that? Children are definitely more your thing than mine.’ Emilia smiled over at her friend. ‘I can’t wait to get going. If we can pull these off then we might have a chance at some of the Christmas balls, and they will really get our reputation out there.’

‘There’s a new restaurant opening up the street and I have offered to do their PR. It doesn’t pay much but it’s a nice story for our launch.’ Alexandra was all about the story. Even after four years Harriet wasn’t sure what was real and what was manufactured about her friend, but it didn’t matter. The truth was they were four kindred spirits, four lonely souls who had found each other one Christmas Eve and slowly formed a semblance of a family.

‘I have temps coming in to interview all week,’ Harriet contributed. ‘I had hoped to be further along by now but...’

‘But nothing. We have the time and space to build the agency up carefully and properly. The right staff, the right clients and the best service,’ Alex reassured her. ‘We’re in this for the long-term. Your dad is important, Harriet, more important than anything else. Never apologise for being with him.’

‘Thank you.’ Harriet’s whole body warmed with affection and relief. She didn’t have to make excuses here, hide her emotions and needs. She belonged. It was all she had ever wanted. ‘Hang on, was that the bell? It sounds like our first guests have arrived...’

* * *

Deangelo Santos didn’t often read magazines. He certainly didn’t read gossip magazines. And since the day he’d first set foot on British soil, twelve years before, all his reading material had been in English. The bright, gaudy Brazilian magazine lying on his desk was as out of place in his severely modern and austere office as a child’s teddy bear. But he hadn’t bought the magazine to read it. He’d bought it to allow himself one glorious moment of anticipation.

Three faces smiled out of the front cover. All in their forties, all sleek and self-satisfied in the way that only inherited privilege and extreme arrogance could instil. And all completely unaware that in just a few weeks their entire lives would be turned upside down, inside out and ripped apart. Deangelo allowed himself just one moment of looking at the magazine, the faintest semblance of a smile curling his lips, before picking it up between his thumb and forefinger and tossing it into the recycling bin. He stalked to his office door. It was time to put the final pieces of his plan into play.

He threw open the glass door and stifled a sigh as the slight woman who occupied the desk outside jumped. It was a tiny jump, almost imperceptible, but there all the same. ‘Good evening, Mr Santos. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?’

There was nothing wrong with the question or the way she asked it. Just as there was nothing wrong with her work. For the last two weeks she had been sitting at this very desk when he arrived at work at seven thirty a.m. after his usual ten kilometre run and half-hour workout. He would walk into his office to find his computer switched on and waiting for him, his task list neatly printed out and waiting on his keyboard, the bitter dark coffee he preferred brewed and waiting. Everything as it should be.

Equally she had been right there, at her desk all day, taking less than half an hour for lunch, managing his inbox and diary, booking flights and arranging meetings, making sure he was only disturbed when he needed to be.

Just as he liked it.

Now here she still was, ten hours after starting, not complaining about her long day or showing impatient signs of wanting to get home.

Although, to be fair, she would be handsomely paid for exactly those kinds of hours.

Really, in the grand scheme of things one small nervous jump wasn’t anything to complain about.

Except...

Except it was Monday. Which meant the woman sitting at his PA’s desk had been here for two weeks and one day.

And that one extra day was unexpected. Deangelo didn’t like unexpected. He planned and schemed and went through every possible contingency to avoid the unexpected. Having your life ripped away from you before you hit your teens would do that to a person.

Instead of answering her question, Deangelo wheeled round and walked back into his office, pulled his phone out of his pocket, pressed a button and waited, foot tapping impatiently until the call was answered.

It took less than three seconds. Good. ‘Hello, sir. How can I help?’

‘Where is Harriet?’ he demanded.

There was a pause before his head of HR responded. ‘Harriet?’

‘Yes. Harriet. Tall. Blonde hair.’ Or was it red? He could never decide. Not that her hair colour mattered, the only thing of any import was that Harriet Fairchild kept his life smooth, in order and seamless. As it should be. ‘She’s had two weeks off already. When is she due back?’

‘Mr Santos, Harriet left.’

‘Left?’

‘Left the company.’

She had what? Deangelo paused, trying to remember the last day he had seen her. Come to think of it, she had looked a little expectant when saying goodbye. Maybe even disappointed? It was hard to remember; he had been putting his final plans together for Brazil that week, his head, for once, nowhere near business as usual.

But how could he have not realised she was leaving? At least that explained the flowers on her desk...

‘Where has she gone? I assume you offered her appropriate recompense to stay?’

‘I did, naturally. I know how you dislike your routine changing but she is setting up her own business; I don’t think there was any inducement we could have offered to make her stay.’ Sue, his head of HR, sounded a lot more sure of herself now and Deangelo couldn’t blame her. It was a different matter losing his valued PA to her own business than losing her to another company. Still inconvenient, though. Especially with the biggest deal of his life, if not his career, coming up. A deal he had counted on her help to pull off. Deangelo cast a quick look through the open door at the nervous replacement as she sat typing diligently but unable to shield the worry in her eyes, biting her lip as she pretended not to listen in. No, with those kind of acting skills she wouldn’t do at all and it was far too late to train anyone else.

‘What kind of business?’

‘An agency. She has gone into partnership with three other ex-Aion employees. They are providing an all-round service, I believe, from event management to PA temps, household management to reputation management.’

Deangelo seized upon the one piece of information that was relevant. ‘They provide PA temps? Excellent. Then hire her back. For the next month. I’ll pay double the going rate.’ Everyone had their price and a fledgling agency would be more eager than most for business and income. ‘Tell her to make sure her passport is up-to-date; we leave for Rio in two weeks, but I want her back in tomorrow.’

He ended the call and stalked across the office to stand at the full-length windows, staring out at the London skyline beyond. Views like this were worth millions, buildings like the one Aion occupied—occupied and owned—in the heart of South Bank were worth more. He lived right here, in a penthouse apartment, his office took up the floor below, his private gym and swimming pool were in the basement, right next to the garage which housed his beloved collection of vintage sports cars. The rest of the building was a thriving hub of some of the world’s leading minds and they all worked for him. He had come a long, long way from the favela. But when he set foot in Rio would he be Deangelo Santos, founder of Aion, tech billionaire, philanthropist or would he revert to the street rat, illegitimate son of one of Rio’s oldest families? Discarded and left out like the rubbish they had deemed him.

His hands curled into fists. He had the power now and in two weeks he would show them just who he was. And for that he needed everything to be perfect. He needed Harriet.

As if on cue, his mobile rang. Glancing at the screen before he answered, Deangelo began to relax. Sue with the news of Harriet’s return, no doubt.

He answered the call with a curt ‘Yes?’ then listened to the apologetic voice for a moment, incredulity creeping over him. ‘What do you mean, she can’t do it?’

‘She says she hasn’t got time. Give her a week and she’ll find you a new replacement for Jenny, although she thinks you should give the poor girl more of a chance—her words not mine—but she’s too busy setting up the agency at the moment to take a month away. They only opened today, sir; they’re holding their launch party tonight. I was just on my way there now.’

Deangelo stilled. ‘Launch party? What’s the address? I’ll see you there. I’d better speak to Harriet myself.’

He ended the call, cutting off Sue’s polite but clearly panicked protests. If Rio was to go to plan then nothing could go wrong and that included Harriet Fairchild’s presence. And if he had to go to Chelsea and persuade her himself then that was exactly what he would do. His gaze stole towards the recycling bin and the gaudy magazine cover peeking out the top. He had a deathbed promise to fulfil and nothing—and no one—was going to stand in his way.

CHAPTER TWO

THE HOUSE WAS pleasantly full, closing in on crowded, a steady stream of curious neighbours, local businesses and carefully selected potential clients passing through to sample Amber’s spectacular canapés, have a glass of champagne and toast the Happy Ever After Agency’s launch. Harriet had watched Alexandra and Emilia turn on their cool, professional charm, while Amber tempted people with tray after tray of delicious treats, disbelief that it was really happening looping around her stomach. This was it. They existed. Their future was entirely in their hands—it was both thrilling and terrifying. Had they really thought when they’d first come up with the idea that it would actually happen? For so long it had seemed a nice pipe dream, not an actual plan.

No more dreaming. Things had just got serious and for the agency to work they needed clients and fast. This party was just the start. It had to be a success.

Leaning against the wall, Harriet pushed away the misgivings that liked to whisper in her ear; she could be at her desk right now, clocking off for the evening, earning a good salary, pension, benefits—safety. It was time she struck out and dared to do—to be—someone new. No longer the mousy little PA, more part of the office furniture than warm flesh and blood. Of so little significance that after three years Deangelo Santos hadn’t even said goodbye. She swallowed. She was a fool to be disappointed by the omission, a fool to care. Just because, occasionally, very occasionally, that keen stare had seemed to see her, seemed to know her, didn’t mean the connection she’d imagined was real. She might be a Jane Eyre type but that didn’t make him Rochester—which was a good thing. Harriet had never visited Deangelo’s penthouse suite but she was pretty sure he didn’t keep a wife hidden away there!

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.

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 inflate, but Marcos Santos, CEO of a small tech firm, won’t raise any suspicion.’ Deangelo clenched his hands into fists. In a way he would have preferred suspicion. Preferred them to remember his middle names. To see him and instantly know who he was. But they had always ignored him. Thought 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 recalling it. And tonight they would be getting to know each other as newlyweds should.

Only this was all business, and the blood rushing around his body, the thrum of his pulse beating through every pressure point, needed to remember that. Attraction was one thing, acting on it quite another. Not that he had any intention of acting on anything. Fake honeymoon or no fake honeymoon.

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