Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss
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Jessica Gilmore
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15.0K
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12
HarlequinCHAPTER 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.
