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?’
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
