Honeymooning With Her Brazilian Boss. Jessica GilmoreЧитать онлайн книгу.
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?’
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