‘Does he love you back?’
How Harriet wished she could answer the hope in Amber’s eyes with something positive. ‘No,’ she said instead. ‘At least, he could be. I think he has feelings for me. I know he notices me. But he doesn’t know how to love. He’s scared to. And I get that. I feel the same way.’
‘You deserve more,’ Emilia said fiercely.
‘I do. But so does he. I just wish I knew how to reach him. I tried. I really tried, Em.’
‘Then he’s a fool, for all his billions.’
‘Maybe.’ But as Harriet tried to show her friends how okay she really was she couldn’t help but see him as she had walked away—tall, proud, indomitable and so alone it had broken her heart.
* * *
As his aunt had predicted, revenge wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Even the big reveal had lacked the piquancy Deangelo had hoped for. Oh, his brothers had blustered and sworn, his sister paled before pleading for her children’s share to be preserved if nothing else. But there had been no sense of righteousness. No flaming sword. No resolution. All Deangelo had been able to see was the disappointment in Harriet’s face as she had walked away, the hope when she had asked him to come with her. How brave and full of courage she was to have told him she loved him. Harriet, who knew his secrets. Harriet, who knew his fears. Harriet, who feared rejection and hurt and loneliness, had risked all three to try and reach him. And he had failed her, just as he had failed his mother.
For what? For a sense of flatness as he sat opposite the Caetanos and considered devastating their lives as they had devastated his.
Only in the end he hadn’t. Because he hadn’t been able to go through with it. Oh, he was still the majority shareholder, but the Caetano hotels were still trading. They’d be managed from within Aion, true; his siblings would no longer be able to cream off profits or sell their shares, unless to him, and they wouldn’t be penniless, although they would be living on reduced dividends while the hotels were restored to health. He’d even suggested that any nephews or nieces who wanted to be involved could work at Aion. Why? It wasn’t as if the gestures had softened his siblings’ attitude to him, or made them feel any more familial towards him. But then he hadn’t done it for them. He’d done it for Harriet.
He’d done it for his mother. She would never have wanted him to have followed the dark lonely path he had been on for so long, her death the catalyst. He had dishonoured her memory, dishonoured his upbringing, dishonoured himself.
Worse, he had been a fool, let the best chance he had at redemption walk out of his life without a backward glance, let her go alone to face a difficult situation, and the relief her father’s stroke hadn’t been as bad as first feared in no way negated that.
It had been a long week. The longest, the hardest, the darkest since his mother’s death. A week of looking into the darkest depths of his soul and not liking what he saw there. Not some kind of wounded superhero but more a villain, lurking rather than living, contributing nothing except from afar, too scared of rejection from those he respected to reach out.
No more. He needed to start living in the world, not aside from it.
And if it was too late for Harriet—no, he couldn’t think that, not just yet.
Deangelo looked out of the window at the darkness. Usually he loved these moments, alone on his plane, the biggest symbol of success there could be, returning to the city he had conquered. But today he was acutely aware of an ache in his chest. Homesickness. A yearning for the dirty, noisy, chaotic streets of Rio and the people who lived there.
But Harriet was in London. So that was where he needed to be.
It was morning when he landed and as usual he bypassed all the usual tedious airport procedures, money and status ensuring he could leave the airport quickly and discreetly. A marked contrast to that very first flight when, cramped from the long journey he had endured in Economy, he had queued for hours to have his visa scrutinised by hostile border agents.
Today he walked to where his car and driver were waiting for him on the airfield, his dual nationality making border controls a quick, respectful formality. Normality resumed.
Except nothing was the same.
He’d sent his instructions from the plane. He was to be driven to Chelsea, after a quick stop across the river in Vauxhall, where Deangelo had arranged for a seller at the famous flower market to stay open especially for him. As the car drove away from New Covent Garden’s gates and headed across the bridge he was conscious of a new feeling. Nerves. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt nervous. But then again he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something to win. Or to lose.
The streets narrowed as the driver began to make his way through the well-heeled back streets of Chelsea, the bohemian-looking painted and Georgian houses hiding multi-million-pound makeovers and absentee owners. With a jolt Deangelo realised he didn’t want to live alone in his tower any more, nor did he want to live somewhere like this, surrounded by other obscenely rich types; he wanted to be back in a community. Be part of something, contribute to it. No more shutting himself away.
His nerves intensified as the driver turned into the quiet Georgian streets and pulled up outside the freshly painted grey front door of the Happy Ever After Agency. Pots filled with lush green plants stood sentry either side of the entrance. Deangelo stood squarely between them and rang the bell. He didn’t have too long to wait before a tall, elegant woman opened the door. She stood there for a moment, shock mingling with worry on her austerely beautiful face.
‘Yes?’ she said at last.
‘Hello...’ Deangelo searched his memory. This was the PR girl, wasn’t it? Alexandra? He risked it. ‘Hello, Alexandra. Is Harriet here?’
‘I’ll see if she wants to be.’ And the door closed in his face. Deangelo blinked. It was a long time since he’d been left out on the doorstep. He set his jaw and waited, shifting as the seconds turned into minutes, acutely aware of his driver, waiting and witnessing this new and much-needed exercise in humility.
After a few minutes the door opened again, a different woman standing there, an identical shocked and worried expression on her face. ‘She’ll see you. But I need to tell you, she’s had a hard week. If you’re here to upset her...’
‘I’m not,’ he interrupted her and she regarded him unsmilingly before nodding.
‘Come in then. We’re all at home, within calling distance.’ The last words were clearly a threat and a promise and Deangelo couldn’t help recalling Harriet’s words about building her own family.
‘She’s lucky to have you.’
A surprised smile softened her pretty but solemn face. ‘We’re lucky to have her. But I suspect you know that, don’t you?’
A few strides and he was through the house and back in the sitting/dining conservatory where he had first persuaded Harriet to come and work for him again. Because he needed her in Rio, or because he needed her? He didn’t trust his own motivations back then, not now. He suspected he’d loved her for far longer than he knew. All he knew was once he’d realised she was gone he’d have done anything to get her back.
That hadn’t changed.
The conservatory door was open onto the large courtyard garden beyond. Looking back, he saw the three other occupants of the house standing grouped in the kitchen, just beyond hearing distance but watching. The smallest—Amber—nodded encouragingly and Deangelo stepped out of the door and into the courtyard. More flower-filled pots ringed the whitewashed walls, a wrought-iron bench set at one end. Harriet sat on the bench, a book in her hands, but for once she wasn’t engrossed in it; instead she was gazing unseeingly into the distance.
‘Hi,’ he said.
She jumped, the book falling from her hands. ‘Deangelo? What are you doing here?’
‘I came to tell you that you were right. That revenge is no substitution for living. And I c
ame to give you this.’ He handed over the large gift bag he carried and she took it in shaking hands but made no move to look inside.
‘You already gave me so much.’
‘This is different.’
She held his gaze uncertainly before opening the bag and peeking inside.
It was a rose. One perfect white rose. The most perfect rose sold at New Covent Garden that day.
* * *
Harriet’s hands shook as she drew the rose carefully out of the bag, appreciating the charm of the delicate crystal bud vase, her heart swelling as she looked at it.
‘You remembered?’
‘When your dad asked what you wanted you asked for flowers. And he would bring you one perfect rose every Friday.’
‘You do remember.’ She inhaled the rich scent and looked up at Deangelo, blinking back hot tears. Tears of joy, and of an aching nostalgic sadness. ‘Nobody has brought me a flower since he started to get sick. I can’t tell you how much this means.’
‘White roses symbolise a heart unacquainted with love,’ he said ruefully. ‘That was me. That rose is my heart before I met you.’
Hope, sweet and joyful, began to unfurl inside her. Still holding the rose, Harriet got to her feet and stood in front of him, carefully examining his face, every feature imprinted on her heart. There was something subtly different about his expression, the self-loathing that had always lurked behind the careful mask was gone, as was the mask itself. She’d never seen such candour in his face, nor such tenderness. ‘And now?’
‘And now I’d need a whole rainbow of roses to express how I feel.’ He looked behind him. ‘As you can see.’
Harriet stared at the sitting/dining room. A driver was carrying a huge bouquet, so big she was surprised it had fitted through the door, made up of every colour of rose imaginable.
‘That’s...’ She couldn’t find the words. ‘Thank you.’
‘It should be me thanking you. For everything, But for now I just wanted to give you my heart. My cold, unloving heart, if you’ll have it, and to tell you that, thanks to you, it isn’t cold any more. To tell you that I love you.’
The words hung there, Harriet staring up at him, searching his face for a sign that this was real, that she could believe this was really happening. All she saw was love—love for her. Love, hope and a hint of nerves, which convinced her more than any words, any gesture could that he meant it. ‘Deangelo...’
‘You don’t have to say anything. You don’t owe me anything. I just wanted you to know how I feel. To know I’m on your side, always. No matter what.’
Harriet’s heart was hammering so loudly she could barely think, her chest tight with suppressed tears—tears and a joy she didn’t wholly trust just yet. ‘But what about Brazil? The hotels?’
‘Still intact. My siblings still have their share and will still have an income—a reduced income as we need to reinvest in the hotels, but a fair one. Not that they believe that. I don’t think they’d hate me any more if I had beggared them.’
‘Maybe not, but you would have ended up hating yourself.’
‘I was halfway there,’ he confessed. ‘But in the end I didn’t want my choices to be born out of hate and fear, but from love and hope. I wanted to make the choices which meant I would deserve you. If you’d have me. To take the path that led me to you. I have more money than I ever dreamed, but it’s not brought me one moment’s peace or joy. One night with you was worth more than every penny I own. And what I’d like, what I hope you’d like, is to turn that night into a lifetime.’
‘A lifetime?’ Had she heard him right? Carefully, she set the rose down on the bench. ‘Deangelo...’ She couldn’t finish the sentence, her heart too full for words.
‘For several years I went to work looking for a reason to carry on, not seeing that reason was right in front of me. I don’t want to waste any more time, Harriet.’ And as she watched him with wondering eyes he pulled a familiar box out of his pocket. ‘Last time I gave you this it was pretence. I just didn’t realise I was pretending to myself, pretending I hadn’t picked the perfect ring for the perfect woman. But no more pretending, Harriet. I love you and I want to spend my life with you. If you’ll have me.’
She noticed his hands were shaking as he handed her the box, and she opened it to see just the sapphire ring on its bed of white satin.
‘The other ring is safe, waiting for the day you do me the honour of becoming my wife. If you will, that is. Will you, Harriet? Will you marry me?’
Harriet stepped close and took his hand in hers. ‘Yes. And not because of the perfect ring or the fancy suits or the money. None of that means anything to me. But because you saw me. Because you took care of me. And because I want to take care of you. I love you, Deangelo Santos. So yes.’
She gave him the ring box back, holding out her hand and, with unusually clumsy fingers, he placed the ring on her finger, where it belonged.
‘I should have come back with you when you asked,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t have let my life be governed by fear. Fear of losing people I loved, fear of letting them down, of being unworthy. But in the end I realised that the only thing worse than losing you would be never having you at all.’
‘I’m right here,’ she vowed. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know what the future holds—you and I both know how precarious happiness can be. But I can promise you that I won’t hide any more. That I am going to love each day and wring every moment of happiness from life that I can. And there is no one else I want to do that with.’
This was where she belonged—wherever Deangelo was. She smiled up at him, filled with happiness and the sweetness of hope. The tenderness in his eyes nearly undid her as he gently tilted her chin, leaning in to kiss her, and Harriet knew that, whatever obstacles the future held, neither of them would ever know loneliness again.
* * *
Look out for the next story in the Fairytale Brides quartet
Coming soon!
And if you enjoyed this story, check out these other great reads from Jessica Gilmore
Summer Romance with the Italian Tycoon
Baby Surprise for the Spanish Billionaire
The Sheikh’s Pregnant Bride
A Proposal from the Crown Prince
All available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Finding Mr. Right in Florence by Kate Hardy.
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Finding Mr. Right in Florence
by Kate Ha
rdy
CHAPTER ONE
MARIANA THACKERAY.
Angelo Beresford looked at the name on the email his sister had sent him.
Mariana was a presenter on a television programme about art—about paintings people had found in their attic or had been hanging on a wall unremarked-on for years, and then they turned out to be lost masterpieces worth a small fortune.
Camilla had spent the last couple of months of her pregnancy making a special trip from Rome to Florence every week to watch the programme with their grandfather. And Leo Moretti had apparently taken a real shine to the woman. He called her the Debussy girl—the girl with the flaxen hair. Cammie’s version was that she looked like a pre-Raphaelite model.
Though it didn’t matter what Mariana Thackeray looked like. What Angelo wanted from her had nothing to do with her looks and everything to do with what was inside her head.
Did Mariana Thackeray really know her stuff about art, or was she presenting the programme from a script?
There was only one way to find out.
Angelo flicked into the Internet and typed in the programme’s name.
Her profile came up on the programme’s website, along with a couple of links to newspaper articles.
Yup. She looked exactly like a model for one of his grandfather’s nineteenth-century paintings. Long golden curls, blue eyes, fine cheekbones, and a sensual curve to her mouth. She was absolutely gorgeous.
He shook himself. That wasn’t what he needed to know.
He looked at the caption. Mariana Thackeray, MA. Broadcaster and art historian.
Solid academic qualifications: she worked from knowledge rather than just a script, then. Good.
And the next bit was better still: she was studying Italian nineteenth-century art for her PhD. His grandfather’s passion. So she’d be just about the perfect person to help Angelo achieve his aims.
Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss Page 15
