LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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