‘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