Brazilian's Nine Months' Notice

‘There are some new clothes for you in the bedroom at the back of the plane,’ he said, killing her smile. Nothing had been overlooked, it seemed, and she was slightly offended that the clothes she had chosen to wear didn’t pass muster, though she could accept that she hardly looked like managerial material in her beat-up coat. And it would be far too heavy to wear in Brazil, she reasoned, common-sensing herself out of the embarrassment.

‘There’s a bathroom too, so you can freshen up any time you want.’

‘Thank you.’

Luc stood framed in the doorway to the cockpit, watching her for a moment. His face was in shadow. His arm was resting on the door. She couldn’t read his expression, and had to remind herself that this wasn’t about her pride but about an unborn child. Their child. However incredible that seemed, she smiled up at the waiting cabin crew, accepted an orange juice, and slipped off her sale-rail coat. Handing it over to them, she settled back.

* * *

Brazil. The warm air, the scents, the smells, the light, the sounds—Emma was dazzled from the instant she stepped onto the tarmac. Even at the airport, there were the smiles of the people, the music of a samba blaring from a passing truck, and the unaccustomed sunshine. She couldn’t deny it was a happy start to an uncertain trip. They had landed at Santos Dumont airport in the centre of the city, with the jet seeming to scrape the top of the buildings as it came in to land. The famous landmarks—Sugar Loaf, the endless strip of ivory sand and the aquamarine sea—so familiar from postcards and travel programmes, had unfolded to her wide-eyed gaze beneath the brilliant white wings of the jet. And now she was here—

‘Ready?’ Luc demanded curtly as a sleek black limousine drew up.

There was no tedious protocol for him. An official had checked their passports on the aircraft so they could disembark without delay and be whisked away. It had been a long flight, during which she’d slept fitfully, waking now and then, as if she had to remind herself that she really was doing this. She had taken a shower, as Luc had suggested, before they’d landed, and had then stared in wonder at the vast array of clothes in the closet. It was the weekend, so after trying on quite a few outfits she settled for casual Capri pants and a short-sleeved top teamed with simple leather sandals. Thanking the driver who held the door for her, she climbed into the back of the limousine. It was impossible to be pessimistic. The sun was shining and her spirits soared when Luc joined her in the back. The seat was so broad there was a yawning gap between them, but at least they’d have a chance to talk. She hadn’t seen him during the flight as he’d either been up on the flight deck, or sleeping in his master suite at the rear of the aircraft. She was looking forward to him pointing things out to her as they entered the centre of Rio.

That wasn’t going to happen, she realised as he pulled out his phone. How could she keep on being such a fool? Nothing had changed. Luc was as distant as ever. The air was controlled. The glass panel between them and the driver was controlled. Luc’s voice was controlled as he spoke rapidly in Portuguese. She shrank into a corner, feeling invisible. But she had no intention of turning back. She was here, and she was going forward whatever happened, both for her own sake and that of her child.

* * *

The Marcelos flagship hotel was a breathtaking confection of cream marble, vast tinted windows and tastefully polished bronze. She had researched the hotel online, but seeing it now beneath a flawless blue sky, surrounded by lush, colourful gardens on the fringes of a blond beach, was sensory overload. Built in the nineteen-twenties, and renovated recently to a most demanding man’s specifications, every inch of the building gleamed.

‘You look fine,’ Luc reassured her as she smoothed suddenly damp palms down her thighs.

He was watching her. Why was she surprised? Luc was aware of everything she did, and sensitive to her every mood. For all she knew, he could read her thoughts as well.

‘You’re not on duty yet,’ he reminded her.

Wasn’t she? She was angry with herself for being so na?ve. Even if her situation was about as clear as mud, she should have had more sense than to choose such a casual outfit. From the second she walked into the hotel at the owner’s side she would be ‘on duty’ every second of every day.

Letting Luc go ahead of her, she drew in a shaking breath. Her heart thumped as she paused on the steps to gaze up at the grand fa?ade. Towering cream walls, acres of glass, and glittering gold lettering proclaiming the Marcelos name did little to ease her anxiety. Luc’s initials were everywhere. They were embroidered on the tailored coat of the uniformed doorman, and on the vast blood-red doormat under her feet, and when she entered the scented hush of the grand lobby his initials were the first thing she saw emblazoned on the front desk. Stunned by the opulence and the scale of everything around her, she stopped to stare up to the roof of an atrium that stretched to the heavens—