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Damaso Claims His Heir
Annie West
When opposites attract!Damaso Pires should have known better than to get involved with Marisa, the scandalous Princess of Bengaria! Yet soon he sees her true beauty and flawless virtue, which touches a place in him he’d thought had been ruthlessly destroyed by his childhood on the streets of Brazil.But their brief affair becomes permanent when Marisa reveals she’s pregnant.Damaso knows the sting of illegitimacy and, having fought tooth and nail to claw his way up to the dizzying heights of international success and financial infamy, he won’t let his child slip from his grasp. There’s only one way to claim his heir – and that’s marriage!Discover more at www.millsandboon.co.uk/anniewest


Marisa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather her strength. She’d face him later if she had to. Now she needed to be alone.
‘I didn’t think anything, Damaso.’ She lingered over his name with dripping saccharine emphasis. ‘What we shared is over and done with.’
Her fingers closed around the door handle, but before she could tug it open a large hand slammed palm-down onto the door before her, keeping it forcibly closed. The heat of Damaso’s body encompassed her, his breath riffling her hair as if he was breathing as hard as she.
‘What about the fact you’re carrying my child?’
She gasped. How did he know?
Marisa stared blankly at the strong, sinewy hand before her. She blinked, remembering how that hand had looked on her skin, the pleasure it had wrought. How she’d actually hoped, for a few brief hours, that she’d found a man who valued her for herself. How betrayed she’d felt.
‘Marisa?’ His voice was sharp.
She drew a jagged breath into tight lungs and turned, her chin automatically lifting, as he glowered down at her from his superior height.
The sight of him looking so lofty and disapproving stoked fire in her belly. She’d deal with him on her terms, when she was ready.
ONE NIGHT WITH CONSEQUENCES
A high price to pay for giving in to temptation!
When succumbing to a night of unbridled desire, it’s impossible to think past the morning after!
But with the sheets barely settled that little blue line appears on the pregnancy test and it doesn’t take long to realise that one night of white-hot passion has turned into a lifetime of consequences!
Only one question remains:
How do you tell a man you’ve just met that you’re about to share more than just his bed?
Damaso Claims His Heir
Annie West


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ANNIE WEST has devoted her life to an intensive study of tall, dark, charismatic heroes who cause the best kind of trouble in the lives of their heroines. As a sideline she’s also researched dream-worthy locations for romance, from bustling, vibrant cities to desert encampments and fairytale castles. It’s hard work, but she loves a challenge. Annie lives with her family at beautiful Lake Macquarie, on Australia’s east coast. She loves to hear from readers and you can contact her at www.annie-west.com (http://www.annie-west.com) or at PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.
For Ana Luisa Neves.
With heartfelt thanks for your patience and Portuguese language expertise.
Contents
Cover (#u8291134c-3a81-5614-b70e-64e590e9e8d2)
Introduction (#u30642556-44bf-5002-9bf9-db38423cf3b9)
One Night With Consequences (#u981f9106-2c67-5326-a0fb-7a5d9f5106df)
Title Page (#u57e452cc-dcd2-5825-96f5-d26d8a8d624d)
About the Author (#ufb762c4a-87e6-5ea7-bc99-e7438acc5926)
Dedication (#ua4191c39-35f3-5c81-affa-653b067bd38b)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_b0e83949-e5b6-5384-9b04-20429c1e474c)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c55a1198-dc8b-5a5e-b765-3d47f9633c42)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_30f01014-0707-5cf5-b927-48b6ac1d4813)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_9176aec0-87b2-56b1-872c-c10449ddc77a)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_6cf59705-cf69-58a8-a845-3beddc89e073)
DAMASO SAW HER and his breath snagged in his lungs.
He who’d had women dancing to his tune well before he made his first million.
How long since one had quickened his pulse? He’d known divas and duchesses, models and Madonnas. In the early days there’d been tourists by the armful, and one memorable tango dancer whose sinuous body and blatant sexuality had made his teenage self burn with need. None had affected him the way she did—without effort.
For the first time she was alone, not laughing with her coterie of men. He was surprised to see her crouched, photographing flowers on the rainforest floor. She was so engrossed, she didn’t notice him.
That was new for Damaso. He’d grown used to being watched and avidly sought after.
It pricked him that she was oblivious to him while he was hyper-aware of her. It infuriated him that his eyes strayed to her time and again, yet she had done no more than gift him with the dazzling smile she awarded so indiscriminately.
Damaso moved closer, intrigued. Was she really unaware or was she trying to pique his curiosity? Did she know he preferred to be the hunter, not the prey?
Beautiful blondes were commonplace in his world. Yet from the first day, watching her radiant face as she’d emerged drenched but undaunted from white-water rafting, Damaso had felt something new. A spark of connection.
Was it her unbounded energy? The devilment in her eyes as she risked her pretty neck again and again? Or that sexy gurgle of laughter that clutched at his vitals? Perhaps it was the sheer courage of a woman that didn’t baulk at any challenge on a trek designed to spark the jaded interest of the world’s ultra-wealthy.
‘Marisa. There you are. I looked for you everywhere.’ Young Saltram blundered out of the undergrowth to stop beside her. A computer geek who looked about eighteen, yet was worth upwards of seven figures annually, he was like an over-grown puppy salivating over a bone.
Damaso’s jaw tightened as Saltram ate her up with his eyes—his gaze lingering on the delectable peach ripeness of her backside as she squatted with her camera.
Damaso stirred, but stopped as she turned her head. From this angle he saw what Saltram couldn’t: her deep breath, as if she’d mustered her patience before turning.
‘Bradley! I haven’t seen you for hours.’ She gave the newcomer a blinding smile that seemed to stun him.
That didn’t stop him reaching out to help her rise, though it was clear she didn’t need assistance. Damaso had never seen a woman so agile or graceful.
Saltram closed his hand around her elbow and she smiled coquettishly up at the youth.
Amazingly, Damaso felt something stark scour his belly. His fingers twitched as he resisted the urge to march across and yank the boy away.
She was laughing, flirting now, not at all perturbed that Saltram was breathing down her cleavage.
She wore shorts and hiking boots and her toned legs drew Damaso’s gaze like a banquet set before a beggar. He swallowed, tasting his own hunger and the sharp, pungent tang of green apples.
Scowling, he recognised it was her scent filling his nostrils. How could that be? Standing in the shadows, he was too far away to inhale her perfume.
She turned and let Saltram guide her down the track, her long ponytail swaying across her narrow back. For a week Damaso had wanted to stroke that shining fall of gold and discover if it was as soft as it looked.
Yet he’d kept his distance, tired of dealing with fractious women who wanted more than he was prepared to give.
But she wouldn’t make demands, the voice of temptation whispered. Except in bed.
For Princess Marisa of Bengaria had a reputation with a capital R. Pampered from birth, living carelessly off inherited riches, she was a party girl extraordinaire. The tabloids branded her wilful, reckless and as far from a demure, virginal princess as it was possible to get.
Damaso had told himself he was sick of high-maintenance women. Yet a week in her vicinity had given him a new perspective. She might be feckless but she wasn’t needy.
She’d flirted with every man on the trek. Except him. Heat drilled through his belly as the significance of that hit.
She was exactly what he needed. He had no interest in virgins. A little wildness would add spice to a short vacation liaison.
Damaso smiled as he sauntered down the track after her.
* * *
Marisa turned her face to the waterfall’s spray, grateful for its cooling, damp mist in this sultry heat. Her blood pumped fast and her limbs felt stretched and shaky from fatigue and adrenalin as she clung to the cliff face.
Yes! This was what she wanted. To lose herself in the challenge of the moment. To put aside all the—
‘Marisa! Over here!’
She turned her head. Bradley Saltram watched her from a perch well away from the waterfall. His grin was triumphant.
‘Hey, you did it! Great going.’ Bradley had confided his fear of heights. Even his relatively straightforward climb was a momentous achievement. No wonder he wore full safety harness and had Juan, their guide, in close attendance. ‘I knew you could do it.’
But it was hard meeting his bright eyes, almost febrile with excitement and pleasure.
A hammer blow struck her square in the chest and she clutched at her precarious handhold. When he smiled that way, with such triumph, she remembered another smile. So radiant it had been like watching the sun’s reflection. Eyes so clear and brilliant they’d been like the summer sky. Happiness so infectious it had warmed her to the core.
Stefan had always been able to make her forget her misery with a smile and a joke and a plunge into adventure, making a nonsense of the joyless, disapproving world that trapped them.
Marisa blinked, turning away from the bright-eyed American who had no idea of the pain he’d evoked.
A lump the size of Bengaria’s cold, grey royal palace settled in her chest, crushing the air from her lungs and choking her throat. Her breath was a desperate whistle of snatched air.
No! Not now. Not here.
She turned back to Bradley, pinning a smile on her features. ‘I’ll see you at the bottom. I just want to check out the falls.’
Bradley said something but she didn’t hear it over the drumming pulse in her ears. Already she was moving, swinging easily up, shifting her weight as she found new foot-and hand-holds on the slick rock-face.
That was what she needed, to concentrate on the challenge and the demands of the moment. Push away everything but the numbness only physical exertion brought.
She was high now, higher than she’d intended. But the rhythm of the climb was addictive, blotting out even Juan’s shouted warning.
The spray was stronger here, the rock not merely damp but running with water.
Marisa tuned in to the roar of the falls, revelling in the pounding rush of sound, as if it could cleanse her of emotion.
A little to the left and she’d be at the spot where legend had it one brave boy had made the impossible dive into the churning pool of water below.
She paused, temptation welling. Not to make a name for herself by a daredevil act, but to risk herself in the jaws of possible oblivion.
It wasn’t that she wanted to die. But dicing with danger was as close as she’d come lately to living, to believing there might possibly be joy in her life again.
The world was terminally grey, except in those moments when the agony of grief and loneliness grew piercingly vivid. Those moments when Marisa faced the enormity of her loss.
People said the pain eased with time but Marisa didn’t believe it. Half of her had been ripped away, leaving a yawning void that nothing could fill.
The pounding of the falls, like the pulse of a giant animal, melded with the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat. It beckoned her, the way Stefan had time and again. When she closed her eyes she could almost hear the teasing lilt in his voice. Come on, Rissa. Don’t tell me you’re scared.
No, she wasn’t scared of anything, except the vast aloneness that engulfed her now Stefan was gone.
Without thought she began climbing towards the tiny ledge beside the fall, taking her time on the treacherously wet rock.
She was almost there when a sound stopped her.
Marisa turned her head and there, just to her right, was Damaso Pires, the big Brazilian she’d been avoiding since the trek had started. Something about the way he watched her with those knowing dark eyes always unsettled her, as if he saw right through what Stefan had dubbed her ‘party princess’ persona.
There was something else in Damaso’s gaze now. Something stern and compelling that for a moment reminded her of her uncle, the all-time expert in judgement and condemnation. Then, to her amazement, he smiled, the first genuine smile he’d given her.
Marisa grabbed at the cliff as energy arced through her body, leaving her tingling and shaky.
He was a different man with that grin.
Dark and broodingly laconic, he’d always had the presence and looks to draw attention. Marisa had surreptitiously watched the other women simper and show off and blatantly offer themselves to him.
But when he smiled! Heat slammed through her in the wake of a dazzling blast of raw attraction.
His dark hair was plastered to his skull, emphasising the masculine beauty of his bone structure. Tiny streams of water ran from his solid jaw down his strong throat.
It was only then that Marisa realised he wasn’t wearing a safety helmet.
It was the sort of thing Stefan would have done in one of his wilder moments. Did that explain the sudden tug of connection she felt?
The Brazilian jerked his head up and away from the falls, his ebony eyebrows rising questioningly.
Following his gesture, Marisa remembered Juan telling them about a lookout beyond the falls and a rough track that curved down from it to the valley floor.
She met those fathomless eyes again. This time their gleam didn’t disturb her. It beckoned. Her body zinged with unexpected pleasure, as if recognising an equal.
With a nod she began to clamber up and away from the sheer plunge of water. He climbed beside her, each movement precise and methodical, till in the end she had to make a conscious effort not to watch him. Weary now, Marisa needed all her concentration for the climb. The spurt of energy that had buoyed her had abated.
She was almost at the top, her vision limited to the next tiny hold, her breath ragged in her ears, when a hand appeared before her. Large, well-kept but callused, and bearing the silvery traces of old scars, it looked like a hand you could rely on.
Arching her neck, Marisa peered up and met liquid dark eyes. Again she felt that jolt of awareness as heat poured through her. Heat that had everything to do with the sizzle in Damaso Pires’s gaze as he stood above her on an outcrop of rock.
Marisa hesitated, wondering what it was about this man. He was different from the rest. More...real.
‘Take my hand.’
She should be used to that rich accent now. It was a week since she’d arrived in Brazil. But, teamed with Damaso’s dark, velvet voice, the sultry seduction of it made something clutch inside.
A quiver rippled through her. She ignored it and made herself reach for his hand, feeling it close hard around her fingers. His strength engulfed her. As she watched, his lips curved in a smile of pure satisfaction.
Awareness pulsed through their joined hands and Marisa knew something like anxiety as his expression sharpened. For a moment he looked almost possessive. Then he was hauling her up, not waiting for her to find the purchase of another foothold.
His display of macho strength shouldn’t have made her heart hammer. When she’d been in training she’d known plenty of strong, ultra-fit men.
But not one of them had made her feel as feminine and desirable as she did now, standing, grubby and out of breath, before this man.
His eyes held hers as he deftly undid her helmet and drew it away. The breeze riffled her damp hair, tugging strands across her face. She knew she looked a mess, but refused to primp. Instead she returned his stare, cataloguing achingly high cheekbones set aslant an arresting face of dark bronze, a long nose with more than a hint of the aquiline, a firm mouth, unsmiling now, and heavy-lidded eyes that looked as if they held untold secrets.
The way he looked at her, so intent, so direct, made her feel like he saw her—not the celebrity princess but the woman beneath, lost and alone.
No man had ever looked at her like that.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and her lips tingled. She swallowed hard, unprepared for the sexual need that swamped her as she inhaled his scent—clean, male sweat and something else—soap, perhaps—that reminded her of the sea.
‘Bem vinda, pequenina. Welcome, little one. I’m glad you decided to join me.’
* * *
She stood, looking up at him, her chin tilted, revealing the slender line of her pale throat. Her eyes, the purest azure he’d ever seen, held his, unblinking. And all the while his body tightened, impossibly aroused by the touch and sight of her.
How would she taste?
The question dried his mouth and set his libido spinning.
‘Is this the lookout Juan spoke of?’ She didn’t move away but slipped her hand from his as she turned to admire the view. It was stupendous, the sort of thing people travelled continents to experience. Yet Damaso suspected she used it as an excuse to avoid him.
Too late for that. He’d felt the throb of mutual awareness. He’d recognised desire in her eyes even as she’d clung like a limpet to the vertical rock.
There would be no more avoiding what was between them. The time for that was past.
‘What were you doing, over by the falls?’ The words shot out—an accusation he hadn’t intended to voice. But the memory of fear was a sharp tang on his tongue. It had sent him swarming up the cliff face without bothering with safety gear.
There’d been something about the way she’d climbed—a determination—as she’d headed for the exposed, most dangerous part of the cliff that had sent a chill scudding down his spine.
What had she been up to?
The shadowed, almost dazed look in her eyes when she’d turned to face him on the cliff had shot a premonition of danger through him. Growing up where he had, Damaso had a well-honed instinct for danger in all its forms. He hadn’t liked what he’d read in the princess’s eyes.
She shrugged. ‘Just looking.’ Her tone was off-hand, as if she hadn’t just risked her life on one of the country’s most notoriously treacherous climbs. ‘I remembered Juan talking about that boy’s dive into the pool.’
Anger stirred at her recklessness. Damaso opened his mouth to berate her then noticed the taut muscles in her neck and her rigid posture. She was like a guard on parade.
Or a princess deflecting impertinent questions?
She had a lot to learn if she thought he’d be so easily dismissed.
He lifted a hand and stroked long, golden strands from her cheek and back over her shoulder.
Her hair was as soft as he’d imagined.
She said nothing, didn’t even turn, but he watched with satisfaction as she swallowed.
‘The forest seems to go on for ever.’ Her voice had a husky quality that hadn’t been there before. Damaso smiled.
She was out of danger now and she was here with him. Why probe what she clearly didn’t want to talk about?
‘It would take days to walk out, and that’s if you didn’t get lost along the way.’ He couldn’t resist reaching out to sweep a phantom lock of hair off her cheek. Her skin was hot, flushed with exertion, and so soft he wanted to slide his fingers over all of her, learning her body by touch before testing it with his other senses.
A pulse throbbed at the base of her neck, like a butterfly trapped in a net.
Heat drove down through Damaso’s belly as he imagined licking that spot.
Her head jerked around and he was snared by her electric-blue gaze.
‘You know the forest well, Senhor Pires?’
She sounded like a courtier at a garden party, her tone light with just the right amount of polite interest. But the cool, society veneer merely emphasised the hot, sexy woman beneath. The fact she was dishevelled, like a woman just risen from her lover’s arms, added a piquant spice.
Damaso was burning up just looking at her.
And she knew it. It was there in her eyes.
Awareness sizzled between them.
‘No; I’m city bred, Your Highness. But I get out to the wilderness as often as I can.’ Damaso always allowed himself one break a year, though he took his vacation checking out one of his far-flung companies. This year it was an upmarket adventure-travel company.
He had a feeling the adventure was just about to start.
‘Marisa, please. “Highness” sounds so inflated.’ A spark of humour gleamed in her bright eyes. It notched the heat in his belly even higher.
‘Marisa, then.’ He liked the sound of it on his tongue, feminine and intriguing. ‘And I’m Damaso.’
‘I don’t know South America well, Damaso.’ She paused on his name and a shiver of anticipation raced under his skin. Would she sound so cool and composed when he held her naked beneath him? He didn’t know which he’d prefer, that or the sound of her voice husky with pleasure. ‘I haven’t visited many of the cities.’ She reached out and picked a leaf off his open collar. The back of her fingers brushed his neck and his breath stalled.
A tiny smile played at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes told him the lingering touch had been deliberate. Siren!
‘My birthplace isn’t on anyone’s must-see list.’ Now there was an understatement.
‘You surprise me. I hear you’re something of a legend in business circles. Surely they’ll be putting up a sign saying “Damaso Pires was born here”?’
He plucked a twig from her hair and twirled it between his fingers. No need to tell her no one had any idea where exactly he’d been born, or whether there’d even been a roof for protection.
‘Ah, but I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.’
She blinked, her mouth thinning for an infinitesimal moment, so that he wondered if he’d blundered in some way. Then she shrugged and smiled and he lost his train of thought when she took the twig from his fingers, her hand deliberately caressing his. That light touch drew his skin tight across his bones as lust flared.
‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she smiled from under veiled eyes as if sharing a salacious secret. ‘But silver spoons aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’
With a quick twist of the wrist he captured her hand in his. Silence throbbed between them, a silence heavy with unspoken promise. Something kindled in her eyes. She returned his hungry look, not resorting to coyness.
‘I like the way you face challenges head-on,’ he found himself admitting, then frowned. Usually he measured his words carefully. They didn’t just shoot out.
‘I like the fact you don’t care about my social status.’
Her hand shifted in his hold, her thumb stroking his. It pleased him that she didn’t pretend disinterest, or lunge at him desperately. The sense of a delicate balance between them added a delicious tension to the moment.
‘It’s not your title I’m interested in, Marisa.’ Her name tasted even better the second time. Damaso leaned forward, eager for the taste of her on his tongue, then stopped himself. This wasn’t the place.
‘You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.’ She planted her palm on his shirt and his heart leapt into overdrive. It felt as if she’d branded him.
Tension screwed his body tight. He wanted her now and, given the way her fingers splayed possessively on him, her lips parting with her quickened breathing, she felt the same.
He wanted to take her here, hard and fast and triumphantly. Except instinct told him he’d need more than one quick taste to satisfy this craving.
How had he resisted her for a whole week?
‘Perhaps you could tell me on the way back down exactly what you are interested in, Damaso.’
He snagged her hand in his again and turned her towards the rough track leading away from the cliff. Her fingers linked with his, shooting erotic pleasure through him that felt in some strange way almost innocent. How long since he’d simply held a woman’s hand?
* * *
Marisa towel-dried her hair while looking out at her private courtyard in the luxurious eco-resort. A bevy of butterflies danced through the lush leaves.
She tried to focus on how she’d capture them on film but all she could think about was Damaso Pires. The feel of his hand enclosing hers as they’d clambered down the track. The wrench of loss when he’d let her go as they’d approached the others. The way his burning gaze had stripped her bare.
No wonder she’d avoided him.
But now she craved him. She, who’d learned to distrust desire!
Yet this was something new. With Damaso Pires she sensed a link, a feeling almost of recognition, that she’d never experienced. It reminded her a little of the very different bond she’d shared with Stefan.
Marisa shook her head. Was grief clouding her thoughts?
Physical exertion, even danger, didn’t ease her pain. Since Stefan’s death she’d been shrouded in grey nothingness, till Damaso had reached out to her. Could she do it? Give herself to a stranger? Excitement and fear shivered through her. Despite what the world believed, Marisa wasn’t the voracious sexpot the press portrayed.
Then she remembered how she’d felt trading words with him, their bodies communicating in subtle hints and responses as ancient as sex itself.
She’d felt happy. Excited. That aching feeling of isolation had fled. She’d felt alive.
A knock sounded on her door, reverberating through her hollow stomach. Second thoughts crowded in, old hurts. Marisa glanced in the mirror. Barefoot, damp hair slicked back from a face devoid of make-up, she looked as far from a princess as you could get.
Did he want the real woman, not the royal? She wavered on the brink of cowardice, of wanting to pretend she hadn’t heard him. She’d taken chances on men before and been disappointed. More, she’d been eviscerated by their callous selfishness.
The knock came again and she jumped.
She had to face this.
With Damaso, for the first time in years, she dared risk herself again. That tantalising link between them was so intense, so profound. She wanted to trust him. She wanted desperately not to be alone anymore.
Her heart pounded as she opened the door. He filled the space before her, leaning against one raised arm. His eyes looked black and hungry in the early-evening light. Her stomach swooped.
With a single stride he entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him, eyes holding hers.
‘Querida.’ The word caressed her as his gaze ate her up. If he was disappointed she hadn’t dressed up, he didn’t show it. If anything his eyes glowed warm with approval. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’
‘Have you?’ She stood straighter.
‘How could I?’ His smile was lop-sided, the most devastating thing she’d ever seen. Then one large palm cupped her cheek and he stepped close. His head lowered and the world faded away.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c7578341-1563-5851-a61e-bfc56c6455f5)
‘MALDIÇÃO! WHAT YOU do to me.’ Damaso’s voice rumbled through her bones, his hands gripping tight at her hips as his mouth moved against her ear. Marisa shivered as her hyper-aware nerve endings protested at the sensory overload.
She’d never felt so vulnerable, so naked. As if their love-making had stripped her bare of every shield she’d erected between herself and a hostile world.
Yet, strangely that didn’t scare her. Not with Damaso.
Marisa clutched his bare back, sleek and damp, heaving slightly as he fought for breath. His chest pushed her down into the wide mattress and she revelled in the hard, hot weight of him, even the feel of his hairy legs imprisoning hers.
All night Damaso had stayed, taking his time to seduce her, not just with his body but with the fierce intensity he’d devoted to pleasing her. He was a generous lover, patient when unexpected nerves had made her momentarily stiff and wooden in his arms. She’d been mortified, sure he’d interpret her body’s reaction as rejection. Instead he’d looked into her eyes for an endless moment, then smiled before beginning a leisurely exploration of every erogenous zone on her body.
Marisa shivered and held him tight. Holding him in her arms felt...
‘I’m too heavy. Sorry.’
Before she could protest, he rolled over onto his back, pulling her with him. She clung fast, needing to maintain the skin-to-skin contact she’d become addicted to in the night.
Marisa smiled drowsily. She’d been right: Damaso was different. He made her feel like a new woman. And that wasn’t merely the exhaustion of a long night’s loving speaking.
‘Are you all right?’ She loved the way his voice rippled like dark, molten chocolate in her veins. She’d never known a man with a more sensuous voice.
‘Never better.’ She smiled against his damp skin then let her tongue slick along the solid cushion of his muscled chest. He tasted of salt and that indefinable spicy flavour that was simply Damaso.
He sucked in a breath and her smile widened. She could stay here, plastered to him, for ever.
‘Witch!’
His big hand was gentle on her shoulder, lifting her away. After lying against the furnace of his powerful body, the pre-dawn air seemed cold against her naked skin. She opened her mouth to protest but he was already swinging his legs out of bed. She lifted a hand to catch him back then let it drop. He’d be back once he’d disposed of the condom. Then they could drowse in each other’s arms.
Marisa hooked a pillow to her, trying to make up for the loss of Damaso. She buried her nose in its softness, inhaling his scent, letting her mind drift pleasurably.
They had another week left on the tour. A week to get to know each other in all the ways they’d missed. They’d skipped straight to the potent attraction between them, bypassing the usual stages of acquaintanceship and friendship.
Anticipation shimmied through her. The promise of pleasure to come. Who’d have thought she could feel so good when only yesterday...?
She shook her head, determined to enjoy the tentative optimism filling her after so long in a grey well of grief.
Marisa looked forward to learning all those little things about Damaso—how he liked his coffee, what made him laugh. What he did with his time when he wasn’t looking dark and sulkily attractive like some sexy renegade, or running what someone in the group had called South America’s largest self-made fortune.
A sound made her turn. There, framed in the doorway, stood Damaso, watching her.
The first fingers of dawn light limned his tall body, throwing his solid chest, taut abdomen and heavy thighs into relief. The smattering of dark hair on his chest narrowed and trickled in a tantalising line down his body. Marisa lay back, looking appreciatively from between slitted eyes. Even now, sated after their loving, he looked formidably well-endowed. As if he was ready to...
‘Go to sleep, Marisa. It’s been a long night.’ The dark enticement of his voice was edged with an undercurrent she couldn’t identify.
Shoving the spare pillow aside, she smoothed her arm over the still-warm space beside her.
‘When you come back to bed.’ She’d sleep better with him here, cradling her as before. It wasn’t sex she craved but his company. The rare sense of wellbeing he’d created.
Damaso stood, unmoving, so long anxiety stroked phantom fingers over her nape. Almost, she reached out to drag up the discarded sheet. She hadn’t felt embarrassed by her nudity earlier, when he’d looked at her with approval and even something like adoration in his gaze. But this felt different. His stare was impenetrable, that tiny pucker of a frown unexpected.
The silence lengthened and Marisa had to clench her hands rather than scoop up the sheet. She’d never flaunted herself naked but with Damaso it had felt right. Till now.
He prowled across the room with a grace she couldn’t help but appreciate. He stopped at the edge of the bed, drawing in a deep breath. Then he bent abruptly to scoop something off the floor—his discarded jeans. He dragged the faded denim up those long thighs.
Surely he had underwear? she thought foggily, before the implication struck.
Her gaze met his and rebounded from an impenetrable black stare. Gone was the spark of excitement in his gaze, the wolfish hunger that should have scared her yet had made her feel womanly and powerful. Gone was the sizzle of appreciation she’d so enjoyed when they’d sparred verbally.
His eyes held nothing.
‘You’re leaving.’ Her voice was hollow. Or was that her body? Ridiculously, she felt as if someone had scooped out her insides.
‘It’s morning.’ His gaze flicked to the full-length window.
‘Barely. It’s still hours till we need to be up.’ How she spoke so calmly, she didn’t know. She wanted to scuttle across the bed and throw herself into his arms, beg for him to stay.
Beg... Marisa had never begged in her life.
Pride had been one of her few allies. After years facing down family disapproval and the wilder accusations of the ravenous press, she’d been stripped of everything but pride. Now she was tempted to throw even that away as desperation clutched at her.
‘Exactly. You should get some sleep.’
She blinked, confused at the hint of warmth in his voice, so at odds with his unreadable expression. She felt like she’d waded into knee-deep water and suddenly found herself miles out to sea.
More than ever Marisa wanted to cover herself. Heat crept from her feet to her face as his hooded gaze surveyed her. Was that a flicker of regret in his eyes?
‘It’s best I go now.’
Marisa bit down a protest. Perhaps he was trying to protect them from gossip, leaving her room before even the staff were up. But since the pair of them had missed dinner last night it was probably too late for that.
‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then.’ She sat up, pinning a bright smile on her face. There would be time enough to spend together in the next week.
‘No. That won’t be possible.’ He finished the buttons on his shirt and strode to the bedside table, reaching for his watch.
‘It won’t?’ She sounded like a parrot! But she couldn’t seem to engage her brain.
He paused in the act of wrapping his watch around his sinewy wrist.
‘Listen, Marisa. Last night was remarkable. You were remarkable. But I never promised you hearts and flowers.’
Indignation stiffened her spine, almost dousing the chill dread in her veins. ‘I hardly think expecting to see you at breakfast has anything to do with hearts and flowers, as you so quaintly put it.’
Damn him! She leaned down and grabbed the sheet, pulling it up under her arms. At least now she wasn’t quite so naked.
‘You know what I mean.’ The hint of a growl tinged his deep tone and Marisa felt a tiny nub of satisfaction that she’d pierced his monumental self-assurance. For that was what it was—that unblinking stare from eyes as cool and unfeeling as obsidian.
‘No, Damaso, I don’t know what you mean.’ She regarded him with what she hoped looked like unconcern, despite the fact she was crumbling inside.
‘I gave no commitment.’ As lover-like statements went, this one hit rock bottom.
‘I didn’t ask for any.’ Her voice was tight.
‘Of course you didn’t.’ Suddenly he looked away, intent on his watch. ‘You aren’t the type. That’s why last night was perfect.’
‘The type?’ Out of nowhere a chill crept over her bare shoulders.
‘The type to cling and pretend a night in bed means a lifetime together.’
His eyes met hers again and she felt the force of desire like a smack in the chest. Even as he rejected her the air sizzled between them. Surely she didn’t imagine that? Yet the jut of his jaw told her he was intent on ignoring it.
There she’d been, daydreaming that this might be the start of something special. That, after a lifetime of kissing frogs and finding only warty toads, she might actually have found a man who appreciated her for herself.
She should have known better. Such a man didn’t exist.
Marisa’s stomach plunged, reopening that vast chasm of emptiness inside.
‘So what did it mean to you, Damaso?’ She clipped the words out.
‘Sorry?’
He looked perplexed, as if no woman had ever confronted him like that. But Damaso was an intelligent man. He knew exactly what she was asking.
‘Well, clearly you don’t want me expecting a repeat of last night.’ Even now she waited, breathless, hoping she was wrong. That he did want to spend more time with her, and not just for sex. Marisa wanted it so badly that she discovered she’d curled her hands into hard fists, the nails scoring her skin.
‘No.’ He paused, his face very still. ‘This can’t go anywhere. There’s no point complicating things further.’
Complicating? Now there was a word. The sort of word men used to denigrate what made them uncomfortable.
‘So, out of curiosity...’ She kept her voice even with an effort. ‘What was last night to you? Did you make a bet with the others that you could get me into bed?’
‘Of course not! What sort of man do you think I am?’
Marisa raised her eyebrows, surveying his shocked expression with a dispassionate eye even as hurt carved a channel through her insides. ‘I don’t know, that’s the point.’
She’d vowed never to be burned again. Yet here she was, regretting the impulse that had made her open herself to him.
Marisa had been so sure that this time she’d found a man who at least had no hidden agenda. How many times did she have to learn that particular lesson? Bitterness soured her tongue.
‘So it was the princess thing, was it? You’d never done it with a royal?’
He loomed over her, his jaw set.
‘Why are you being deliberately insulting?’
And it wasn’t insulting, the way he was shoving her aside once he’d had what he wanted, without as much as a ‘good morning’ or a ‘thank you’ or even a ‘see you later’?
Bile burned in the pit of her stomach and she swallowed hard when it threatened to rise. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how he’d hurt her. She’d finally reached out to someone, trusted herself with a man...
Marisa bit her cheek, cutting off that train of thought. She’d been right to hesitate when he’d held out his hand to her on the climb. If only she’d followed her instinct and not touched him.
‘I merely want to get it clear in my mind.’ She rose and wrapped the sheet around her. She still had to look up at him but at least she wasn’t sitting like a supplicant at his feet.
‘It was sex, great sex. That’s all.’ Suddenly there was fire in his eyes and a frisson of angry energy sparked from him. ‘Is that what you needed to hear?’
‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head, wondering how she’d managed to invest simple animal attraction with such significance.
Because she was so needy?
Because she was so alone?
What a pathetic woman she was. Maybe her uncle was right after all.
‘Marisa?’
She looked up to find Damaso frowning. This time it was concern she read on his features. He’d even moved closer, his hand half-lifted.
Marisa stiffened. She didn’t need anyone’s pity, especially this man who’d seen her as perfect for just a night, no strings attached. No doubt, like too many others, he saw her as a woman who wouldn’t mind being bedded then shunned.
Her skin crawled and pain stabbed hard between her ribs. It was all she could do not to clutch at her side, doubled up at the force of what she felt.
‘Well, if we’ve finished here, you might as well go.’ She looked past him to the bathroom. ‘I have a yearning for a long, hot shower.’ She wished she could scrub away the hurt that welled as easily as she could wash away the scent of his skin on hers. ‘And don’t worry; I won’t look out for you at breakfast.’
‘I won’t be here. I’m leaving.’
Marisa blinked and looked away, making a production of gathering up her robe where it had been discarded last night.
So there’d never been a chance for them at all. Damaso had always planned to leave and hadn’t had the decency to tell her.
That, as nothing else, clarified exactly what he thought of her. She’d never felt so bruised by a man, so diminished. Not since the night Andreas had admitted he’d bet his friends he could get her into bed.
Pain swelled and spread, threatening to poleaxe her where she stood. She had to get away.
Marisa drew herself up and headed for the bathroom. She paused in the doorway, clutching it for support, and looked over her shoulder.
To her surprise, Damaso hadn’t moved. He watched her with a scowl on his face. A scowl that did nothing to reduce the magnetism of his honed features.
He opened his mouth to speak and Marisa knew she couldn’t bear to hear any more.
‘I wonder if that makes me a notch on your belt or you a notch on mine?’ Her voice was a throaty drawl, the best she could manage with her frozen vocal chords.
Then, with a flick of the trailing sheet that only long hours’ practice in a ball gown and train could achieve, she swept into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.
* * *
‘It’s a pleasure to have you visit, sir.’ The manager smiled as he led the way.
Damaso strode through the lodge, his gaze lingering approvingly on the lofty spaces, the mix of local stone, wood and vast expanses of glass that gave this mountain eyrie an aura of refined, ultra-modern luxury. He’d been right to build it, despite the problems constructing on such a site. Even after a mere six months the place had become a mecca for well-heeled travellers wanting to experience something different.
Beyond the massive windows the vista was stunning as the setting sun turned the jagged Andean peaks and their snowy mantle a glowing peach-gold. Below, even the turquoise surface of the glacier-fed river was gilded in the last rays of light.
‘Your suite is this way, sir.’ The manager gestured Damaso and his secretary forward.
‘I’ll find it myself, thanks.’ Damaso’s eyes remained fixed on the remarkable view.
‘If you’re sure, sir.’ The manager paused. ‘Your luggage has been taken ahead.’
Damaso nodded dismissal to both men and headed into the main lounge. Something about the stillness and the feeling of being up above the bustle of the world drew him. Not surprising, given he’d worked like the devil for the last month, his schedule even more overloaded than usual.
Yet, no matter how frenetic his days or how short his nights, Damaso hadn’t found his usual pleasure in managing and building his far-flung empire.
Something niggled at him. A sense of dissatisfaction he hadn’t the time or inclination to identify.
He looked around, surprised to find the vast room empty. Turning, he strolled towards a door through which came the hum of voices. The bar was this way. Perhaps he’d have a drink before dinner. He had a full night ahead with his laptop before tomorrow’s inspection and meetings.
Laughter greeted him as he stepped across the threshold, halting him mid-stride. Rich laughter, infectious and appealing. It coiled through his belly and wrapped tight around his lungs.
His pulse gave a hard thump then took off.
He knew that laugh.
Damaso’s neck prickled as if delicate fingers brushed his nape, trailing languidly and drawing his skin tight with shivering awareness.
Marisa.
There she was, her golden hair spilling around her shoulders, her smile pure invitation to the men crowded close. Her eyes danced as she spoke, as she leaned towards them as if sharing some confidence. Damaso couldn’t hear what she said over the thunder of blood pounding in his ears.
But there was nothing wrong with his eyes. They traced the black dress that hugged her sinuous curves. The hemline hovered high above her knees, making the most of the contrast between sparkly black stretch fabric and shapely legs that would make grown men sit up and beg.
He should know. He’d spent hours exploring those legs along with every inch of her delectable body. Everything about her had enthralled him, even the long, curving sweep of her spine had been delicious. Was delicious.
A wave of energy surged through him. He found himself stepping forward until his brain clicked into gear. Did he mean to stalk across and rip her away from her slavering fans? What then? Throw her over his shoulder and take her to his room?
A resounding yes echoed through his whole being.
That stopped him in his tracks.
There’d been a reason he’d left her so abruptly a month before.
Left? He’d run as fast as he could.
It had nothing to do with business commitments and everything to do with the unprecedented things she’d made him feel. Not just desire and satiation, but something far bigger.
He’d got out of her bed with every intention of returning to it then had realised for the first time in his life there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
The idea was utterly foreign and completely unnerving.
That was when he’d decided to order a helicopter back to the city. Not his finest moment. Even with his date-them-then-dump-them reputation, he usually displayed far more finesse in leaving a lover.
Even now part of him regretted leaving her after just one night. What they’d shared had been amazing.
Marisa’s gurgle of laughter floated in his ears. Damaso swung round and walked back the way he’d come.
Once was enough with any woman. This...reaction to Princess Marisa of Bengaria was an anomaly. He didn’t do relationships. He couldn’t. Nothing would ever change that.
He strode up the stairs and along a wide corridor to the owner’s suite.
She was nothing to him. Just another party girl. Had she even gone home after the rainforest vacation? Probably not. She was probably whiling away a couple of months in exclusive resorts at her nation’s expense while trying out some new lovers along the way.
His teeth ground together and his pace picked up.
* * *
There was a tap on the conference-room door before a concerned-looking staff member entered.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ Her eyes shifted from the manager to Damaso, his secretary and the other senior staff at the large table.
‘Yes?’ the manager asked.
She shut the door behind her. ‘One of the guests has been taken ill on the slopes. They’re coming back now.’
‘Ill, not an accident?’ Damaso heard the note of worry in the manager’s voice. Illness was one thing; an accident under the supervision of the lodge’s staff was another.
‘It sounds like altitude sickness. She only arrived yesterday.’
‘She?’ Damaso surprised himself by interrupting.
‘Yes, sir.’ The woman twisted her hands together, turning back to her boss. ‘That’s why I thought you should know. It’s Princess Marisa.’
‘You’ve called a doctor?’ Damaso found himself standing, his fists braced on the table.
‘Don’t worry, there’s one on staff,’ the manager assured him. ‘Only the best for our clients, as you know.’
Of course. That was what set Damaso’s hotels apart—attention to detail and the best possible services.
‘The doctor will be with her as soon as she arrives,’ the manager assured Damaso, nodding dismissal to the staff member, who backed out of the door.
Damaso forced himself to sit but his focus was shot. For the next half hour he struggled to concentrate on profits, projections and the inevitable glitches that arose with any new enterprise. Finally he gave up.
‘I have something to attend to,’ he said as he stood and excused himself from the meeting. ‘You carry on.’
He knew he was behaving inexplicably. Since when did Damaso Pires delegate anything he could do himself? Especially when he’d crossed the continent to take these meetings personally.
Five minutes later he was stalking down a quiet corridor, following a nervous maid.
‘This is the princess’s suite, sir.’ She gestured to the double doors with their intricately carved rock-crystal handles. Tentatively she knocked but there was no answer.
Damaso reached for the door and found it unlocked. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘I’m a friend of the princess.’ Ignoring her doubtful gaze, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
‘Friend’ hardly described his relationship with Marisa. They didn’t have a relationship. Yet curiously he hadn’t been able to concentrate on the business that had brought him here till he checked on her himself.
The sitting room was empty but on the far side another set of double doors was ajar. He heard the murmur of a woman’s voice followed by the deeper tones of a man.
‘Is it possible you’re pregnant?’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a5cf6c0f-d2df-5348-817e-3b966cd4d422)
‘NO!’ THE WORD jerked out in shock. ‘I’m not pregnant.’ Still shivery from nausea, Marisa squinted up at the doctor.
Her? A mother? Why would she bring a child into the world when she couldn’t get her own life on track?
She could just imagine her uncle’s horror: impulsive, unreliable Marisa who frittered her time away with unsuitable interests rather than knuckling down to the role she was born to. Not that he had faith in her ability to perform that role.
‘You’re absolutely certain?’ The doctor’s gaze penetrated and she felt herself blush as she hadn’t since she’d been a teen.
She waved one hand airily. ‘Technically, I suppose it’s possible.’ She drew a slow breath, trying to ease her cramped lungs as images she’d fought hard and long to obliterate replayed in her head. ‘But it was just one night.’
‘One night is all it takes,’ the doctor murmured.
Marisa shook her head. ‘Not this time. I mean we...he used a condom. Condoms.’ The blush in her cheeks burned like fire. Not from admitting she’d been with a man; after all, she was twenty-five.
No, the scorching fire in her face and belly came from the memory of how many condoms they’d gone through—just how insatiable they’d been for each other. Until Damaso had said he wanted nothing more to do with her.
‘Condoms aren’t a hundred per cent effective, you know.’ The doctor paused. ‘You’re not using any other contraceptive?’
‘No.’ Marisa’s mouth twisted. All those years on the Pill while she’d been in training and now... Should she have kept taking it?
‘Forgive me for asking but how long ago was this night you’re talking about?’
‘Just over a month ago. A month and a day, to be exact.’ Her voice sounded ridiculously husky. She cleared her throat, telling herself to get a grip. Her periods weren’t regular—the time lapse meant nothing. ‘But I’ve had no other symptoms. Surely I would have? It has to be altitude sickness. That’s what the guide thought.’
Even now the room swooped around her when she moved.
The doctor shrugged. ‘It could be. On the other hand, your nausea and tiredness could indicate something else. It’s best we rule out the possibility.’ He delved into his bag and held something out to her. ‘Go on, it won’t bite. It’s a simple pregnancy test.’
Marisa opened her mouth to argue but she was too wrung out to fight. The sooner she proved him wrong, the sooner he’d give her something to make her feel better.
Reluctantly she took the kit and headed to the bathroom.
* * *
Damaso stood unmoving, staring blindly at the sunlight pouring across the richly carpeted floor.
He didn’t know what stunned him more—the possibility of Marisa being pregnant, or the fact he’d been her only recent lover.
When he’d left her in the rainforest he’d expected her to find someone else to warm her bed. The way she’d teased those guys in the bar just last night—pouting and showing off that taut, delectable body—he’d been certain she’d ended the night with a man.
If the press was to be believed, she had no scruples about sharing herself around.
Yet she’d been so certain there’d only been him.
That was why Damaso had stayed where he was during the conversation. Eavesdropping wasn’t his style, but he was no fool. His wealth made him a target for fortune hunters. It had seemed wiser to wait and hear what she admitted to the doctor in case she tried to bring a paternity suit.
His mouth tightened. He was no woman’s easy prey.
But then he recalled the raw shock in her voice. She wasn’t playing coy with the doctor—that much was clear. She’d been speaking the truth about the date. If anything there’d been a tremor almost of fear in her voice at the thought of unplanned pregnancy.
A month and a day, she’d said. So precise. Which meant that if she was pregnant it was with Damaso’s baby.
Shock rooted him to the spot. He was always meticulous about protection. Inconceivable to think it had failed this time.
Even more inconceivable that he should have a child.
Alone almost from birth, and certainly for as long as he could remember, Damaso had turned what could have been weakness into his greatest strength—self-sufficiency. He had no one and needed no one. It had always been that way. He had no plans for that to change.
He plunged his hand through his hair, raking it back from his forehead. He should have had it cut but this last month he’d thrown himself into work with such single-minded focus there’d been no time for fripperies.
A month and a day. His gut churned.
A murmur of voices dragged his attention back to the other room. In two strides he was there, arm stretched out to open the door.
Then his arm fell as the unthinkable happened.
‘Ah, this confirms it, Your Highness. You’re going to have a baby.’
* * *
Marisa wrapped her arms around herself as she stared out at the remarkable view. The jagged peaks were topped with an icy covering that the setting sun turned to candy pink, soft peach, brilliant gold and every shade in between. Shadows of indigo lengthened like fingers reaching down the mountain towards her, beckoning.
Realisation struck that this was one invitation she couldn’t take up. No more climbing for her, no skydiving or white-water rafting if she was pregnant. All the activities she’d used to stave off the grimness of her life were forbidden.
For the hundredth time Marisa slipped her palm over her belly, wonderment filling her at the fact she was carrying another life inside her.
Could the doctor be wrong?
Marisa felt fine now, just a little wobbly and hollow. She didn’t feel as if she was carrying a baby.
She’d head to the city and have another test. After all, the kit wasn’t infallible.
Marisa didn’t know whether to hope it was a mistake or hope it wasn’t—she was too stunned to know how she felt.
One thing she was sure of, though—she wouldn’t be raising any baby of hers within sight of Bengaria’s royal palace. She’d protect it as fiercely as any lioness defending her cub.
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Marisa turned to find a smiling maid at the open door from the suite out to the private terrace where she sat. ‘I’ve brought herbal tea and the chef has baked some sesame-water crackers for you.’ She lifted a tray and Marisa caught the scent of fresh baking. Her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, worried about bringing on another bout of nausea.
‘I didn’t order anything.’
‘It’s with the hotel’s compliments, ma’am.’ The maid hesitated a moment then stepped out onto the terrace, putting her laden tray on a small table.
‘Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.’ Marisa eyed the delicate biscuits and felt a smile crack her tense features. The doctor must have organised this.
Leaving the edge of the balcony, she took a seat beside the table. An instant later the maid bustled back, this time with a lightweight rug.
‘It’s cooling down.’ She smiled. ‘If you’d like?’ She lifted the rug.
Silently Marisa nodded, feeling ridiculously choked as the downy rug woven in traditional local designs was tucked around her legs. How long since anyone had cossetted her? Even Stefan, who’d loved her, had never fussed over her.
She blinked and smiled as the maid poured scented, steaming tea and settled the plate of biscuits closer.
‘Is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?’
‘Nothing. Thank you.’ Her voice sounded scratchy, as if it came from a long distance. ‘Please thank the chef for me.’
Alone again, Marisa sipped the delicately flavoured tea and nibbled a cracker. It tasted divine. Or perhaps that was simply because her stomach didn’t rebel. She took another bite, crunching avidly.
She needed to make plans. First, a trip to Lima and another pregnancy test. Then... Her mind blanked at the thought of what came next.
She couldn’t bear to go back to her villa in Bengaria. The memories of Stefan were too strong and, besides, the villa belonged to the crown. Now Stefan had gone, it belonged to her uncle and she refused to live as his pensioner. He’d demand she reside in the palace where he could keep an eye on her. They’d had that argument before Stefan had been cold in his grave.
Marisa drew the rug close. She’d have to find a new home. She’d put off the decision for too long. But where? Bengaria was out. Every move she made there was reported and second-guessed. She’d lived in France, the United States and Switzerland as a student. But none were home.
Marisa sipped her tea and bit into another biscuit.
Fear scuttled through her. She knew nothing about being a mother and raising children. Her pregnancy would be turned into a royal circus if she wasn’t careful.
Well, she’d just deal with that when and if the time came, and hope she was more successful than in the past.
‘Marisa?’
Her head swung round at the sound of a fathoms-deep voice she’d never expected to hear again. Her fingers clenched around delicate bone china as her pulse catapulted.
It really was him, Damaso Pires, filling the doorway to her suite. He looked big and bold, his features drawn in hard, sharp lines that looked like they’d been honed in bronze. Glossy black hair flopped down across his brow and flirted with his collar, but did nothing to soften that remarkable face.
‘What are you doing here?’ She put the cup down with a clatter, her hand nerveless. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I knocked but there was no answer.’
Marisa lifted her chin, remembering the way he’d dumped her. ‘That usually means the person inside wants privacy.’
‘Don’t get up.’ He stepped onto the terrace, raising his hand, as if to prevent her moving.
She pushed the rug aside and stood, hoping he didn’t see her sway before finding her balance. The nausea really had knocked the stuffing out of her.
‘I repeat, Senhor Pires, why are you here?’ Marisa folded her arms. He might top her by more than a head but she knew how to stand up to encroaching men.
‘Senhor Pires?’ His brows drew together in a frown that made her think of some angry Inca god. ‘It’s a little late for formalities, don’t you think?’
‘I know,’ she said, stepping forward, surging anger getting the better of her, ‘that I’ve a right to privacy.’
Her stomach churned horribly as she remembered how he’d made her feel: an inch tall and cheap. She’d have thought she’d be used to it after a lifetime of not measuring up. But this man had wounded her more deeply because she’d been foolhardy enough to believe he was different.
He digested her words in silence, his expression unperturbed.
‘Well?’ Marisa tapped her foot, furious that her indignation was mixed with an unhealthy dollop of excitement. No matter how annoyed she was, there was no denying Damaso Pires was one fantastic looking man. And as a lover...
‘Let me guess. You discovered I was here and thought you’d look me up for old times’ sake.’ She drew a quick breath that lodged halfway to her lungs. ‘I’m afraid I’m not interested in a trip down memory lane. Or in continuing where we left off.’
She had more self-respect than to go back to a man who’d treated her as he had.
She stepped forward. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone.’
Her steps petered out when she came up against his impassable form. His spread legs and wide shoulders didn’t allow space for her to pass.
Dark eyes bored into hers and something tugged tight in her belly. If only she could put it down to a queasy stomach but to her shame Marisa knew she responded to his overt, male sexuality. A frisson of awareness made her nape tingle and her breasts tighten.
Surely a pregnant woman wouldn’t respond so wantonly?
The thought sideswiped her and her gaze flickered from his. Today’s news had upended her world, leaving her feeling adrift and frail. What did she know about pregnancy?
‘Marisa.’ His voice held a tentative edge she didn’t remember. ‘Are you all right?’
Her head snapped up. ‘I will be when I’m allowed the freedom of my own suite, alone.’
He stepped back and she moved away into the sitting room, conscious with every cell in her body of him looming nearby. Even his scent invaded her space, till she had to focus on walking past and not stopping to inhale.
She was halfway across the room, heading for the entrance, when he spoke again. ‘We need to talk.’
Marisa kept walking. ‘As I recall, you made it clear last time I saw you that our...connection was at an end.’ Valiantly she kept her voice even, though humiliation at how she’d left herself open to his insulting treatment twisted a searing blade through her insides.
‘Are you trying to tell me you thought otherwise?’
Her steps faltered to a halt. If she’d truly been unaffected by his abrupt desertion, she wouldn’t be upset at his return, would she? She certainly wouldn’t show it. But it was beyond even Marisa’s acting powers to pretend insouciance. The best she could manage was haughty distance.
She needed him out of the way so she could concentrate on the news she still had trouble processing. That she was probably pregnant—with his child.
Marisa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather her strength. She’d face him later if she had too. Now she needed to be alone.
‘I didn’t think anything, Damaso.’ She lingered over his name with dripping, saccharine emphasis. ‘What we shared is over and done with.’
Her fingers closed around the door handle but, before she could tug it open, one long arm shot over her shoulder. A large hand slammed palm-down onto the door before her, keeping it forcibly closed. The heat of Damaso’s body encompassed her, his breath riffling her hair as if he was breathing as hard as she.
‘What about the fact you’re carrying my child?’
She gasped. How did he know?
Marisa stared blankly at the strong, sinewy hand before her: the light sprinkling of dark hairs; the long fingers; the neat, short nails.
She blinked, remembering how that hand had looked on her pale breast, the pleasure it had wrought. How she’d actually hoped, for a few brief hours, she’d found a man who valued her for herself. How betrayed she’d felt.
‘Marisa?’ His voice was sharp.
She drew a jagged breath into tight lungs and turned, chin automatically lifting as he glowered down at her from his superior height.
The sight of him, looking so lofty and disapproving, stoked fire in her belly. She’d deal with him on her terms, when she was ready.
‘I don’t know what you think gives you the right to come here uninvited and throw your weight around. But it’s time you left. Otherwise I’ll have the management throw you out.’
* * *
Damaso stared into blazing azure eyes and felt something thump hard in his belly. Energy vibrated off her in waves. Just meeting her stare sent adrenalin shooting into his bloodstream.
His body tensed, his groin tightening at the challenge she projected.
She tempted him even as her disdainful gaze raked him. But it wasn’t only dismissal he read in her taut features. The parted lips, the throbbing pulse, the fleeting shadow in her bright eyes gave her away.
He aroused her. He sensed it as surely as he recognised the symptoms in his own body. He hadn’t got her out of his system even now.
Without thinking, he put his hand to her face, cupping her jaw so that a frantic pulse jumped against his skin. His fingers brushed her silk-soft hair.
She felt every bit as good as he remembered. Better than he’d allowed himself to believe. He leaned towards her, lowering his head. Discussion could wait.
Sudden pain, a white-hot flash of agony, streaked up his arm.
Stunned, Damaso saw she’d fastened on to a pressure point in some fancy martial arts manoeuvre. He sucked in a breath, tamping down his instinctive response to overpower her. He’d never learned to fight by any code of rules. Where he’d grown up, violence had been endemic, brutal and often deadly. In seconds he could have her flat on her back in surrender. He forced himself to relax, ignoring the lancing pain.
‘I’m calling the management.’ She breathed heavily, as if it was she, not he, in agony.
‘I am the management, pequenina.’
‘Sorry?’ Her fierce expression eased into owlish disbelief.
‘I own the resort.’ Damaso tried to move his fingers but another dart of pain shot through him. ‘You can let me go,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I promise not to touch you.’
‘You own it?’ Her grip loosened and he tugged his hand free, flexing it as pins and needles spread up his arm. For an amateur, her self-defence skills were impressive.
‘I do. It was my team of architects who designed it. My builders who constructed it.’
‘The staff report to you?’ Her tone was sharp. ‘That explains a lot.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘I don’t see why the doctor should run to you with news of my health, even if you employ him. What about patient confidentiality?’ She didn’t raise her voice but the way she bit out the words, as if chipping off shards of glacial ice, spoke volumes.
Damaso shook his head. ‘He didn’t breathe a word.’
At her frown he explained, ‘I was here, in the suite, when he confirmed your test results.’
She stared up at him, her eyes bright as lasers, and just as cutting. Damaso felt his cheeks redden, almost as if he blushed under her accusing stare.
It was impossible, of course. Embarrassment was a luxury denied those who’d survived by scavenging off others’ refuse. Nothing fazed him, not even the shocked accusation in her glare. He didn’t care what others thought.
Yet he looked away first.
‘I’d heard you were ill and came to see how you were.’
‘How very considerate.’ Her hands moved to her hips, pulling the fabric of her designer T-shirt taut over those delectable breasts. Belatedly, Damaso tore his gaze away, only to find himself staring at her flat stomach. She cradled his baby there. The shock of it dried his throat. He wanted to slip his hand beneath the drawstring of her loose trousers and press his palm to the softness of her belly.
The snap of fingers in front of his face startled him.
‘Being the owner of this place doesn’t give you the right to pry into my private life.’
‘It was unintentional. I was coming to see you.’
‘That’s no excuse for spying on what is my affair.’
‘Hardly spying, Marisa.’ Her flashing eyes told him she disagreed. ‘And this affair affects both of us.’
Colour streaked her cheekbones, making her look ridiculously young and vulnerable.
He softened his voice. ‘We need to talk.’
She shook her head, her bright hair slipping like spun gold across her dark shirt. With quick grace she turned and crossed the room to the vast windows framing the view of the Andes. She stood rigid, as if his presence pained her.
‘A month and a day, remember, Marisa? This is as much my business as yours.’
She didn’t move, not so much as a muscle. Her unnatural stillness disturbed him.
‘When were you going to tell me?’
Still she said nothing. Damaso’s skin tightened till it felt like hundreds of ants crawled over him.
‘Or weren’t you going to? Were you planning to get rid of it quietly with no one the wiser?’
Damaso grimaced at the pungent sourness filling his mouth. Had she decided to get rid of his child?
His child!
He’d been stunned by the news he was to be a father. It had taken hours to come to grips with the fact he’d have a child—blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.
For the first time in his life, he’d have family.
The idea astounded him, scared him. He, who’d never expected to have a family of his own. Yet to his amazement part of him welcomed the idea.
He didn’t know exactly how he expected this to play out. But one thing was absolutely certain: no child of his would be abandoned as he’d been.
No child of his would grow up alone or neglected.
It would know its father.
It would be cared for.
He, Damaso Pires, would make sure of that personally. The intensity of his determination was stronger than anything he’d known.
He must have moved for he found himself behind Marisa. Her hair stirred with each breath he exhaled. His fingers flexed, as if to reach for her hips and pull her to him, or shake her into speech.
‘Say something!’ Damaso wasn’t used to being ignored, especially by women he’d known intimately. Especially when something as profoundly important as this lay between them.
‘What do you want me to say?’ When she turned, her eyes were wide and over-bright. ‘No, I hadn’t planned an abortion? No, I hadn’t decided when I’d tell you, if at all? I haven’t had time even to get my head around the idea of being pregnant.’
She jabbed a finger into his sternum. ‘I don’t see this being as much your business as mine.’ Her finger stabbed again. ‘If I’m pregnant, I’ll be the one carrying this baby. I’ll be the one whose body and life and future will change irrevocably. Not you.’
Her finger wobbled against his chest; her whole hand was shaking, Damaso realised. He wrapped his hand around hers but she tugged loose from his hold and backed away as if his touch contaminated her.
Too late for that, my fine lady.
* * *
Marisa watched his harsh mouth curve in a smile that could only be described as feral. He looked dangerous and unpredictable, his eyes a black gleam that made her want to step back again. Instead she planted her feet.
How had he turned the tables, so his intrusion on her privacy had become a litany of accusations against her? Enough was enough. She was tired of being bullied and judged.
‘Obviously you’ve had time to jump to all sorts of conclusions about this pregnancy, if there is one.’ She fixed him with a stony gaze.
‘You deny it?’ He scowled.
‘I reserve judgement until I’ve got a second opinion.’ She braced her hands on her hips, refusing to cower before his harsh expression. ‘But obviously you’ve gone beyond that stage.’
‘I have.’ His gaze dropped to her stomach and she felt a hot stirring inside as if he’d touched her there. Abruptly, his dark eyes locked on hers again. ‘There’s only one sensible option.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’ His brooding features tightened, a determined light in his eyes. ‘We’ll marry.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f8fdc2cb-01c0-5aab-a469-f62da089ab39)
MARISA COULDN’T PREVENT the ripple of laughter that slipped from her mouth.
‘Marry?’ She shook her head. Astonishment punctured the bubble of tension cramping her chest. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t even know you.’
His downturned mouth and furrowed brow told her he didn’t appreciate her levity. Or maybe he didn’t like the panicked edge that see-sawed through her laughter.
Marisa didn’t like it either. She sounded, and felt, too close to the edge.
‘You knew me well enough for us to create a baby together.’ His deep voice held a bite that eradicated the last of her semi-hysterical laughter. It brought her back to earth with a thump.
‘That’s not knowing. That’s sex.’
He shrugged, lifting those broad shoulders she’d clung to through their night together. She’d dug her nails into his flesh as ecstasy had consumed her. She’d never wanted to let him go and had snuggled against his solid shoulder through the night.
Until he’d made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with her.
‘You’ve changed your tune.’ Did he hear the echo of hurt in her tone? Marisa was beyond caring; she just knew she had to scotch this insanity.
‘That was before there was a child, princesa.’
She stiffened. ‘There still may not be one. I won’t be sure till I’ve had another test. It could have been a false positive.’
Damaso tilted his head, as if examining a curious specimen. ‘The idea of a child is so horrible to you?’
‘No!’ Marisa’s hand slipped to her stomach then, realising what she’d done, she dropped her arm to her side. ‘I just need to be sure.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. And when we are sure, we’ll marry.’
Marisa blinked. Why did talking to Damaso Pires feel like trying to make headway against a granite boulder?
‘This is the twenty-first century. People don’t have to marry to have children.’
He crossed his arms, accentuating the solid muscle of his torso beneath the pristine business shirt, reinforcing his formidable authority. Wearing casual trekking gear, he’d been stunning, but dressed for business he added a whole new cachet to the ‘tall, dark, handsome’ label.
If only she didn’t respond at that visceral, utterly feminine level. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by such rampant masculinity.
‘We’re not talking about people. We’re talking about us and our child.’
Our child. The words resonated inside Marisa, making her shiver. Making the possibility of pregnancy abruptly real.
She put out a hand and grabbed the back of a nearby settee as the world swam.
Suddenly he was there before her, his hand firm on her elbow. ‘You need to sit.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say she needed to be alone but she felt wobbly. Perhaps she should rest—she didn’t want to do anything that might endanger her baby.
And just like that she made the transition from protest to acceptance.
Not only acceptance but something stronger—something like anticipation.
Which showed how foolish she was. This situation had no built-in happy ending.
Marisa let Damaso guide her to a seat. The pregnancy no longer felt like a possibility, to be disproved with a second test. It felt real. Or maybe that was because of the way Damaso held her—gently, yet as if nothing could break his hold.
She lowered her eyes, facing the thought of motherhood alone. Learning to be a good mother when she had no idea what that was. The only things she’d ever been good at were sports and creating scandal.
Marisa bit down a groan, picturing the furore in the Bengarian royal court, the ultimatums and machinations to put the best spin on this. The condemnation, not just from the palace, but from the press.
In the past she’d pretended not to feel pain as the palace and the media had dealt her wound after wound, slashing at her as if she wasn’t a flesh-and-blood woman who bled at their ferocious attacks.
‘I’ll get the doctor.’ Damaso crouched before her, his long fingers still encircling her arm.
‘I don’t need a doctor.’ She needed to get a grip. Wallowing in self-pity wasn’t like her and she couldn’t afford to begin now. More than ever she had to find a way forward, not just for herself, but for her child.
‘You need someone to care for you.’
‘And you’re appointing yourself my protector?’ She couldn’t keep the jeering note from her voice.
For the first time since he’d shouldered his way into her suite, he looked discomfited. Eventually he spoke.
‘The baby is my responsibility.’ He spoke so solemnly, her skin prickled.
‘Sorry to disillusion you but I don’t need a protector. I look after myself.’ She’d learned independence at six, when her mother had died. Now she only had vague memories of warm hugs and wide smiles, of bedtime stories and an exquisite, never-to-be-repeated certainty she was precious.
‘Reading the press reports about your activities, I can see how well you’ve done that.’
Marisa’s chin shot up, her furious gaze locking with his. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the press.’
Except everyone did, and eventually Marisa had given up trying to explain. Instead she’d been spurred to a reckless disregard for convention and, at times, her own safety.
That stopped now. If there was a baby...
‘So I should give you the benefit of the doubt?’ He leaned closer and her breath snared in her lungs. Something happened to her breathing when Damaso got near.
‘I don’t care what you think of me.’ In the past that had worked for her. But with Damaso things were suddenly more complicated.
‘I can see that. But I also see you’re unwell. This news has come as a shock.’
‘You’re not shocked? Just how many kids do you have littered around the place?’ Marisa strove for insouciance but didn’t quite achieve it. Absurdly, the thought of him with a string of other women made her stomach cramp.
‘None.’
Ah. Maybe that explained his reaction.
‘Let me propose an interim arrangement.’ He sat back on his haunches, giving her space.
It was a clever move, she realised, as her racing pulse slowed.
‘Yes?’
‘You want a second pregnancy test. Let me take you to the city and arrange a medical examination. Then, if the results are positive, we talk about the future.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of openness.
Yet the glint in his dark eyes hinted things weren’t so simple.
But what did she have to lose? He only proposed what she’d already decided. And, as owner of the lodge, he could get her out of here quickly, without waiting for a scheduled flight.
‘No strings?’
‘No strings.’
Doubt warred with caution and a craven desire to let someone else worry about the details for once. If he tried to trample her, he’d learn he was messing with the wrong woman.
‘Agreed.’ She put out her hand, using the business gesture to reinforce that this was a deal, not a favour. A tiny bubble of triumph rose at his surprised look.
But, when his hand encompassed hers, engulfing her in its hard warmth, her smile faded.
* * *
Marisa twisted in her seat as the helicopter’s rotors slowed. Damaso saw anger shimmer in her eyes as she glared at him. ‘You said we’d go to the city.’
‘São Paolo is inland, not too far away.’
‘You lied to me.’ Her mouth set in a mutinous pout that made him want to pull her close and kiss those soft, pink lips till all she could do was sigh his name.

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