Damaso Claims His Heir

by Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

  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.

  Damaso stared, grappling with both his urgent response and surprise at her vehemence.

  ‘I said I’d take you to have your pregnancy confirmed.’ Even now, after a day to absorb the news, he felt a pooling of emotion at the thought of the baby they’d created.

  ‘In a city. That’s what we agreed. That’s why I agreed to come to Brazil with you. I thought when we transferred from the plane we were going into São Paolo.’

  ‘I’ve organised for a doctor to visit you here, in my private residence.’

  Marisa’s gaze roved the view beyond his shoulder, past the ultra-modern mansion looking over a pristine beach and aquamarine water to the tangle of lush forest rising up the slope beyond. ‘It’s secluded,’ he murmured. ‘I own the whole island.’

  ‘You think that’s a recommendation? I have no interest in your private estate.’ Her jaw clenched, as if she read what he’d tried to suppress—the physical hunger that still plagued him.

  From the moment he’d seen Marisa, he’d wanted her. One night in her bed had only sharpened his appetite, and not just for her lithe body. He wanted to possess all of her: her quicksilver energy; her laughter; her earthy, generous sexuality and that feeling she shared some rare, exquisite gift with him. Even arguing with her was more stimulating than sealing a multi-billion-dollar deal.

  This craving disturbed him. Usually he found it easy to move on from a woman. But then, he’d never had one carry his child before. That must be why he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  ‘Lots of women would give their eye teeth to be here.’

  She looked at him with a supercilious coolness that made him feel, for the first time in years, inferior. ‘Not me.’

  The smack to his lungs, the h
ot blast of blood to his face, shocked him to the core.

  He was Damaso Pires, self-made, successful, sought after. He bowed to no one, gave way to no one. He’d banished the scars of childhood with the most convincing cure of all: success. Inferiority was a word he’d excised from his personal lexicon years before.

  ‘You’re not impressed, princesa?’

  Her eyes widened a fraction. Because he’d called her ‘princess’, or because he’d growled the words between gritted teeth?

  ‘It’s not about being impressed.’ She spoke coolly. ‘I simply don’t like being lied to.’

  Damaso drew a slow breath and unclicked his seat belt. ‘It wasn’t a lie. I often commute to the city from here.’ He put up his hand before she could interrupt. ‘Besides, I thought you’d appreciate the privacy of my estate, rather than go to a clinic or have an obstetrician visit you in a city hotel.’ He stared into her sparking blue eyes. ‘Less chance of the paparazzi getting hold of the story, since my staff are completely discreet.’

  He watched her absorb that: the quick swallow, the rushed breath through pinched nostrils.

  Ah, not so superior now. Obviously she didn’t want news of her condition made public.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her quick change of tone surprised him. ‘That’s thoughtful of you. I hadn’t considered that.’ She fumbled at her seatbelt so long, he looked down and saw her hands were unsteady. He wanted to reach out and do it for her but her closed expression warned him off.

  At last the seatbelt clicked open and she pushed it away. ‘But don’t ever lie to me again. I don’t appreciate being lured here under false pretences.’

  It was on the tip of Damaso’s tongue to say he wasn’t interested in luring her anywhere. But that was exactly what he’d done, because it suited his purposes. Much as it went against the grain to admit it, she had a point.

  ‘Very well. In future you will be consulted.’

  Her perfect dark-gold eyebrows arched. ‘In future,’ she corrected in a voice of silk-covered steel, ‘I decide.’

  In one easy movement she swung her legs out of the door, held open by one of his staff, and strode away from the tarmac of the landing pad without waiting to see if he followed.

  She walked like a princess, head up, shoulders straight, with a firm gait that wasn’t a stride but somehow conveyed her absolute confidence that the world would rearrange itself to fit her expectations.

  He told himself she was spoiled and wilful. Instead, he found himself admiring her. He wasn’t used to having his arrangements questioned.

  Her thanks for his thoughtfulness had surprised him. Her firm insistence on making her own decisions was something he understood.

  He watched the cream linen of her trousers tighten around her shapely backside with each step, watched the way her hair, a thick curtain of gold, swung between her narrow shoulder-blades.

  In future he’d remember to take the time to convince Princess Marisa to agree to his decisions before he put them into action.

  Damaso’s mouth curved in a rare smile as he got down from the chopper and followed her. Persuading Marisa presented all sorts of interesting possibilities.

  * * *

  Marisa strode from the house mere moments after the doctor had left her. Not just any doctor, but the region’s best obstetrician, apparently, and a woman to boot. Damaso had thought of everything.

  No doubt he was closeted with the doctor, receiving confirmation of the pregnancy.

  Marisa’s step quickened till she reached the soft, white sand of the beach where she tugged off her sandals.

  She wanted to sprint down the beach till her lungs burned, swim out into the impossibly clear depths of the bay till she was totally isolated from the luxury mansion full of staff. Climb the rocky headland that jutted at the far end of the beach.

  Anything to feel free again, if only briefly.

  Marisa sighed. She needed to be more cautious now she was pregnant. She could sprint, of course, but the security guard trailing her would think she was under threat. If she explained, he’d feel obliged to race up the beach beside her, destroying her enjoyment.

  Reluctantly she looked back and there he was: a bulky figure trying, ineffectually, to blend into the foliage just above the beach.

  Even in Bengaria she’d had more freedom!

  Marisa waded into the warm shallows till she was up to her calves, letting the tiny waves lap against her legs. She breathed deep, trying to feel at one with the gentle surge and wane of the water, focusing on slowing her pulse.

  It was years since she’d practised the techniques she’d used to prepare herself for a gymnastics competition. If ever she’d needed to feel grounded, it was now.

  She was going to be a mother.

  Joy, mingled with fear, spilled through her veins. Despite the circumstances, she couldn’t regret the child she carried. Did she have what it took to raise it and care for it the way it deserved?

  She had no one to turn to, no one to trust, but Damaso: a stranger who saw this baby as a responsibility.

  Fleetingly, Marisa thought of the others who’d claim a say in her child’s future.

  Her relatives. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her torso. No matter what it took, she’d keep her child safe from them.

  The advisors of the Bengarian Court. No, they’d simply follow her uncle’s lead.

  Her friends. Marisa bit her lip. She’d given up seeking real friends long ago—after the few she’d had were ostracised by the palace for being too uncultured and common for her to mix with.

  Which left her alone.

  Her smile was crooked as she gazed towards the mainland. She’d always been alone, even when Stefan had been alive. There was only so much he’d been able to do to support her. He’d had his own troubles. She’d been lucky—as a mere princess, she was window dressing, for she’d never inherit the crown. Poor Stefan, as crown prince, had borne the brunt of everyone’s expectations from birth.

  ‘Marisa.’

  She swung around to see Damaso at the water’s edge. In lightweight trousers and a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, he looked too sexy for her peace of mind.

  Her heart crashed against her ribs and her lungs tightened, squeezing the air from her body till she felt breathless and light-headed. Her skin tingled as his dark gaze slid over her. She was burning up, a pulse throbbing between her legs.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘You don’t waste time, do you?’ She crossed her arms.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve come straight from the doctor, haven’t you?’ He’d said they’d find out if she was pregnant then they’d talk about the future. ‘Can’t you give me some breathing space?’

  She hadn’t meant to say it aloud but she felt hemmed in by news of the pregnancy, by the security guard, by the fact she’d have to tell her uncle. Above all, by this man, who for reasons she didn’t understand made her feel, right to her core.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Marisa sucked in a breath. ‘I’m not afraid of you, Damaso.’ How dared he even think it? She, who’d never turned from a physical challenge in her life.

  ‘No?’ She supposed that tightening of his mouth at one corner was supposed to be a smile. She didn’t see anything funny about the situation.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Facing down a sexy Brazilian with an ego the size of Rio’s Sugarloaf Mountain was nothing compared with what she’d dealt with before.

  Yet she didn’t move to join him. Instead he waded out to meet her, the water covering first his bare feet then soaking his trousers. Marisa’s mouth dried as if she hadn’t tasted water in a week.

  He stopped a breath away, his scent mingling with the salt tang of the water.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Fine.’ It was true. She’d been sick again this morning but tea and dry toast in bed and a slow start to the day had made the nausea easier to handle.

  ‘Good. We nee
d to talk.’ His intent scrutiny made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Some sixth sense told her he wasn’t here to continue an argument about marrying for the baby’s sake.

  ‘What is it?’ She’d received bad news before and, attuned after Stefan’s recent death, she knew Damaso would rather not break this news. ‘Is it the baby?’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘Did the doctor tell you something she didn’t tell me?’

  He took her elbow as she lunged towards him, her heart pounding frantically. ‘It’s not the baby. Nothing like that.’

  Instinctively Marisa planted her hand on his chest, needing his support. She felt the steady thud of his heart beneath her palm and managed to draw a calming breath. She pushed down a moment’s terror that there’d been something the doctor hadn’t shared.

  ‘What, then? Tell me!’

  His mouth thinned to a grim line. ‘It’s the press. There’s been a report that you’re pregnant.’

  ‘Already?’ Her head swung towards the multi-level residence commanding the half-moon bay.

  ‘It wasn’t one of my staff. No one here would dream of going to the press with a story about a guest of mine.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Something passed across his face that Marisa couldn’t fathom. ‘For the right sort of money...’

  He shook his head. ‘My people wouldn’t betray me.’

  Fleetingly, Marisa wondered what bond could possibly be so strong between a billionaire and his paid staff.

  ‘It was someone from the hotel in Peru. One of the kitchen staff. They overheard my request for something to settle your morning sickness.’

  ‘Your request?’ Marisa dragged her hand back from his chest as if scalded. She’d thought the doctor had ordered tea and crackers for her.

  The thought of Damaso leaving her room and heading to the kitchens to make a personal request on her behalf made her still. It didn’t fit with the way he’d treated her. But, now she considered it, since learning of her pregnancy he’d been intent on looking after her.

  She’d been too annoyed at his high-handed actions to acknowledge it, possibly because his way of helping was to try taking control.

  ‘It was a new staff member. Now an ex-staff member. They won’t work in any of my enterprises again.’ The steely note in his voice made Marisa feel almost sorry for whoever had thought to profit from gossiping to the press.