Damaso Claims His Heir

by Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

  Is that what had happened to him? Had there been no one to protect and care for him?

  Marisa thought of the knife wounds. His previous iron-hard composure. His talk of independence as the difference between life and death.

  Horror and pity welled. What had this man survived? How long had he been alone as a child?

  But she knew better than to ask. Damaso Pires was many things but an open book wasn’t one of them. He’d revealed what he had grudgingly, presumably to convince her to accept him.

  ‘Of course it’s not a crime.’ Her voice held a husky edge as her see-sawing emotions overcame her diffidence. She lifted a hand and planted it on his chest—to comfort and reassure, she told herself. Yet the sharp thud of his heart beneath her palm told her it would take more than that to calm him. She tried not to react to the erotic pleasure of hot, male flesh and crisp chest hair against her palm.

  ‘So you agree.’ Triumph blazed in his face. ‘Marriage is the only option.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Marisa backed away, or tried to. His hold on her shoulders stopped her. Those hard fingers flexed and drew her closer, till her hand on his bare torso was all that separated them. His heat encompassed her; the subtle tang of his skin invaded her nostrils, making her recall the salt taste of him the night they’d been lovers. She quivered as a blast of longing rocked her.

  ‘I could persuade you.’ His voice dropped to a deep timbre that brushed like raw silk across her skin. His hands softened, smoothing her shoulders and back in a caress that spoke of easy expertise. Marisa bit her lip as her body arched greedily under his touch.

  He bent his head, his mouth brushing her hair, his breath hot on her forehead. ‘You’ve kept your distance since we came here, and I’ve let you pretend, but we both feel the connection. You can’t deny it. It’s there every time you look at me, every time I look at you. It hasn’t gone away.’

  His marauding hands swept the curve of her spine and out to her hips. He dragged her close and her breath stopped when she felt his arousal hard against her belly.

  She closed her eyes, willing her trembling body to move away. His hold was firm but not unbreakable. She could escape. If she wanted to.

  Instead she pressed closer, rising on her toes, bringing them into more intimate contact.

  Damaso’s breath hissed and Marisa might have felt triumph if she hadn’t been swamped by hunger.

  He was right. She’d tried to ignore it but this was why she’d been restless. Not just her pregnancy and the quandary over her future. Those were problems for later, eclipsed by the immediacy of her desire for Damaso.

  Seeing him daily but keeping her distance had been an exercise in futility. What control she’d clung to now shattered in response to his potent charisma.

  Her neck bowed back as he dropped his head and kissed her throat.

  ‘You’d like me to persuade you, wouldn’t you? It will be a pleasure for us both. A pleasure we’ve denied too long.’ His mouth, hot and sensual, moved up her neck, kisses becoming tiny, erotic nips that tightened her skin and puckered her nipples. Her hands slid across the planes of his chest, raking slick skin and coarse hair.

  Then his hand slid round her hip, delving unerringly in one quick, sure motion to her feminine core. His fingers pressed hard against the fabric of her bikini bottom, making a pulse thud hard and quick between her legs.

  Her breath snagged again and a wisp of sanity invaded her clouded mind. It would be so easy to give in. But something about the knowing ease of his action evoked a memory: Andreas, with his practised seduction technique that she’d been too naïve to recognise. Andreas, who’d used her for his own ends.

  Damaso’s mouth dipped from her ear to the sensitive point at the corner of her jaw, sending every nerve into tingling ecstasy. Marisa felt him smile knowingly against her skin.

  He knew precisely how to seduce her.

  One desperate shove and a backward step and she was free, her chest heaving, her legs wobbling as if she’d run for her life. Shock hit her that she’d actually broken away. Her body screamed with loss now he wasn’t touching her.

  Marisa watched unguarded emotion flit across Damaso’s features: shock, anger and desire. Determination.

  Her heart sank. If he touched her again, she’d be lost; even knowing his every move was carefully orchestrated to make her putty in his hands.

  It wasn’t his seduction she fought but herself. Her face flamed.

  He moved towards her and she shrank away.

  Instantly he stopped.

  In the silence all she heard was the thunder of blood in her ears and his ragged breathing.

  ‘Don’t.’ Her voice was choked and thick. She swallowed hard. Her gaze dipped to the reddened streaks on his heaving chest. Her nails had scored him.

  Marisa’s scalp tightened as she saw that reminder of her unbridled response. It was one thing to give in to lust when they’d come together as equals. It was another to let herself be coaxed by a man ruthlessly assessing her weakness to achieve his own agenda.

  ‘Please.’ She gasped as the word slipped out, but her pride was already in tatters. Her vision glazed and she wanted to hide her face, ashamed at how easily she’d responded.

  Forcing her eyes up, she met his slitted gaze. Marisa drew a shuddering breath. ‘If you have any respect for me at all, if you want any possibility of a future together, don’t ever do that again. Not unless you mean it.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘DAMASO! IT’S BEEN an age.’ The once familiar, sultry voice made him turn. It had been months since Adriana had shared his bed but, looking into her exquisite, model-perfect face, it felt like far longer.

  Once he’d been eager to accept the invitation in her sherry-gold eyes. Now he looked and felt nothing, not even an echo of past satisfaction.

  She was stunning, from her glossy fall of black hair to her ripe curves poured into a flame-coloured dress that looked like liquid fire in the mood lighting. Even the memory of her enthusiasm for pleasing him did nothing to ignite his interest.

  ‘Adriana.’ He inclined his head. ‘How are you?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you.’ Her smile was a siren’s, her hand on his jacket proprietorial.

  Annoyance tracked a finger down his spine and he shifted, watching her frown as her hand dropped.

  ‘You’re not happy to see me?’ Her lips were a seductive scarlet pout.

  ‘It’s always a pleasure.’ Or it had been, until she’d started hinting about staying in his city penthouse and asking about his movements. Possessive women were guaranteed to dampen his libido.

  ‘But not enough to call me.’ Damaso opened his mouth to terminate the encounter but she spoke again, pressing close. ‘Forgive me, Damaso. I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ Yet he didn’t respond to the blatant offer in her gaze or the way her body melted against his. He stood straighter. She was beautiful, but...

  ‘I see you have a new friend.’ Her voice dipped on the word. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

  He turned to see Marisa threading her way through the throng. Her gold hair was piled elegantly high, adding inches to her small frame. Or maybe it was the way she held herself. The frothy skirt of her scant, sapphire-blue dress swung jauntily above her knees as she walked, drawing covetous glances.

  She looked right at home among Brazil’s elite as they celebrated. Marisa was chic, gorgeous and effervescent, thriving on the attention of so many besotted men.

  She stopped to exchange a laughing comment with a debonair man in exquisitely tailored formal clothes. A man who obviously cared about looking good at Fashion Week’s premier event. He might have been a model with that chiselled jaw shadowed with designer stubble.

  The stranger reached out and touched Marisa lightly on the hand.

  Damaso felt heat ignite deep inside, sparks shooting through his bloodstream. His fingers tightened on his glass as Marisa smiled at the man now blocking her
path.

  ‘Although it seems she’s otherwise occupied.’ Adriana’s voice filtered through the fog of pulsing sound in his ears. ‘Your princess appears to know a lot of people.’

  Across the room she drew yet another slavering admirer into the conversation. She positively sparkled at the epicentre of male attention.

  Damaso slammed his glass onto a nearby table, his fingers flexing.

  Marisa was his. She mightn’t admit it yet but she soon would. He could have forced her to do so just days ago on the island. But that haunted look, her desperate dignity when she’d pleaded to be left alone, had stopped him.

  Crazy, when he knew she wanted him.

  Now the sight of another man, other men, fawning over her made him want to smash his fist into one of them. All because of a woman!

  ‘Damaso? Are you okay?’ Adriana touched his hand. ‘You’re burning up! Are you unwell?’

  He wrenched his gaze away to focus on Adriana. She looked worried. Perhaps because it was the first time she or anyone had seen him lose his cool.

  He’d brought Marisa to the city to keep her occupied while he worked through what had happened that day on the beach. The feelings Marisa provoked scared Damaso as nothing had since he’d been fifteen and he’d taken on the pair of knife-wielding thugs who’d ruled his squalid neighbourhood.

  No other woman got to him the way she did.

  His jaw tensed and seconds later he was looming over Marisa’s admirers. Conversation faltered and they melted away.

  ‘Damaso.’ The husky way Marisa said his name, the way her eyes darkened as she looked up at him, made him want to hoist her over his shoulder and forget any pretensions at being civilised. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘Are you? You seemed to be enjoying yourself.’ His jaw clenched.

  She shrugged, her smile dying as she read his face. What did she see there? Anger? Possessiveness?

  Marisa turned away but he wrapped his fingers around her chin, tipping it so he could read her expression. Long lashes veiled her eyes but her lips trembled. The animation bled from her face and he read weariness there, the hint of shadows beneath her make-up.

  ‘Marisa?’ Something swooped in his chest. ‘What’s wrong? I thought you were enjoying yourself.’

  If anything was guaranteed to satisfy the party-girl princess, it was this, one of São Paolo’s most chic, most exclusive parties. The guest list was a who’s who of beautiful people and the music was an enticing pulse-beat of good times.

  ‘It’s...nice. I’m just tired.’

  ‘Tired?’ The woman who thrived on celebrations? ‘I thought you loved this sort of thing.’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Marisa’s smile was perfunctory. Damaso stared at the taut line of her bare shoulders. Stunned, he realised she was anything but happy.

  She broke his hold and turned away, lifting an outrageously decorated cocktail to her lips.

  His hand shot out, grasping her wrist. ‘Alcohol isn’t good for the baby. Especially the potent cocktails they serve here.’

  Marisa’s mouth flattened. The hairs at his nape rose as her eyes narrowed to needle sharpness.

  ‘You don’t think much of me, do you? Here.’ She shoved the fruit-laden cocktail towards him so hard it sloshed over the edges, dripping onto her wrist and down her dress. She paid no heed. ‘Go on, taste it.’

  Dimly he was aware of the buzz of conversation, the curious stares.

  ‘Go on!’ Her lips twisted derisively. ‘Or are you afraid it’s too strong for you?’

  Her eyes blazed as she pushed the neon-tinted straw to his lips. Reluctantly he sucked and swallowed.

  ‘Fruit juice!’

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it? Imagine me drinking anything but alcohol, when all the world knows I only quaff champagne.’

  Abruptly she let go of the glass and he grabbed it before it fell and shattered. Cold, sticky juice dribbled down his hand.

  ‘I didn’t have so much as a sip of wine the whole time I was on your precious island.’ Her voice was an acerbic hiss as she leaned close. ‘Yet you assume I can’t control myself as soon as I hit a party.’

  A smile curved Marisa’s lips but her eyes were flat. ‘I see my reputation precedes me.’ She drew in a breath that pushed her breasts high and her shoulders back. ‘What else did you think—that I’d be off having sex with some man in a dark corner while you chatted with your friends?’ She paused, her eyes widening. ‘Or, let me guess, with a couple of men? Is that why you looked like some Neanderthal, stomping over here?’

  Damaso stared. The whispered vitriol was so at odds with the smile on her delicate features. Anyone watching would think she was playing up to him rather than tearing strips off him.

  It hit him with the force of a bomb exploding that Marisa was an expert at projecting an image. Suddenly his certainties rocked on their foundations.

  How real had her enjoyment been when she’d laughed with those guys? Had she been putting on a front?

  ‘I came because I wanted to be with you.’

  ‘I’m sure you did.’ Her saccharine tone told him she didn’t believe a word. ‘You had to tear yourself away from your girlfriend. I assume she is a girlfriend?’

  Damaso stiffened. ‘This isn’t the place.’ He explained his private life to no one, especially to a woman who somehow managed to make him feel in the wrong. It wasn’t a familiar sensation and he didn’t like it.

  ‘Of course she is.’ Abruptly Marisa dropped her gaze. ‘Well, far be it from me to play gooseberry. No doubt I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She turned away. ‘Goodnight, Damaso.’

  Her arm was supple and cool beneath his palm as he wrapped his hand around it.

  Her eyebrows arched in a fine show of hauteur, as if he defiled her with his touch. She looked as she had the day in the jungle when she’d dismissed him so disdainfully. It irked now as it had then.

  He didn’t give a damn how superior she acted. He wasn’t releasing her.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Back to your city apartment. Where else?’

  She looked like an ice maiden, ready to freeze any male foolish enough to approach.

  As if that would stop him! She could pretend all she liked but he knew better.

  ‘Good.’ Damaso said. ‘I’m ready to leave.’

  He tucked her hand through his arm and strode out, oblivious to the curious crowd parting before them.

  * * *

  The short helicopter ride to his penthouse was completed in silence. Marisa sat with her face turned, as if admiring the diamond-bright net of city lights below, her profile calm and aristocratically elegant.

  She ignored him, as if he was far beneath her attention. Anger sizzled. He wasn’t the ragged kid he’d once been, looking in on society from the outside. He was Damaso Pires. Powerful, secure, in command of his world.

  Yet he’d watched those men eat her up with their eyes and rage had consumed him. Rage and jealousy.

  The realisation hit him with full force.

  He didn’t do jealousy.

  Damaso shook his head.

  He did now.

  Is that why he’d been so tactless? He had a reputation for sophistication but tonight he’d felt out of control, trapped in a skin that didn’t fit.

  The chopper landed and soon they were alone in his apartment.

  If he’d thought she’d shy from confrontation, he was wrong. Marisa swung around, hands on hips, before he’d done more than turn on a single lamp. In her glittering stilettos, with sapphires at her throat and her short, couture dress swinging around her delectable legs, she looked like any man’s dream made flesh.

  But it was her eyes that drew him. Despite their flash of fury, he saw shadows there.

  He’d done that.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He’d never said that to any woman. Even now he couldn’t quite believe he’d spoken the words. ‘I overreacted.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Absurdly her combative attitude made
him want to haul her close and comfort her. In the past, he’d have walked away from a woman who wasn’t totally compliant. But Marisa hooked him in ways he didn’t understand.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d been drinking or having sex.’ Damaso paused. He could have phrased that better.

  ‘And I’m supposed to be impressed by that?’

  ‘No.’ He ploughed a hand through his hair, frustrated that for the first time the words hadn’t come out right. Usually persuading a woman was easy.

  ‘I’m tired, Damaso. This can wait.’ She turned away.

  ‘No!’ He lowered his voice. ‘It can’t. On the island, we got on well.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I want to understand you, Marisa.’ It was true. For the first time in his life, he wanted to know a woman.

  What did that mean?

  ‘I want you to trust me.’ That was better. Women loved talk of trust and emotions.

  ‘Trust?’ Her voice was harsh. ‘Why should I trust you? We spent one night together. I don’t recall trust being high on your agenda then.’

  She clasped her hands, fingers twisting. The movement made her look young despite her expression of bored unconcern, making him recall his suspicion that she threw up defences to hide pain.

  ‘Your eagerness to leave once you’d had your fill was downright insulting.’ Her jaw angled high but didn’t disguise the flush of colour across her cheekbones.

  An answering rush of heat flooded his belly. Shame? He wasn’t familiar with that emotion either.

  Whenever he remembered that dawn confrontation, he focused on her disdain. It was easier to concentrate on that than the fact he’d bolted out of her bed, scared by the unaccustomed yearning that had filled him. It wasn’t pressing business that had moved him, but the innate knowledge this woman was dangerous to his self-possession in ways he hadn’t been ready to confront.

  He hadn’t stopped to think of her. Now he did.

  ‘I shouldn’t have left like that.’

  A quick shrug told him it didn’t matter to Marisa, but instinct told him she hid her feelings.

  ‘I made a mistake.’ Bright blue eyes locked with his and he read her shock, almost as strong as his own, that he’d admitted such a thing. ‘But circumstances have changed. It’s in both our interests to understand each other better.’