‘Like you did at the party when you thought I was boozing and—’
‘I was wrong.’ His voice grew loud in frustration and he hefted in a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. This was unfamiliar territory but he was determined to see it through. Whatever it took to secure his child.
‘I know you hide behind that smile of yours.’ As he said it, Damaso realised it was true. How often on the trek had he seen her dazzling her audience with a smile? Yet when she was alone there was an air of sadness about her.
‘You’re an expert on me now, are you?’ Her tone was accusatory but Damaso didn’t take the bait. He had her measure, realising instinctively she’d try to alienate him rather than let him close.
But he wanted to be close. How else could he get what he wanted?
‘No,’ he said slowly, feeling his way. ‘But I know the woman the press talks about isn’t the real you. I know that far from being shallow you have unplumbed depths.’
It had taken him too long to realise that. His thinking had been muddled by emotion—something new and unfamiliar. Now the inconsistencies that had puzzled him coalesced into a fascinating whole.
How would a woman who was nothing but a shallow socialite have the patience for painstaking photography? He’d seen it engross her in the rainforest and again on his private estate.
Why would such a woman be upset at not being able to work if all she wanted was to party?
Above all, why hadn’t she jumped at the chance to marry a billionaire who could buy and sell her quaint little kingdom several times over?
He should have wondered about that when she’d had two full days in the city to shop and had come back to the apartment with just one purchase: the dress she wore tonight.
‘I don’t claim to know who you are, Marisa.’ His voice was raspy with self-disgust at his slowness. ‘But I want to.’
‘You have a strange way of showing it.’ Her clipped words bit into what passed for his conscience. ‘You left me as soon as we got to the party.’
It was true. He’d thought it wise to give her space. He’d kept his distance, more or less, these last weeks because crowding her would be counterproductive. Look what happened that afternoon on the beach.
‘You were nervous?’ He frowned. Marisa was so confident, used to being at the centre of a throng.
‘Not nervous. But it would have been nice...’ She shrugged, her gaze sliding away. ‘Forget it.’
‘No.’ He paced closer. ‘Tell me.’
Her head swung up, her stare impaling him. ‘Let’s just say fielding pointed questions about our relationship and the pregnancy isn’t the best way to relax among strangers.’
‘Someone had the gall to ask you about that?’ He’d been so caught up in his strategy of giving her the illusion of space he hadn’t considered that. He’d believed her status as his guest would protect her.
Guilt squirmed anew in his belly.
What was wrong with him? Usually he was ahead of the game, not six steps behind.
‘Not directly.’ Her mouth and nose pinched tight. ‘But indirectly...’ She shrugged, stress plain in her taut frame. ‘It wasn’t the most comfortable evening.’
‘I shouldn’t have left you.’
One pale brow arched as if she didn’t believe him, then she looked away. ‘The fact you took me there, then ostentatiously left me to fend for myself, sent a very particular signal.’ Her tone was bitter.
Damaso scowled. ‘Who dared to insult you?’
Her head jerked round and he caught a flicker of surprise in her stare.
‘There was no insult,’ she said, her voice clipped and her chin high. ‘But some of the men—’
‘I can imagine.’ Damn it. He could imagine all too well.
He swiped a hand round the back of his neck, massaging knotted muscles. If he’d been thinking instead of trying to find the best way forward with Marisa he’d have realised: he’d inadvertently signalled she was fair game for any man on the prowl for a quick fling with a gorgeous woman.
And she was gorgeous. He couldn’t drag his eyes from her.
But she wasn’t available.
She was his.
‘I’m sorry.’ Ineffectual as they were, he couldn’t stop the words rising again to his lips. ‘I should have been with you.’
He wasn’t used to taking responsibility for anyone but himself. Now he cursed his failure. This woman made him re-evaluate so much he’d taken for granted. It was discomfiting.
Marisa walked to the window, her straight back and shoulders telling their own story. ‘I’m used to fighting my own battles. Tonight was no different.’
But it was—because he’d put her in that situation.
He’d never known guilt or regret before Marisa.
He’d never felt half the things he felt around her.
The laugh would be on him if she knew. She thought his embrace on the beach had been a tactic to seduce her into marrying him.
The truth was he’d wanted Marisa since the day they’d met. He wanted her with a sharp, stabbing hunger that grew daily.
He wanted her body. But he wanted her company too. Her smile. Her attention.
He wanted to keep her safe.
He wanted...
‘I’m not used to apologising.’ His voice came from just behind her and she shivered as its dark richness slid through her, making a mockery of her defences. ‘But, for what it’s worth, I really am sorry. For everything.’
If she wasn’t careful, Damaso would overwhelm her. Over the past weeks she’d seen glimpses in him of a man she could come to care for. Marisa fought desperately to keep her distance but part of her wanted to surrender, give up the fight and be persuaded to trust him.
His hand on her shoulder was firm but gentle and she found herself turning at his insistence. In the soft lighting his eyes were unreadable yet the intensity of his stare made something in her chest tumble over.
‘I should never have put you in that situation.’ His lips twisted in a grimace. ‘I thought to give you a treat.’
‘A treat?’ Marisa breathed deep. ‘I’m not a child.’
But that was how he viewed her. Not surprising, given her reputation. She’d been maligned and vilified and she hadn’t exactly led the life of a nun. There’d been a time when living up to her reputation of partying every night had been her life. But she’d bored of it quickly.
‘Believe me, Marisa.’ His accent thickened deliciously as he stepped squarely into her personal space. ‘I know you’re not a child.’
Lightning jagged through her at the rough, seductive timbre of his voice. At the feel of his hand warm on her shoulder. He seduced her so easily. Desperation rose. How could she resist him when she wanted so badly to give in?
‘I’m not an easy lay, either.’ The words shot out as she fought the sizzle of excitement in her blood. If he’d had a fight with his girlfriend, he needn’t think he could turn to Marisa to warm his bed.
‘I know, querida.’
‘You’re just saying that. At the party—’
‘At the party I couldn’t see straight for jealousy.’
‘Jealousy?’ The word stunned her, stealing her voice.
To be jealous, he’d have to care about her. She’d done her homework via the Internet and knew Damaso had a notoriously short attention span when it came to lovers. He thrived on pursuit. He certainly didn’t stick around long enough for possessiveness. Yet the idea of him caring, just a little, cracked open a frozen part of her heart. ‘You don’t have a jealous bone in your body.’
‘Don’t I?’ His mouth turned down in a tight grimace as he loomed close, hemming her in.
‘What about this one? It’s held you close.’ Damaso picked up her hand and placed it on his forearm. She felt his heat through his clothes.
‘Or this one.’ He slid her hand up his arm and across to his collarbone. Her palm tingled at the contact and tiny ripples of delight fluttered up her arm. ‘You slept there, do y
ou remember? Your head on me, your leg over my belly.’
Damaso’s voice was hypnotic, drawing her into a place where nothing existed beyond the pair of them and the haze of desire clouding her mind. No, not just desire. A longing for the warmth and...contentment she’d found so briefly with him. She swallowed hard, feeling herself weaken.
‘Don’t, Damaso.’ She yanked but he wouldn’t release her hand. Her heart hammered high in her throat as she fought panic.
‘Why don’t you go to your girlfriend?’ Marisa hated the tell-tale way her voice wobbled. It revealed how much she cared.
‘She’s not my girlfriend.’ His ebony gaze captured hers and her breath stalled. ‘She stopped being that before I met you. Besides, I have no desire for any other woman.’ The way he said it, as if the truth throbbed in his husky tones, made Marisa’s knees turn to water.
‘Stop it! Don’t play these games.’ She hated that he could make her feel so vulnerable, so hurt. So needy.
His other hand cupped her jaw, his touch gentle.
‘I never play games, Marisa. Ever. Ask anyone—it’s not my way.’
‘Of course you do.’ Her voice was half an octave too high. Was it his touch that did that? Or the fixed way he stared at her mouth? Or the searing tide of need rising inside? She jutted her chin.
‘You tried to seduce me just days ago so I’d agree—’
His hand slid over her lips. She breathed in the fresh, salt scent of him, tasted it on her tongue when she swallowed. Why did it affect her so?
‘And you told me not to touch you unless I meant it.’
Finally he dragged his hand away but, instead of releasing her, he spread long fingers over her throat, down to her collarbone, where her pulse hammered unevenly.
‘I want you, Marisa.’ He leaned in so the words caressed her face. ‘You have no idea how much.’
She planted both hands on his wide chest and pushed. Nothing happened except her palms moulded to the solid shape of his torso.
‘Don’t lie. You only want me because I’m carrying your baby.’ She’d never found a man she could trust. They were all out for something. And now it wasn’t just her wellbeing at stake, but her unborn baby’s. She had to keep a clear head for its sake and make the right decisions for its future. ‘You want to secure me, that’s all—trap me into marriage.’
Something dark and untamed glimmered in his eyes and Marisa’s heart leapt against her ribs. Slowly, infinitesimally slowly, his lips curved into a smile that turned her insides to liquid fire. His hands slipped to her shoulders and, despite her caution, his touch on her bare skin melted another layer of her defences.
‘It’s true that I find the fact you’re carrying my child unbelievably erotic.’ His voice was husky and inviting. She’d never heard anything so mesmerising.
Damaso moved, one thigh wedging hers apart and pushing up against her. She gasped as she came in contact with his erection. Her inner muscles clenched needily, making a lie of her resistance.
His Adam’s apple rose and fell as if he was nervous. Yet she was the one whose nerves were stretched to breaking.
‘I mean it this time, Marisa. I want you. I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you.’ His chest rose as he drew in a shuddering breath. ‘This is about more than the baby, or what the world thinks. This is about me and you. Right now, all I care about is how you make me feel, and how I make you feel.’
Despite everything, she wanted to believe him. How she wanted to!
He plucked one of her hands from his chest and planted a kiss at the centre of her palm. Her knees buckled as he sucked at her flesh, sending waves of weakness through her.
‘Can’t we forget tonight and start again?’ His voice was dark, liquid temptation.
‘Why?’ Marisa clung to his shoulder for support, trying to shore up the distrust that would keep her and her child safe. ‘What is it you want?’
‘I want us to be just Damaso and Marisa. Simply that.’
Did he have any idea how perfect that sounded? How real and uncomplicated? How tempting?
Damaso’s head swooped low and, with a sigh, Marisa gave up the battle she’d been losing for so long.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THIS TIME WHEN Damaso bent to kiss her, Marisa lifted her mouth to him, desire filling her. For the first time she didn’t turn aside so his lips brushed her face, her throat or the sensitive point behind her ear.
The sensation of his mouth on hers, sure and hard, demanding the response she could no longer stop, blasted her into another world.
Wave upon wave of pleasure crashed through her. She clung to broad shoulders as his marauding mouth demanded more, ever more. Her surrender elicited a growl of satisfaction from Damaso that she felt right through her core as he gathered her close.
She needed this, him, filling her senses, as she couldn’t remember needing anything in her life.
Even the night they’d shared—giving in to instinct and reaching out to Damaso in the hope he was different from the rest—Marisa had shied from this particular intimacy. She’d shared her body but kissing on the mouth had been a step too far. It was a boundary she hadn’t crossed since Andreas had seduced and betrayed her. In her mind, it had become a symbol of gullibility and defeat.
Yet now she revelled in Damaso’s hot, delving kiss, the tangle of tongues and hot breath, the flagrant openness and hunger.
There was no trace of bitterness, only the spicy, addictive taste of Damaso spinning her senses out of control and a thrill almost of triumph in her effervescent blood.
There was something else she couldn’t name, something strong and pure, that filled her with elation and wonder.
This felt right. More than right.
She gave up trying to put a name to it as her mind fogged.
Marisa clamped her hands to the back of Damaso’s head, revelling in the tangle of his thick, soft hair between her fingers. She angled her head to give him better access as he devoured her. His big hands held her close, his body anchoring her.
If this was defeat, it was glorious.
This kiss wasn’t like Andreas’s practised moves. Nor was it like Damaso’s earlier attempt to seduce her into compliance. It was potent, hungry, untamed and it affected them both equally.
She felt the shudders rake Damaso’s big frame as she moved against him; heard the raw delight in his gasp as she licked into his mouth; registered the convulsive tightening of his hands at her waist as she pressed even closer, trying to meld herself with him.
The air sizzled with the charge they generated.
Marisa wasn’t surprised when a flash of light flickered across her closed eyes and a boom that could only be thunder ripped open the night. It was as if the elements had been triggered by the force of passion unleashed when Damaso set his mouth on hers.
Something cool and hard hit her bare shoulders; Damaso held her pinioned against the reinforced glass wall that gave such a spectacular view of the city. The cool glass made her even more aware of the intense heat of Damaso’s aroused body. He was like a furnace.
Greedily, she wanted that heat for herself.
She dropped her hands to his shoulders and pushed his jacket back. He growled again, low in his throat, as if annoyed at the interruption, but let her go long enough to shake free of the jacket.
When he reached for her an instant later his hands moulded her breasts and she choked on a sigh of satisfaction.
‘Yes! That!’ Her head arched back against the glass, her breasts thrusting up into his palms as he caressed her, gently at first, then demandingly.
A guttural murmur broke from Damaso’s throat. She didn’t understand the Portuguese but her body responded to the urgency in his voice.
Her fingers fumbled at his collar, yanking at buttons till her hands met hard flesh. She wanted to bury her face there and taste the salty tang that rose sharp in her nostrils. She was wrestling with another button when Damaso’s hands dropped away and she had to bite down hard to stop
the mew of disappointment that rose on her lips.
She needed his touch on her body.
She wanted...
With one tremendous heave of shoulders and arms, Damaso ripped his shirt wide, buttons spattering to the floor. In the semi-dark Marisa watched the play of heavy muscles, the ripple of movement all the way down his dark, gold torso as he fought to tear the sleeves away.
Then he was bare-chested, snatching her hands in his and planting them high on his solid pectorals. Her palms tingled as hot flesh and the brush of body hair tickled.
‘You’re stunning,’ she murmured. ‘How did you get to look so good?’
He shook his head, his features taut as if fired in metal. ‘It’s you who’s stunning, querida. I’ve never known a more perfect woman.’
‘I’m not—’
Damaso’s index finger closed her lips and it was a sign of her need that her tongue streaked out to taste him. His eyelids drooped as she licked him and the flesh beneath her hands rippled in spasm.
She did that to him so easily?
‘You’re perfect for me, Marisa.’ His voice, thick with that sexy accent, brooked no argument. ‘You’re exactly what I want.’
Why that statement stilled her soul, Marisa didn’t know.
Surely this was about lust? But when Damaso watched her like that, spoke of wanting her and only her, her heart gave a strange little leap. That look, those words, spoke to a part of her she’d kept hidden most of her life—the part that craved love.
‘Stop thinking,’ he growled, but his touch was gentle as he raised his hands and pulled the pins from her hair so it fell around her bare shoulders, a sensual caress that made her shiver. ‘This is just you and me—Marisa and Damaso. Yes?’
His breath warmed her face; his hands dropped to her shoulders then down to the exquisitely tender upper slopes of her breasts. His fingertips traced the sweetheart neckline of her strapless dress, centimetre by slow centimetre, till she could take no more and clapped her hands over his, dragging them down to cup her breasts as she leaned close.
Damaso Claims His Heir Page 9