Damaso Claims His Heir

by Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

  ‘I have no idea.’ He didn’t bother to add he’d never been anyone’s confidant. ‘Why don’t you try me?’

  He said no more but waited, slowly stroking the luxurious softness of her hair from her head down her back.

  Marisa’s words, when they came, surprised him.

  ‘I was fifteen when the press came after me the first time.’ Her voice was firm but a little breathless, as if she couldn’t fill her lungs. Damaso forced himself to keep up the rhythm of his long strokes.

  ‘There’d been press attention before then, of course. It was inevitable, with us orphaned when we were only ten. Every time we appeared in public they went into a frenzy—the poor little orphan royals.’ Bitterness laced her words. ‘Not that anyone cared enough to check we were all right.’

  Damaso digested that in silence. He knew Marisa’s relationship with her uncle, the current king and former regent, was poor, but better not to interrupt her with questions.

  She drew a slow breath. ‘Things eased a little over the years. Stefan and I got used to the media presence. Then at fifteen I was trying out for the national gymnastics team and suddenly I was in the spotlight again, initially because of the novelty of me competing with “ordinary” girls, and then...’

  Damaso waited.

  ‘Someone with an axe to grind fed them a story that I was a slut, partying all night with one guy after another, then playing the privileged prima donna among the rest of the competitors by day.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Who was what?’

  ‘The person who invented the story.’

  She lifted her head and even in the darkness he knew she searched his face. ‘You believe me?’

  ‘Of course.’ It hadn’t occurred to him she might lie. Everything about her, from her repressed emotion to her obvious tension, proclaimed the truth. ‘Besides, I doubt you’d have the energy for bed hopping during the competition. Plus, you’re anything but a prima donna, despite your pedigree.’

  He’d watched her play the icy aristocrat when it suited, but he’d also seen how open and accessible she was to everyone on their tour. In his home she treated his staff with courtesy and genuine friendliness.

  Marisa fisted one hand on his chest and propped her chin on it, staring.

  ‘What?’ He couldn’t read her expression, but felt her gaze like the rasp of sharp metal on his flesh.

  ‘You’re the first person apart from Stefan and my coach to believe me.’ Her voice had a curious, flat tone that he knew hid more than it revealed. He wondered how it had felt being vilified so publicly at such an age.

  At least she’d had her brother.

  ‘Surely your uncle’s PR people would have helped?’

  Marisa turned, lying again on her side, her face obscured. ‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’

  Damaso waited, curious.

  ‘They were spectacularly ineffective. But my uncle had never approved of my passion for gymnastics. He thought it unladylike and definitely not suitable for a royal. He disapproved of me being seen in leotards, getting sweaty and dishevelled in public, and especially on live TV. And as for competing with commoners!’

  ‘He ordered his staff not to support you?’ Damaso frowned. He knew how hard elite athletes worked. One of his few peers to succeed and, like him, make a life outside the slum where they’d grown up had gone on to represent Brazil at football. He’d seen how much dedication and hard work that took.

  Marisa shrugged, her shoulder moving against his chest. ‘I never found out. Eventually the gymnastics committee decided it was too counter-productive having me on the team. The press attention was affecting everyone. A week after I turned sixteen, I was dropped from the squad.’

  Damaso fought the urge to wrap his arms tight around her. The fact that her voice was devoid of emotion told its own story. His chest tightened.

  ‘Mighty convenient for your uncle.’ Had he used the negative press stories to push his own ends?

  ‘That’s what Stefan said.’ Bitterness coloured Marisa’s words. ‘But we could never prove anything, no matter what we suspected.’

  Damaso stared into the darkness, putting two and two together. He recalled her hatred of the current king, the way even talking with him on the phone had sapped her energy. He remembered her comment about no one bothering to check she and her brother had been well-cared-for once Cyrill had become their guardian. That level of resentment must have deep roots. Was it possible her uncle had actually fostered the press stories?

  ‘It’s too late to worry about that now.’ She did a good job of sounding matter-of-fact but he heard the undercurrent in her voice.

  ‘Because the damage is done?’

  ‘Sometimes it doesn’t matter if a reputation is deserved. It takes on a life of its own.’ She shifted against him. ‘You’d be amazed how much difference a provocative caption can make to an innocent photo. Anything that didn’t fit was seen as me or the palace trying to put a good face on things.’

  ‘So you couldn’t win.’

  Abruptly Marisa tugged her hand free of his grip and sat up, her back to him. She anchored the sheet beneath her arms and took her time pushing her hair back from her face.

  ‘I survived.’ Her tone was light. ‘In fact, being known as a party girl made it easier to flout convention when the fancy took me, which it did. Eventually I learned to enjoy the benefits of notoriety, so it’s not all bad. I always get invited to the most interesting parties.’

  Damaso propped himself on one elbow, trying to read her profile in the darkness. He guessed her physical withdrawal meant he was getting too close for comfort.

  Instinct told him Marisa wasn’t used to sharing confidences either. She was strong and self-reliant in a way he recognised in himself, despite their dissimilar backgrounds.

  Which meant it was time to back off. She didn’t want him probing further.

  Fat chance. He wanted to know all there was to know about her.

  Besides, despite her tone of unconcern he sensed a fragility that intrigued him.

  ‘Except you wanted something more. You said the other day you’d wanted to work but the press exposure stopped you.’

  Had she stiffened or did he imagine it?

  Her shoulders rose and fell in what passed for a shrug. ‘It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. I don’t have any qualifications or useful skills.’ Her chin lifted, reminding him of that morning in the jungle resort when she’d turned from beddable siren to haughty empress in the blink of an eye. Now, he’d swear it was a self-protection mechanism. Had it been that, then, too?

  Marisa spoke, distracting him. ‘I’m not academically minded. I barely made it through high school. Unless an employer wants someone who can make a perfect curtsey, or chat aimlessly with doddering aristocrats and bland-faced diplomats, my skills aren’t exactly in demand.’

  ‘Putting yourself down before someone else does it for you?’

  That drew a reaction. She whipped round to face him, her hair flaring wide around her shoulders.

  ‘Just facing facts, Damaso. I’m a realist.’

  ‘Me too.’ And what he saw was a woman who’d been badly hurt time and again but conditioned herself not to show it.

  He should be grateful she didn’t cry on his shoulder.

  But he wasn’t. Something wild and dark inside clawed with fury at the way she’d been treated. The way she’d been judged and dismissed.

  He wanted to grab her uncle and the media piranhas by their collective throats and choke some apologies out of them.

  He wanted to crush Marisa in his arms and hold her till the pain went away. She’d probably shove him aside for his trouble. Besides, what did he know of offering comfort?

  ‘Let’s end this conversation, Damaso. I’ve had enough.’

  Yet he couldn’t leave this.

  ‘So you played up to your reputation. Who wouldn’t in the circumstances? But we’ve already established you’re not as promiscuous as the worl
d thinks.’

  ‘Don’t forget the drug-taking and high-stakes gambling.’ Even in the gloom he saw her chin jut higher.

  Damaso tilted his head. Why was she raising those rumours? It was as if she’d changed her mind about sharing herself with him and took refuge instead in her reputation for licence.

  ‘And did you? Snort coke and lose a fortune gambling?’

  ‘I lost my driver’s licence just two and a half months ago doing twice the speed limit on the hairpin bends above the palace.’

  Two and a half months ago. ‘After your brother died?’

  ‘Leave Stefan out of this.’ Marisa swung her legs out of bed but Damaso’s hand on her arm shackled her so she couldn’t move.

  ‘Let me go. I told you I’d had enough.’ Her voice was clipped and condescending and a frisson of long-forgotten shame feathered his spine—as if he was still a ragged slum kid who’d dared to touch a princess with his dirty paw.

  His hand gentled.

  ‘You’re too fit to be a regular drug user, Marisa. I’ve seen too many of them to be fooled. And as for gambling... You’ve had ample opportunity since you arrived but you’ve shown no interest.’ He paused. ‘That leaves your reputation with men.’

  ‘I’m hardly a virgin, Damaso.’

  For which he was grateful. Sex with Marisa was one of life’s high points.

  ‘So how many have there been, Marisa?’

  She tugged at his arm but he held firm.

  ‘You can’t seriously be asking that.’

  ‘I seriously am.’

  For four pulse beats, five, six, she stared him down. Then she leaned towards him, her free hand sliding from his thigh to his groin, closing around his already quickening shaft.

  ‘Enough.’ Her voice was a throaty murmur that turned his bones molten.

  ‘Convince me.’

  For a flicker of a moment she hesitated. Then she shoved him back on the pillow and bent her head. Long tresses of silk caressed his skin. Her lips were hot and soft, wickedly arousing on his burgeoning flesh.

  But something was wrong. Damaso felt the tension in her frame, as if her nerves had been stretched to breaking point.

  With a groan of disbelief at what he was about to do, Damaso pushed her away, rolling her onto her back and imprisoning her with the weight of his body.

  They lay so close he saw the over-bright glitter of her fine eyes and the uneven twist of her lips.

  ‘Don’t ever do that unless you want it too.’ The idea of her servicing him rather than acting out of shared arousal left a bitter taste on his tongue. For that was what she’d been doing, he was sure of it—trying to distract him.

  Slowly, tenderly, he leaned down and planted a kiss at the corner of her mouth, another near her nose, then across her cheek to follow a leisurely trail down her neck. By the time he reached the base of her throat, her pulse was frantic. He kissed her there, ridiculously reassured by this proof of her response.

  Marisa wanted him. Had wanted him all along. It was just that she’d tried to side-track him to avoid answering questions.

  His hand slipped between her legs as he moved lower to kiss her nipple. With a sigh she tilted her hips and he pressed harder, rewarding her responsiveness.

  ‘How many men, Marisa?’

  She stiffened, her indrawn breath a hiss in the darkness.

  Damaso feathered teasing kisses across her breast, his fingers delving into her most sensitive place. Marisa’s hands threaded through his hair, holding him close.

  When she was soft again beneath him he stopped.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘You’re a devil, Damaso Pires.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’ He nipped gently at her breast and watched her arch high. ‘How many?’ Deliberately he lifted his hand away. Still Marisa didn’t admit defeat.

  It took ten minutes of delicious pleasure before she finally gave in, by which time Damaso was close to losing the last of his own control.

  ‘Two,’ she gasped, her body writhing beneath his.

  ‘Two?’ Damaso couldn’t believe his ears. Only two men before him?

  ‘Well...one and a half.’ She drew him down till he sank between her thighs.

  ‘How can there be a half?’ He groaned when he found his voice. She was slowly killing him.

  Marisa’s eyes opened and for a moment he could have sworn he read pain in her eyes, though it should have been impossible in the darkness.

  ‘The first one seduced me so he could brag about it to his friends. After that...’ She looked away. ‘After that I found it hard to trust, so the second one didn’t get as far as he expected.’

  Damaso braced himself high and joined them with one easy move that took him home. ‘Not this far?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you don’t mind...with me?’

  Slowly she smiled and the tightness banding his chest fell away.

  ‘I don’t mind.’ She gasped when he moved and clutched his upper arms. ‘I could even...come to quite enjoy it.’

  Quite enjoy it!

  There was a challenge if ever he’d heard one.

  Damaso made absolutely sure she’d more than ‘quite enjoyed’ herself before he was finished.

  Finally she lay limp against him, curled up with her head tucked beneath his chin, her knee between his and her hand flung across him where it had fallen when he’d rolled onto his back.

  Her breathing was deep and steady, and he told himself if she dreamed it was of something pleasant, not the disappointments and pain of her past.

  Damaso was sure he had only half the story. But that was enough. Duped and betrayed by her first lover, hung out to dry by the uncle who should have protected her, scorned by the world’s press... Who’d been on her side?

  Her twin, Stefan, who’d died just months ago.

  Damaso had assumed the passion he’d shared with Marisa that first night was the product of two healthy libidos and a wildfire of mutual attraction. Yet he recalled the blind look on Marisa’s face as she’d tackled that notorious climb on the trek. She’d been lost in her own world and the blankness of her stare had scared him. Had that been grief driving her?

  Had grief pushed her into his arms?

  He swallowed and turned his gaze to the first grey fingers of dawn spreading across the sprawling city.

  She’d had only one real lover before him.

  One!

  Damaso would love to think it was his sheer magnetism that had made her walk into his arms. But did that ring true with a woman who’d guarded her lack of sexual experience under the eyes of the gloating world press? Who, even when she partied all night, kept herself apart from casual sexual encounters?

  There’d been a wealth of pain in Marisa’s voice as she’d spoke of the man who’d betrayed her. It made Damaso want to commit violence.

  What had it done to her?

  He’d thought Marisa sexy and alluring with a feisty, ‘don’t give a damn what society thinks’ attitude that matched his.

  Instead he’d discovered she was a woman who needed careful handling. She had so much front it was hard to tell where the public persona ended and the real woman began. One thing he knew for sure—behind her masks of hauteur and unconcern was a woman who felt, and hurt, deeply.

  His fingers twitched as she shifted, her breath hazing his skin. He wanted her again with a hunger he found almost impossible to conquer.

  If she’d been the woman he’d first thought, he’d have had no qualms about waking her.

  Instead Marisa was a unique mix of fragility and strength. A woman who, instinct told him, needed the sort of man he didn’t know how to be.

  For the first time in years, he felt inadequate. Tension made his jaw ache as he contemplated the tangle that was their relationship.

  Damaso wasn’t equipped to deal with the nuances of emotional pain. He’d experienced and witnessed so much trauma as a kid he’d all but excised feelings from his life until he’d met Marisa.

 
He didn’t know how to give Marisa what she needed.

  Her vulnerability made him feel like a clumsy lout who’d blundered in and smashed what was left of her fragile peace by getting her pregnant.

  A better man would regret that.

  A better man would support her yet let her go.

  Damaso had never been anything like a good man. He was too used to getting his own way. He’d been driven solely by the need to survive, then thrive.

  He couldn’t bring himself to wish Marisa’s pregnancy away. He was too selfish for that.

  He wanted his child.

  He wanted Marisa.

  His hand tightened on her hip and he smiled grimly when she snuggled closer, as if this was where she wanted to be.

  Who was he kidding? He’d seduced her, taking advantage of her vulnerability after the stress of the party. He’d used his superior sexual experience to make her open up to him, physically and emotionally.

  And he’d continued to push his way into her life, inveigling her to become part of his.

  A better man...

  No, he’d never be a better man. He was hard, bent on winning at all costs.

  His one concession would be that from now on, knowing what he did of Marisa’s story, he’d treat her gently, give her space and time to adjust to her new life with him.

  He’d learn what he needed to protect her and keep her with him till she wanted to stay by choice.

  Even if it meant keeping his distance till she did.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘BUT YOU CAN’T have considered, Your Highness!’

  Marisa leaned back in her cushioned seat and raised one eyebrow, knowing her silence would be like a red rag to a bull. She seethed at the superior attitude taken by the Bengarian ambassador. He was her uncle’s crony, and no doubt Cyrill’s belief that he could command and she’d obey had rubbed off.

  ‘Think of the publicity,’ he urged. ‘Think of the gossip. You have to be there for the King’s coronation.’

  ‘I don’t recall anything about that in the constitution.’ She should know; she’d been force-fed the document as a child, reminded again and again of her royal obligations and all the ways she didn’t measure up.

  Languidly she crossed one leg over the other. The ambassador’s gaze dropped to her bright sandals, then up past her linen trousers to the gauzy top in tropical shades of lime-green and vivid yellow that she’d picked up just last week in the markets.