No wonder he pursed his lips and frowned. She looked good, she reminded herself. In fact, she looked blooming. Obviously the early stages of pregnancy agreed with her now the sickness had passed. But, though she was dressed with casual chic, she’d refused to don the staid, formal clothes expected of a Bengarian princess.
She wasn’t in Bengaria and had no intention of returning.
‘If I may say, princess...’ he paused long enough for her to feel bile rise at that unctuous tone ‘...you have an obligation not only to your country but to your uncle, who sacrificed so much for you. Remember that he raised you.’
‘And I’m the woman I am today because of him.’ Let him chew on that for a while. When the ambassador simply frowned, she added, ‘We’ve never been close. He’ll hardly miss me in the throng.’
No doubt Cyrill would be surrounded by sycophants, people who had feathered their nests from the royal coffers.
‘If I may say, Your Highness, that’s a very...’ He read her expression and paused. ‘Unhelpful attitude.’
If he expected that to convince her, he had a lot to learn.
‘I wasn’t aware anyone expected me to be helpful.’ She leaned forward a fraction. ‘In fact, I seem to recall being advised months ago that it would be to the country’s benefit if I left as quickly and quietly as possible.’
He had the grace to blush.
‘Now.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Thank you for your visit. As always, it’s a delight to be brought up to date with the news from Bengaria. But I’m afraid I’ve another appointment.’
‘But you can’t just—’ She watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in that scrawny throat. She’d feel sorry for him if she didn’t know him for one of Cyrill’s yes-men who’d made Stefan’s life and her own a nightmare obstacle course of deliberate disruption and sabotage. ‘I mean.’ He fiddled with his tie as if it were too tight. ‘The baby.’
‘Baby?’ Marisa surveyed him with a glacial stare that would have done Cyrill himself proud.
‘Your baby.’
Marisa said nothing. She had no intention of discussing her pregnancy with her uncle’s envoy.
‘King Cyrill had hoped... That is to say, he’s already making arrangements...’
Arrangements to do what? Adopt out her child? Force her to have an abortion? Marisa’s flesh crawled.
In the innermost recesses of her heart lurked a fear she might not have what it took to be a good mother. That she might let her child down. But despite her doubts Marisa would face down the King of Bengaria and the whole of his parliament before she let him lay a hand on her child.
‘As ever, I’m fascinated by my uncle’s plans.’ She forced the words beyond the knot of fear in her constricting throat. ‘Do tell.’
The ambassador shifted and cleared his throat.
Finally he spoke. ‘The King has graciously decided to negotiate a royal match that will give your child legitimacy and save your reputation. He’s been in discussion with the Prince of—’
Marisa flung up a hand and the ambassador lapsed into silence. Her stomach heaved as his words penetrated like arrows. This time it took almost a minute before she could speak.
‘With someone who is willing to overlook the little matter of another man’s child,’ she murmured. ‘In return for my uncle’s help in shoring up his social position.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Or is it his wealth? No, don’t tell me, I really don’t want to know.’
Cyrill must be desperate to contain any possible damage to the royal family’s reputation. Or, just as likely, to have some positive media to counteract the negativity his harsh rule was attracting. There was nothing like a royal wedding and a royal baby to turn the tide of public opinion.
But not her baby!
Marisa would do anything to ensure her child wasn’t a royal pawn. It would grow up as far from palace machinations as possible.
She was determined her child would have what she hadn’t: love and a nurturing environment. She’d even begun to wonder if perhaps marriage to Damaso might provide that. He didn’t love her but she had no doubt he cared for their baby.
Marisa drew a slow breath and dredged the depths of her strength. She felt ridiculously shaky but determined not to show it.
‘You can thank my uncle for his concern but I’ll be making my own arrangements from now on. Good day.’
Without a second glance, she turned and swept out of the room, the ambassador’s protests a vague background babble over the sound of her rough breathing and the blood pulsing in her ears. If she didn’t get to the bathroom soon...
‘Madam, are you all right?’
It was Ernesto, Damaso’s butler-come-bodyguard, assigned to accompany her whenever she went out. For the first time, she was truly thankful for his enormous height and sheer bulk.
‘Please make sure the ambassador is escorted from the apartment.’ She swallowed convulsively, feeling her insides churn uncomfortably, and pressed her hand to her mouth.
Ernesto hesitated only a split second, concern in his shrewd, dark eyes, then swung away.
‘And make sure he doesn’t return,’ Marisa gasped.
‘You’ll never see him again, madam.’ The bass rumble was ridiculously reassuring as she stumbled to the bathroom.
* * *
When she emerged Ernesto appeared with a laden tray.
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’
‘If you’ve been unwell you need to replace your fluids. The mint tea will make you feel better.’
At Marisa’s stare, he shrugged and put the tray on the coffee table. ‘So Beatriz says.’
Great; he and the housekeeper were discussing her health now.
Yet the knowledge soothed rather than annoyed her. Ernesto and Beatriz, like Damaso’s staff on the island, were unlike any servants she’d known. They genuinely cared about their employer and, by extension, her.
She wasn’t used to being cared for. Stefan and she had shared a bond nothing could sever, but each had had their own pursuits and, once he’d become King, Stefan shouldered new responsibilities.
As for Damaso, Marisa was sure he cared. Look at the way he personally escorted her now to restaurants, dance clubs and parties, never leaving her side. Every night his tender seduction drew her more and more under his spell.
Damaso cared, all right. But whether for her or her baby, she wasn’t sure.
She’d spilled her secrets to him, revealing details she’d never shared, and he’d held her and made love to her in such a way, she’d swear he understood.
And yet...
Marisa chewed her lip, confronting the doubts that had racked her since that memorable night when she’d given herself to him again. She’d opened up to Damaso in ways she never had with any man. The catharsis of reliving her past, and giving herself so completely, had left her limp and drained, yet more whole than she’d felt in years. Even the devastating loss of her twin seemed more bearable.
The next morning she’d woken with scratchy eyes and heavy limbs but to a sense of renewed hope. Until she’d found Damaso had left her to sleep late while he went to work.
What had she expected? That he’d stay with her, sharing his own secrets as she’d done hers?
She wasn’t so naïve. Yet she’d hoped for something. Some breaking down of the barriers between them. At a physical level, the barriers had shattered, but emotionally? It felt like Damaso had retreated even further. She was no closer to knowing him than she’d been a month ago.
Oh, he was tender in bed, and solicitous when they went out. Her mouth twisted as she remembered how he’d staked his claim over her just last night at another exclusive party. Marisa wanted to believe it was because he felt something for her. But more likely he was doing what was necessary to get what he wanted—access to their baby.
The trouble was she longed to trust him as he urged, not just with her body but with her future and her child’s. Even with her heart.
She sucked in a sharp, shocked breath
.
How could she think like that? She’d loved two people in her life, her mother and her brother, and their deaths had all but shattered her. Loving was far too dangerous.
‘Madam?’
Ernesto held out a steaming porcelain cup in his massive hand.
Dragged from her circling thoughts, Marisa accepted the cup. She was too wired to sit and eat the pastries Beatriz had prepared, but she’d learned to appreciate Brazilian mint tea. She lowered her head and inhaled, feeling a modicum of calm ease her tense body.
‘I’ll go out when I’ve had this.’ She was too restless to stay indoors.
Ernesto nodded. ‘By helicopter or car?’
It was on the tip of Marisa’s tongue to say she wanted to walk, blocks and blocks through the teeming city. Anything to numb the pain and the trickle of fear the ambassador’s words had stirred. Anything to blot out the fear that she was in danger of swapping one gilded cage for another.
She was safe from her uncle’s machinations—he couldn’t force her into an arranged marriage—but the fact remained she’d let weeks race by without coming up with a plan for her future and the baby’s. She needed to decide where they’d live, not drift aimlessly.
A vision of Damaso’s private island swam in her brain and her lips curved as she imagined splashing in the shallows with an ebony-haired toddler.
Marisa blinked and sipped her tea. Maybe it would soothe her need for action.
‘Where is Damaso today?’
Stupid that her thoughts turned to him so often. He’d never pretended to care for her as anything more than the woman carrying his child. But this last week, despite logic, she’d imagined a deeper connection between them.
How could that be when he left her to her own devices all day? She told herself she was glad he found it so easy to push aside the intimacy of their nights together. Better than having him on hand, reminding her of his demand that they marry.
‘He’s out in the city.’
‘In his office?’ Damaso had pointed out the building to Marisa one night on their way to an exclusive club.
‘No, madam.’
Ernesto’s less than helpful answer made her prick up her ears. Or maybe it was because she sought distraction from her fears.
‘I’d like to see him.’ She watched over the top of the delicate cup as Ernesto’s eyes widened a fraction.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’ What was Damaso doing that he wanted to keep from her? He was as close as a clam about his life.
Ernesto hesitated a moment. ‘He’s in one of the favelas.’
‘Favelas?’ Marisa was sure she’d heard the word before.
‘Poor neighbourhoods. Where the houses aren’t—’ He shrugged, his English apparently failing him. ‘A slum,’ he said finally.
Marisa frowned. That was the last thing she’d expected. She put down her cup and saucer, relieved to have something to divert her from Cyrill’s schemes. ‘You can take me there.’
* * *
‘Truly, madam, this isn’t a good idea.’
Marisa smiled her sympathy at Ernesto as they negotiated a rutted dirt road, but refused to turn back. Not till she found Damaso and what had brought him here.
On either side of the track rose haphazard buildings, some solid-looking and painted in bright colours, others looking like they’d been cobbled together with whatever materials could be salvaged. The scent of fires, spicy food and something much less savoury lingered in the air. Marisa plodded on. It wasn’t the first place she’d visited that didn’t have a reliable sewage system.
They approached a long building painted saffron-yellow and the bodyguards Ernesto had brought fanned out. Ernesto gestured for her to accompany him inside.
The first face she saw was Damaso’s. He sat at a battered metal table with a group of men, all sipping coffee out of tiny cups, engrossed in conversation. His proud features were intent as he listened to an older man speak and he leaned back, as if fading into the background. Yet even in casual jeans and shirt he stood out from the rest.
Marisa’s breath caught as she drank in the sight of him.
He didn’t see her and she stopped just inside the open door, letting her senses adjust.
The building was cavernous. Over behind the men was an indoor basketball court where a bunch of gangly teens played, encouraged by catcalls and cheers.
From a door to the left came the clanging of pots and a delicious savoury scent that could only mean someone was cooking. Over on the far left, she heard music and voices, and straight ahead on a battered wall was tacked a collection of photos.
Instinctively she moved towards the photos, telling herself she hadn’t lost her nerve about seeing Damaso. He was busy, and not with some dusky beauty as she’d half-feared.
Marisa wrestled with self-directed anger. Why had it been so imperative she see him? She could deal with her uncle’s schemes without running to Damaso for support.
The photos ranged from ordinary snapshots to one or two that made her pulse trip a beat. That one of the skinny teenager, his eyes far too old for his face, his expression weary yet his stance all pugnacious machismo, as if he dared the world to mess with him. The wistful look on the old woman’s crinkled face as she watched a young couple in bright colours dance on a cracked concrete floor, their bodies lithe and sinuous, the embodiment of sexual energy.
‘What are you doing here, Marisa?’
‘Admiring the art.’ She didn’t turn, preferring not to respond to Damaso’s dark tone. ‘Some of these are remarkable.’
‘You shouldn’t have come.’ She heard him drag in a breath. ‘Ernesto should have known better.’
‘Don’t blame Ernesto.’ She turned and met his shadowed glare, wondering exactly what she’d interrupted. Damaso’s tension was palpable. She’d never seen him so edgy. ‘He didn’t want to bring me here but his orders are to keep me safe, not a prisoner.’
Damaso’s nostrils flared as he breathed deep, apparently searching for calm. He couldn’t have missed the challenge in her tone. She’d agreed to stay with him, but on condition there was no coercion. Restricting her movements would violate that.
Marisa watched his hands bunch then flex, as if he resisted the urge to pick her up and cart her away. For a moment she was tempted to provoke him, break the invisible barrier that kept him so aloof while she felt impossibly needy.
Hurt and anger warred with pride. This wasn’t the place.
‘You think this place is safe?’ Warning filled his voice.
‘I have guards. Besides, you’re here.’ She didn’t add that at least some of the locals had seemed friendly. She hadn’t missed the wary looks of others and the way a few figures had skulked away into the shadows as they’d passed.
‘That’s different.’
Marisa tilted her head to one side, taking in his clenched jaw and the tight line of white around his mouth.
‘I can see it is.’ She wasn’t a fool. ‘But I was curious.’
‘Now you’ve seen it, you can leave.’
That didn’t even deserve a response. ‘What is this place?’
Damaso shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘A local gathering place. A community centre, if you like.’
‘I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting.’ She nodded to the group of seated men watching them.
‘We’d finished. Now.’ He reached out and took her arm, his hold implacable. ‘It’s time we left.’
‘What are you hiding, Damaso?’
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him and his gaze slid away. Marisa stared, stunned that her instinct had been right. He was concealing something.
Damaso’s lips moved as if he were about to speak but he said nothing. His face took on that spare, hewn look that she’d come to suspect meant he repressed strong feeling.
Instinctively she covered his hand with her own.
‘Now I’m here, won’t you show me around?’ She met his stare o
penly. ‘It’s important to you,’ she said slowly, ‘or you wouldn’t be here.’ For clearly this wasn’t some high-powered finance meeting that would reap more profits for his ever-expanding empire. ‘Please?’
His exhalation of breath was a warm gust on her face. ‘You’re not leaving till I do, are you?’
Marisa shook her head and felt the rock-solid muscle of his arm ease a little against hers.
‘Very well.’
* * *
Damaso intended the tour to take a brief ten minutes but he’d reckoned without the inevitable interest Marisa aroused. People came out of the woodwork to see the gorgeous blonde Damaso Pires had brought into their midst.
As the clustering numbers grew, tension ratcheted up again. He couldn’t believe she was in any danger with him. Yet he couldn’t be comfortable with Marisa in these surroundings. It just wasn’t right.
To her credit, Marisa wasn’t fazed. She was interested in everything, not pushing herself forward, but not afraid to initiate conversation in her halting Portuguese that Damaso for one found endearing and sexy.
They loved her, drawn by her bright energy and enthusiasm. By the way she didn’t shy from shaking hands and sharing a joke. By her interest, especially in the kids. Some girls had been having a dance class and showed what they’d learnt. When one, a little over-eager, stumbled when she attempted a cartwheel, Marisa showed her how to place her hands, shucking off her shoes and demonstrating, then helping the little one get the move right.
Damaso smothered a smile. It was the first time he’d seen his security staff lost for words. As for the kids, they regarded her with a mix of awe and acceptance that made him proud and infuriated at the same time.
‘This is marvellous.’ Marisa smiled up at the woman who’d served her at the large communal table and dipped her spoon back into the bowl that had been set before her. ‘Tell me what it’s called?’
‘Feijoada—black bean stew.’ Even now, with the budget to live on champagne and lobster, it was Damaso’s favourite dish. In the days when he’d first eaten it, of course, there’d been very little meat to flavour the rich dish, and much more of the rice and beans.
Damaso Claims His Heir Page 12