Damaso Claims His Heir

by Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

  ‘Do you think Beatriz would make it for us?’

  He nodded. Beatriz, like he, had grown up with it.

  One of the little girls sidled closer to Marisa on the long bench seat, her eyes wide. At a comment from Marisa in hesitant Portuguese, she grinned and began talking.

  Damaso watched them communicate easily with so few words and felt something tighten and twist deep in his belly. He should have known Marisa would take a visit to a poor neighbourhood in her stride. As a princess, she was no doubt used to playing Lady Bountiful, bringing out that practised smile to charm the adoring crowds.

  But this was something else. This wasn’t stage-managed. He felt the warmth of her personality reach out and encompass him as it enthralled the little girl.

  Yet some dark thing inside him rebelled at Marisa being here. It coiled through his gut, clawed through his veins and made him itch to drag her away to the world where she belonged. A world of luxury and ease, where he could take care of her while she nurtured the baby they’d created.

  That was it. The baby.

  She had to think of the baby’s wellbeing, not salve her social conscience visiting the poor.

  ‘It’s time we left.’

  He rose and held out his hand. Even to his own ears the words were abrupt and he saw startled looks directed his way.

  The little girl shrank away as if he’d shouted at her and he felt heat score his cheeks as shame flared. But it couldn’t counteract the terrible urgency gnawing at his innards. He had to get Marisa away from here. Now!

  It took a lifetime for Marisa to move. His pulse galloped as he watched her turn and say something to the girl that made her grin shyly. Then Marisa rose from her wooden seat with all the grace of an empress. An empress who ignored his outstretched hand with a disdain that knifed right to his chest. Her gaze slid across his face before she turned and thanked first one person and then another for their hospitality.

  They clustered around, responding to her warmth and sincerity, and absurdly Damaso felt locked out, as if he were alone in the darkness, cut off from a happiness he hadn’t even known he’d grown accustomed to.

  Absurd!

  He was successful. Sought-after. He had it all, everything he’d ever dreamed of and more.

  Yet when Marisa finally made a move to leave, turning not to him but to Ernesto, something fractured inside.

  In two strides Damaso was at her side, tugging her arm through his. She stiffened and her smile grew fixed but she didn’t pull away.

  Good! He’d run out of patience.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NEITHER SPOKE ON the journey. He was reminded of the night of the party when he’d been jealous and suspicious, when she’d stood up to him and they’d come together in such a conflagration it had melted his self-control.

  But this was different. This was... He shook his head, unable to put a name to the vast, nameless void that had taken up residence in this chest the moment he’d seen Marisa in the squalor that had been the only world he’d known.

  Nevertheless, he held himself in check as they entered the apartment and Marisa headed to the bedroom they shared.

  Did he expect her to pack her things? Was that the source of the tension knotting his belly?

  But she merely dropped her bag on the bed and headed for the bathroom. His hand on the door stopped it closing behind her.

  ‘I’d like some privacy while I take a bath.’ Her eyes fixed on his left ear and turbulent anger rose in a coiling wave. He would not be dismissed.

  ‘Since when have you needed privacy for that?’ Deliberately he let his gaze rove her body, lingering on the swift rise and fall of her lush, pert breasts, the narrow waist that always seemed impossibly tiny beneath his hands and the delicious curve of her hips.

  ‘Since now, Damaso.’ She turned away, unclasping her chunky silver bracelet and putting it on a tray beneath the mirror. ‘I’m not in the mood for dealing with you.’

  ‘Dealing with me?’

  His gaze collided with hers in the mirror and he realised when she flinched that he’d shouted.

  Her chin inched up as she took a silver and turquoise stud from her ear and let it clatter onto the tray.

  ‘Your disapproval.’ Her throat worked and something dragged at his belly, like a plough raking deep and drawing blood. ‘You couldn’t have made it any clearer that you don’t want me meeting your friends. And don’t try to tell me those people aren’t important to you. Anyone could see they mean more than the social set you party with.’

  Her hands worked at the other stud yet she couldn’t seem to drag it free.

  ‘But if you think you can just dismiss me as not good enough because I don’t have a vocation or a career, because I haven’t yet made anything of my life, then you can think again.’ Her voice wobbled and the raw furrow in his belly gaped wider, sucking his breath out as pain stabbed.

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, Damaso. Not now.’ Finally she loosened the earring and it clattered onto the tray then bounced to the floor. Marisa didn’t notice. ‘Not while I’m trying to decide whether to leave.’

  Her gaze dropped to her watch as she fumbled with the band.

  Damaso didn’t realise he’d moved till he saw his hand reach out and brush her fingers aside.

  He swallowed down a toxic brew of self-disgust and anger as he unclasped her watch and placed it on the crystal tray with her jewellery.

  ‘I don’t want you to leave.’ For a miracle, the words emerged steadily. He told himself Marisa was grieving and insecure. She’d misunderstood his actions. There was no danger of her leaving. He’d stop her, one way or another.

  She shook her head and tendrils of spun gold feathered her cheeks. ‘It’s too late for that.’ She put a hand to his chest and shoved.

  As if that would move him. For all her energy, she was tiny. He captured her hand in his, pressing it hard against his chest.

  ‘Marisa, you’ve got it wrong.’ Damaso searched his brain for an explanation. That was it: the child. ‘You have to be careful of the baby. In an area like that—’

  ‘Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more.’ The way her voice suddenly rose silenced him. He’d never heard Marisa so...desperate.

  She drew a shuddering breath. ‘I know the baby is ultimately all you care about, Damaso, but don’t try to dress up what happened today.’ Her eyes met his, boring right into his soul. ‘You disapproved of me being there because you disapprove of me. It was plain as the nose on your face.’

  He saw the bright sheen of her eyes and knew he was on the verge of losing her.

  ‘Disapprove of you?’ His laugh was harsh. ‘You have no idea.’ He crowded her back against the vanity unit, his hands running over her as if learning her body’s shape all over again, or ensuring she was whole and unscarred by today’s outing.

  ‘Don’t try to seduce me, Damaso. It won’t work. Not this time.’

  He shook his head as he searched for the right words.

  ‘I didn’t want you there. It’s not safe. It’s not...’ The words dried as his throat constricted. How could he explain that awful blank fear that had consumed him, seeing her there? His hands balled into straining fists. ‘You shouldn’t be in such a place.’

  ‘I might have been born a princess, Damaso, but I don’t live in an ivory tower.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ He hefted a deep breath that didn’t fill his lungs. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘For the baby. So you say.’

  He gripped her shoulders and her startled eyes met his. ‘Not just the baby. You too.’ He ground the words out past a clenched jaw. ‘You have no idea what can happen in a place like that. I needed to protect you, get you away from there.’

  His breath sawed loud and fast, competing with the drumming blood in his ears. He knew he held her too tight but he couldn’t get his hands to relax.

  ‘What can happen, Damaso?’ Her quiet voice penetrated the thunder of hi
s pulse. Her eyes held his and for the first time he had her full attention. Maybe she’d listen now.

  Her hand touched his cheek and the delicacy of it against his unshaven jaw reminded him of all the differences between them. Differences he’d ignored until today, when their two worlds had collided with shattering impact.

  The palace and the slum.

  ‘Too much.’ His voice was hoarse as he ran his hands up and down her back, reassuring himself she really was all right. ‘Disease, danger, violence.’

  ‘Those people live there every day.’

  ‘Because they have to. You don’t. You’re safe here. With me.’ He planted a possessive palm over her breast, feeling its warm weight, satisfaction rising at the gasp of delight she couldn’t stop.

  She was his and he’d protect her.

  He pressed closer, his thighs surrounding her, one arm wrapping around her, drawing her to him, while the other slipped under her top and flicked her bra undone.

  ‘Damaso!’ Her voice wasn’t strident this time. She wasn’t fighting him any more, graças a Deus. But something in her tone stopped him. Her gaze was steady and serious.

  ‘How do you know so much about the favelas?’

  He felt his lips hitch up in a mirthless smile. No point denying it; she’d find out sooner or later, even if it wasn’t public knowledge. ‘Because it’s where I’m from.’

  Damaso waited for the shock to show in her eyes. The disgust.

  Her hand brushed his cheek again then tunnelled through his hair, pulling his head down till his forehead touched hers.

  ‘The place where we were today?’

  Slowly he shook his head and drew another breath into cramped lungs that burned as they expanded. ‘Somewhere much worse. It’s long gone, bulldozed and redeveloped.’

  She said nothing and with each second’s silence he waited for her to pull away. Now she knew what he really was.

  The opinion of others had never mattered. He’d been too busy clawing his way out of poverty to care about anything but climbing each successive step to success. But Marisa’s reaction mattered.

  His fingers flexed against her satiny skin, his hands big and rough against her delicate, refined body.

  When she did move it took a moment to realise what she was doing. She pulled back but only to haul off her top and bra. Her summer-bright eyes held his as her clothes, a tangle of bright silk, fell to the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry I worried you.’ Her voice was high and breathless, but not as oxygen-starved as he was, watching her small hands anchor his much larger ones over her delectable breasts. The warmth of her soft body melted a little of the ice in his veins. Her nipples, firm and peaked, tickled his palms, making his breath ease out on a sigh.

  His brain struggled to compute what she was doing. How had they gone from his life in poverty to this?

  ‘You could just have told me.’ Her gaze meshed with his as her hand went to the zip of his jeans.

  Damaso swallowed hard, giving thanks for the strange yet wonderful impulses of his reckless princess.

  * * *

  Damaso drowsed at her breast, his hold encompassing her even in sleep. For the first time he hadn’t demurred when she’d told him to stay where he was in the languid aftermath of love-making. Instead of rolling aside, he lay spread across her, as if melding himself with her.

  For that was how their loving had felt. Slow and deliberate and possessive in a way that made Marisa’s throat catch and her heart drum when she remembered it.

  Yet there’d been desperation too, in his eyes and in the barely contained power of his body bringing her to ecstasy again and again.

  Marisa smiled against his warm skin. She was making up for all those years of sexual abstinence. Just one of the benefits of having a lover like Damaso.

  Her smile faded.

  What would he be like as a husband?

  For the first time she allowed herself to consider the possibility dispassionately, pushing aside her anxiety at the idea of tying herself to any man. Would Damaso be any more controlling than the unknown aristocrat her uncle wanted her to marry?

  Damaso was dominant, bossy, used to getting his own way. But he’d never bullied her like her uncle, and no one could accuse him of being cold like her father. The more she knew him, the more she wondered how she’d ever thought him cold. Damaso was hot-blooded and passionate. Not just in bed; when he talked of their baby the glow in his eyes revealed a depth of feeling that had at first scared her and now... Marisa blinked. It soothed her, she realised.

  She liked him caring so strongly for their baby. It was reassuring to know that if something happened to her Damaso would be there to look after their child.

  He made her feel less alone. In the past she’d had Stefan and losing him had devastated her. That tearing hurt had made her even more determined not to open herself up to anyone. But slowly Damaso had been breaking down her barriers. Now he was there, firmly planted in her life, pushing the yawning chasm of darkness back till she no longer felt on a precipice of pain.

  He tried to protect her too. Damaso was always at her side now at any society event.

  Then there was his reaction to her visit today.

  Marisa’s brow puckered, remembering his stark expression when he’d spoken of the danger. She remembered the scars on his body and how he’d got them. Yet instinct told her this was about more than some physical threat.

  Clearly Damaso had reacted on a visceral level. Perhaps, if she understood him, she might trust him enough to accept what he offered.

  Shame bit. She’d been focused on her independence and on grappling with the changes this pregnancy would bring. She’d been self-absorbed, every bit as selfish as the press painted her.

  Oh, she’d been curious about Damaso, always fascinated by the man who’d slowly begun to reveal himself to her. But she’d never pushed to delve deeper. True, he was taciturn about his past, always focusing on the here and now or the future. But she could have tried harder. He’d been genuinely sympathetic when she’d told him about herself. What had she given in return?

  Damaso was inextricably part of her life now. As her child’s father and more, much more.

  Marisa swept her hands over his broad shoulders, marvelling at the closeness she felt, the bond that wasn’t just to do with the baby but with them as a couple. She hugged him tight.

  A couple. It was a new concept.

  Maybe for the first time she had, after all, found a man she could trust.

  * * *

  Her second trip to the favela tested his temper but not in the way she’d expected.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed it was too risky for you to spend time there.’ He stood, tie wrenched undone at his throat, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, sinewy arms and fists buried in his pockets. His brow was like a thundercloud as he watched her from the door to the private roof-garden.

  He looked vital and sexy, and something clenched hard in Marisa’s stomach as she met his scowl. Kneeling as she was, she had to crane her neck to survey his long, powerful body but it was worth it. She had to scotch the impulse to go to him and let him kiss her. If she did there was a danger she might cave in rather than stand her ground. He was that persuasive.

  ‘I listened to what you said, Damaso, which is why I agreed when Ernesto insisted on taking other guards.’ Privately she thought the security precautions overkill but she’d fight one battle at a time.

  ‘He should never have allowed you—’

  ‘We’ve been over that.’ She lifted one wet hand and pushed her hair off her face with the back of her wrist. ‘Don’t you dare bully Ernesto. He was just doing his job. If he’d tried to stop me I’d have gone without him.’ It wouldn’t be the first time she’d evaded professional minders.

  ‘I was safe. And I was welcome.’ The generous welcome she’d received had been heart-warming. ‘I helped a little with one of the classes and talked to the co-ordinator about reviving the photography project.’
<
br />   Marisa wasn’t qualified to teach but knew a little about that. Enough to foster the efforts of the few youngsters who’d taken part in an earlier program to develop photography skills. The co-ordinator had talked enthusiastically about career-building. For Marisa, though, it was about helping others find the peace and satisfaction she herself felt looking at the world through the lens of a camera.

  ‘That would mean going there regularly!’

  Marisa didn’t bother answering. She’d known Damaso would be angry but she was determined to proceed. For herself, because selfishly she clung to the idea she could be useful, and for the kids.

  Was it preposterous to think she also did this for Damaso? For the orphan he’d been, struggling to survive in a tough environment? Who had helped him? Ever since he’d let her glimpse the pain of his past, she’d found herself imagining him on streets like those she’d walked today. Was it hardship that had honed him into the man he was—ruthless and single-minded, guarding his heart so closely?

  She groped for the soap that had fallen into the basin of warm water, feeling it slippery on her palm.

  ‘And it doesn’t explain what you’re doing with that.’ Damaso’s voice dropped to resonant disapproval.

  Marisa surveyed the skinny dog she held by the scruff of the neck. It trembled as it stood in the big basin of tepid water but made no move to escape.

  ‘He needed a home.’

  ‘Not this home.’ Damaso stalked across to stand over them, his long shadow falling on the pup.

  ‘If it’s a problem, I’ll take him elsewhere.’ She paused, more nervous than she’d expected now it came to it. She was sure of her ground, wasn’t she? Yet if he called her bluff... No, that wouldn’t happen. ‘I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding somewhere to stay where dogs are welcome.’

  The silence was so loud it reverberated in her ears.

  ‘Is this you making a point, Marisa?’

  She looked up to see him watching her through narrowed eyes.

  ‘No one ever accused me of subtlety. But, no, it’s not. The poor thing was in need of a home, that’s all. And I...’ She shrugged and lathered the dog’s fur. ‘It seemed right.’