Damaso Claims His Heir

by Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

  ‘Don’t ever say that again.’ He bit the words out, his face drawn as if in pain, his eyes furious. Oddly, though, his hands felt gentle against her chilled flesh. ‘I won’t have it, do you hear? You’re so wrong.’

  Damaso looked down into her wide, drenched eyes and had never felt so furious or helpless. Why couldn’t she see what he saw? A woman worthy of admiration and respect. A woman unlike any he’d known.

  Marisa blinked, refusing to let the glittering tears fall. It was typical that even now she put on a show of pride.

  Yet the reminder of her vulnerability tore through him. Damaso dropped to his knees beside her seat, only vaguely aware of the dog darting out of the way.

  He felt as if something had broken inside him when he saw her hurting so badly.

  Leaning close, he drew in the familiar scent of green apples and sweet woman. Every instinct clamoured for him to haul her to him and make love to her till he blotted all doubt from her mind. But she needed to hear the words.

  He swallowed hard. ‘You’ve begun to believe your uncle’s lies.’ He saw her eyes widen. ‘He’s always put you down, tried to restrict you and mould you, but you didn’t let him. You were too strong for that. Don’t let him win now by undermining your confidence.’

  Damaso paused, letting her digest that.

  ‘For the record, any man would be proud to have you as his wife. And not because of your royal blood. You’re bright and caring, not to mention beautiful. You’re intelligent, fun and good company. You must have noticed how everyone wants to be with you.’

  It was painful to watch the doubt still clouding her eyes. ‘You know how much I want you, Marisa.’ He grabbed one of her hands and planted it on his chest so she could feel the way his heart sprinted.

  ‘You want my baby,’ she said slowly. ‘But do you want me or the cachet of marrying into royalty? If social status is important, that would be some achievement for a boy from the slums.’

  ‘I want us to be a family.’ The words rumbled up from some place deep inside. Family. The strength of his need for Marisa and their child undid him. ‘I want to be with our child and I want to be with you. You know that. You felt the chemistry between us from the first.’

  ‘You mean the sex?’ She breathed deep and he had the impression she had to force the words out. ‘People don’t marry for that. What other reason could you have?’

  Damaso looked into those brilliant, guarded eyes and realisation slammed into him. He’d seen that yearning look before, years ago, when he’d broken off with a lover who’d begun to want too much.

  Perhaps Marisa didn’t know it, but it was emotion she craved from him. Shunned by her family and her country, Marisa needed love.

  A lead weight plummeted through his gut.

  Marisa wanted the one thing he didn’t know how to give.

  For a moment he thought of lying, trotting out the trite words that would salve her pain. But Damaso couldn’t do it. She’d see straight through the lie and convince herself it was for the worst possible reason.

  Panic rocked him. He’d do so much for her. Anything except let her go.

  He had nothing to give her except the truth.

  Damaso reached for her hand and closed his fingers around it. Her other hand was still plastered against his chest. Did she notice how his heart raced?

  ‘You think I surround myself with beautiful things to escape my past?’ He drew a harsh breath and forced himself to go on, ignoring a lifetime’s instinct for privacy. He had to share what he’d hidden from the world or risk losing Marisa.

  ‘You could be right,’ he said eventually and heard her hiss of indrawn breath. Her hands twitched in his and he tightened his hold implacably, refusing to let her pull away. He stroked his thumb over hers where it rested on his chest.

  ‘I started with nothing but the clothes on my back.’ He grimaced. ‘I was determined to shake off the dust of what passed for my home as soon as I could. By sheer hard work and some very lucky breaks I succeeded and, believe me, I never once looked back with regret. As soon as I could, I surrounded myself with the trappings of success. Sharp clothes, swanky office, beautiful women.’

  At Marisa’s expression he smiled, buoyed a little at what he hoped might be jealousy. ‘Why wouldn’t I? I’m only human.’

  ‘I’m not judging.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not ashamed of enjoying success. My priority was always to plough back profits into the business and have enough capital to optimise any opportunity. That’s how I moved from running errands to being a tourist guide and then owner of a tour company. We became known for delivering the best vacation experiences, taking people to places others couldn’t or wouldn’t.

  ‘As the profits grew, my interests spread across a range of ventures. I’d always had a taste for clean clothes and comfortable housing and saw no reason not to indulge myself.’

  He watched Marisa digest that. ‘Along the way I developed an interest in modern art, possibly from visiting so many galleries. When I got money, I bought pieces I liked. Just as I bought cars and houses that appealed.’

  Damaso paused, remembering her accusation. ‘I’d never considered it before but you’re right. I prefer to own beautiful things. I feel no need for external reminders of where and how I grew up. I’m surrounded by others who share similar memories, even if we don’t speak of them.’

  Marisa was silent for a moment. ‘Ernesto?’

  Damaso nodded. ‘And Beatriz. All my personal staff. I didn’t know them when I was a kid, but they come from similar places.’

  ‘No wonder they think the world of you. You’ve given them the chance they needed.’

  He shrugged. It was easy to lend a hand when you had his advantages. Marisa made it sound like he was some sort of saviour of the slums.

  He thought of her dog, rescued from a similar place, and winced. Marisa had hit the nail on the head. Whenever he looked at her petting that mutt, it highlighted the gulf between her and him: the refined princess and the rough-and-ready slum kid.

  ‘Damaso? What is it? You’re holding me so tight.’

  Instantly he eased his grip. But he didn’t let her go. Anxiety clutched his belly. He’d never spoken about his childhood. But if he wanted to keep Marisa...

  ‘You think I can’t bear to be reminded of where I came from, but I carry it in my bones.’

  He wanted to leave it at that but Marisa needed more. At the same time, he realised this wasn’t just about easing her fears. She’d cared enough to wonder about his past, not just now, but before this. How many had done that?

  Pleasure and horror surged.

  ‘Tell me.’

  He let her hands go and stood, turning towards the city vista.

  ‘I barely remember my mother and I have no idea who my father was. I didn’t have a real home. I lived...’ He swallowed and forced himself to go on. ‘You’ve seen photos of ragged kids scavenging on garbage heaps? That was me.’

  Suddenly he was there again, the odours pungent in the rain, the ground slippery mud and worse beneath his feet, his saturated clothes sticking to his skinny body.

  Damaso felt movement and realised she’d come to stand beside him.

  ‘Later there were charity hand-outs, but my main memory is the pain of an empty belly. All day, every night.’ He blinked and the images before his eyes resolved into the downtown cityscape.

  Marisa’s hand slipped into his and his fingers closed around it. Strange how good that touch felt.

  ‘You think I overestimate the danger for you. Maybe I do.’ The admission cost him. Every instinct urged him to keep Marisa and their child away from there. ‘But where I grew up...’ He lifted tight shoulders. ‘I saw too much violence to take safety for granted.’

  ‘Those knife scars,’ she said, her voice soft.

  Damaso nodded. He refused to tell her the details of gang rivalries, drug dealing and more. ‘I saw death up close too often. I was lucky to get out when I did. A lot of kids didn’t. T
he neighbourhood you visit is much safer than mine, but something inside me screams out every time you go there.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She leaned against him, her weight warming his side.

  ‘But you still want to help those children.’ His mouth twisted. He hated her being there but how could he be anything but proud and moved that she wanted to help?

  ‘You think I’m being selfish?’ Her face turned up to his and he read her doubt.

  ‘I think you’re a wonderful, warm-hearted woman and I want you in my life.’ He turned and put his arms around her, pulling her close.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. Your social status and bloodline never mattered to me. I take people as I find them— rich, poor or in between.’ He lifted her face so she looked into his eyes. ‘I want you for purely personal reasons and I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. Understood?’

  For long seconds she watched him silently then she stood on tiptoe and whispered against his mouth. ‘Understood.’

  The look in her eyes made his heart swell.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘YOU LOOK STUNNING.’ Damaso surveyed her appreciatively. From the top of her golden head to her jewelled stilettos, she was perfection.

  Covertly he searched for some evidence of her pregnancy but even after several months she still appeared trim and taut. He looked forward to the day when it would be obvious she was pregnant.

  Possessiveness raked familiar talons through his insides. He didn’t want to share Marisa. He wanted to keep her with him, away from the men who slavered after her wherever she went.

  ‘Why, thank you.’ She twirled, her multi-coloured dress flaring high, revealing toned legs, lightly tanned and delectable. His groin tightened as he thought of some of the things he’d prefer to do with the evening.

  But this was her night.

  ‘I have something for you.’ His voice was gruff. He told himself that just because she’d refused to accept anything but hospitality from him didn’t mean she’d refuse this. He reached for the slim leather case on the bedside table. She was so stubbornly independent, who knew how she’d react?

  Damaso forced a smile, feeling tense muscles stretch. What was wrong with him? He’d given women gifts before, casually lavish presents that had meant little.

  But this wasn’t casual. This he’d chosen personally, had had it designed specifically for Marisa.

  He watched her eyebrows arch as she recognised the distinctive logo of one of the world’s top jewellery designers.

  ‘There was no need.’ She made no move to reach for it and a cold feeling invaded the pit of his stomach.

  ‘I know.’ He held her eyes but for the first time in weeks had no idea what she was thinking. Had the closeness between them been a mirage?

  ‘You admire so many Brazilian designers, I thought this would appeal. When I saw it I thought of you.’ It was true. No need to reveal his long consultation with the designer about Marisa and her style.

  He proffered the box and after a moment she took it. Heat swirled through him in a ribbon of satisfaction.

  She didn’t open the gift immediately but smoothed her hand over the embossed emblem. Finally she lifted the lid and he heard the snatch of her indrawn breath.

  For long seconds she said nothing, eyes fixed on the contents, lush lips slightly parted. Then her throat worked.

  Had he miscalculated? Got it wrong?

  Eyes as brilliant as the summer sky met his. The way she looked at him made him feel ten feet tall.

  ‘They’re absolutely gorgeous.’ The catch in her voice tugged at something inside and Damaso wanted to reach out and gather her close. He told himself to wait. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them.’

  That was exactly what he’d wanted, because he’d never met a woman like her. ‘You like them?’

  ‘Like them?’ She shook her head, her expression bordering on dazed. ‘They’re fabulous. How could anyone not like them?’

  ‘Good, then you can wear them tonight.’

  Was it his imagination or did she retreat a fraction?

  ‘Why, Damaso? Why the expensive gift?’

  He stared down, willing her to accept. ‘You deserve to celebrate your first public exhibition. The cost is immaterial; you know I can afford it.’

  ‘Not my exhibition.’ Despite the doubt in her eyes, her lips curved slightly. ‘Tonight is about the kids’ photography.’

  ‘Not according to Silvio. From the way he talks, he has big plans for you.’ Damaso watched as delicate colour washed her cheeks. ‘As well as for your class.’

  ‘So it’s a congratulatory gift, because you think I should celebrate?’

  Damaso hesitated, reading her anticipation. She wanted more but what could he say? That seeing her contentment and purpose had made him happier than he could ever remember ?

  That he wanted to keep that and keep her?

  That he wanted to put his ring on her finger and bind her to him?

  He’d had enough of waiting and battled not to behave like an unreconstructed male chauvinist, forcing her to stay despite her doubts.

  ‘You’ve worked hard and achieved so much,’ he said at last. ‘You’re making a difference to those kids, giving them skills and confidence and using your connections to open up a new world to them.’

  ‘Really?’ It didn’t seem possible but Marisa’s eyes shone brighter.

  He nodded, his throat closing as he saw how much his words meant. Marisa was so active and energetic, sometimes it was easy to forget the burden of doubt she struggled with.

  ‘As an up and coming photographer, you need to look glamorous at your premiere.’

  ‘Looking the part, then?’ Her eyes dropped and Damaso reached out and tilted her chin up. Her soft skin made his fingers slide wide, caressing her.

  ‘Far more than that, Marisa. I...’

  She leaned towards him and he had the sudden overwhelming conviction she was waiting for him to say something deep, something about how he felt.

  Damaso swallowed, knowing he was on dangerous ground.

  She’d become a vital part of his future, her and the baby. They brightened his world in a way he’d never thought possible. Yet if he blurted that out her beautiful mouth would thin and she’d turn away.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Marisa. You’re a special woman and I’d be honoured if you’d wear my gift tonight.’

  Something that might have been disappointment flickered in her eyes then she nodded, but her lips curved in a smile. Damaso assured himself he’d misread her.

  ‘Thank you. I’d like that,’ she said huskily.

  He reached into the open box and took out the necklace, letting the fall of brilliant burnt-orange gems spill across his palm.

  ‘They remind me of you,’ he murmured, watching the light catch them. ‘Light and colour and exuberance, but with innate integrity.’ He looked up to find her wide gaze fixed not on the strands of gems but on him.

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded and moved behind her, drawing the ends carefully together around her throat. ‘Absolutely.’ Quickly he fastened the clasp and drew her across to a full-length mirror. ‘They’re pure summer, just like you.’

  ‘What are the stones?’ She sounded awed, as well she might. A frisson ran through him at how perfect they looked on her—how perfect she looked, wearing his gift.

  ‘Imperial topaz, mined here in Brazil.’

  Marisa lifted a hand to her throat then let it drop, her eyes wide as she stared at the necklace. From its wide topaz-and-diamond collar, separate strands of faceted topaz fell in an asymmetrical cluster to just above her cleavage. It was modern, sexy and ultra-feminine. Just like Marisa.

  ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’ At least he could admit that truthfully.

  Predictably she opened her mouth as if to protest, but Damaso reached around her and pressed a finger to her siren’s mouth.

  ‘Put the earrings on.’

&
nbsp; Silently she complied.

  ‘And the bracelet.’ A moment later diamonds and topaz encircled her slim arm and Damaso wrapped his arms around her and drew her back against his chest, watching their reflections in the long mirror.

  ‘You like them? You’re happy?’

  Marisa nodded silently, but her eyes glowed.

  He told himself that was enough for tonight. He’d been right to hold the ring back instead of proposing. But time was running out. He refused to wait much longer to claim her.

  * * *

  Marisa’s cheeks ached from smiling. Ever since she and Damaso had stepped off the red carpet and into Silvio’s soaring studio, she’d been accepting congratulations for her work and for the youngsters she’d been mentoring.

  Silvio had been brilliant with the kids, letting them bask in the positive reception their work received without letting them be overwhelmed. One success, he’d warned them, didn’t build a career. But hard work and application would.

  Now, for the first time in what seemed hours, she found herself alone with Damaso amidst the buzzing, sophisticated crowd. His hand closed on hers and her heart took up a familiar, sultry beat as she looked into his gleaming eyes.

  She was hyper-aware of the weight of his jewellery at her throat and wrist, a tangible proclamation of his ownership. That was one of the reasons she’d resisted accepting his gifts. He was a man who’d take a mile when offered an inch. She’d clung to her independence with the tenacity of a drowning man grabbing at flotsam as he went under for the last time.

  Yet what was the point in pretending? It wasn’t the jewellery that branded her as Damaso’s but her feelings.

  When he’d presented her with the exquisite pieces she’d been on tenterhooks, waiting for him to announce they were a symbol of what he felt for her. She’d hoped his feelings for her had matured miraculously through sexual attraction, admiration, liking and caring to...

  A shiver rippled across her skin.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged before he could guess her thoughts. ‘There’s one piece you haven’t seen, at least not blown up to this size.’ Threading her fingers through his, she tugged him towards an inner room.