Damaso Claims His Heir

by Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

  Anger stirred at her recklessness. Damaso opened his mouth to berate her then noticed the taut muscles in her neck and her rigid posture. She was like a guard on parade.

  Or a princess deflecting impertinent questions?

  She had a lot to learn if she thought he’d be so easily dismissed.

  He lifted a hand and stroked long, golden strands from her cheek and back over her shoulder.

  Her hair was as soft as he’d imagined.

  She said nothing, didn’t even turn, but he watched with satisfaction as she swallowed.

  ‘The forest seems to go on for ever.’ Her voice had a husky quality that hadn’t been there before. Damaso smiled.

  She was out of danger now and she was here with him. Why probe what she clearly didn’t want to talk about?

  ‘It would take days to walk out, and that’s if you didn’t get lost along the way.’ He couldn’t resist reaching out to sweep a phantom lock of hair off her cheek. Her skin was hot, flushed with exertion, and so soft he wanted to slide his fingers over all of her, learning her body by touch before testing it with his other senses.

  A pulse throbbed at the base of her neck, like a butterfly trapped in a net.

  Heat drove down through Damaso’s belly as he imagined licking that spot.

  Her head jerked around and he was snared by her electric-blue gaze.

  ‘You know the forest well, Senhor Pires?’

  She sounded like a courtier at a garden party, her tone light with just the right amount of polite interest. But the cool, society veneer merely emphasised the hot, sexy woman beneath. The fact she was dishevelled, like a woman just risen from her lover’s arms, added a piquant spice.

  Damaso was burning up just looking at her.

  And she knew it. It was there in her eyes.

  Awareness sizzled between them.

  ‘No; I’m city bred, Your Highness. But I get out to the wilderness as often as I can.’ Damaso always allowed himself one break a year, though he took his vacation checking out one of his far-flung companies. This year it was an upmarket adventure-travel company.

  He had a feeling the adventure was just about to start.

  ‘Marisa, please. “Highness” sounds so inflated.’ A spark of humour gleamed in her bright eyes. It notched the heat in his belly even higher.

  ‘Marisa, then.’ He liked the sound of it on his tongue, feminine and intriguing. ‘And I’m Damaso.’

  ‘I don’t know South America well, Damaso.’ She paused on his name and a shiver of anticipation raced under his skin. Would she sound so cool and composed when he held her naked beneath him? He didn’t know which he’d prefer, that or the sound of her voice husky with pleasure. ‘I haven’t visited many of the cities.’ She reached out and picked a leaf off his open collar. The back of her fingers brushed his neck and his breath stalled.

  A tiny smile played at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes told him the lingering touch had been deliberate. Siren!

  ‘My birthplace isn’t on anyone’s must-see list.’ Now there was an understatement.

  ‘You surprise me. I hear you’re something of a legend in business circles. Surely they’ll be putting up a sign saying “Damaso Pires was born here”?’

  He plucked a twig from her hair and twirled it between his fingers. No need to tell her no one had any idea where exactly he’d been born, or whether there’d even been a roof for protection.

  ‘Ah, but I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.’

  She blinked, her mouth thinning for an infinitesimal moment, so that he wondered if he’d blundered in some way. Then she shrugged and smiled and he lost his train of thought when she took the twig from his fingers, her hand deliberately caressing his. That light touch drew his skin tight across his bones as lust flared.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she smiled from under veiled eyes as if sharing a salacious secret. ‘But silver spoons aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’

  With a quick twist of the wrist he captured her hand in his. Silence throbbed between them, a silence heavy with unspoken promise. Something kindled in her eyes. She returned his hungry look, not resorting to coyness.

  ‘I like the way you face challenges head-on,’ he found himself admitting, then frowned. Usually he measured his words carefully. They didn’t just shoot out.

  ‘I like the fact you don’t care about my social status.’

  Her hand shifted in his hold, her thumb stroking his. It pleased him that she didn’t pretend disinterest, or lunge at him desperately. The sense of a delicate balance between them added a delicious tension to the moment.

  ‘It’s not your title I’m interested in, Marisa.’ Her name tasted even better the second time. Damaso leaned forward, eager for the taste of her on his tongue, then stopped himself. This wasn’t the place.

  ‘You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.’ She planted her palm on his shirt and his heart leapt into overdrive. It felt as if she’d branded him.

  Tension screwed his body tight. He wanted her now and, given the way her fingers splayed possessively on him, her lips parting with her quickened breathing, she felt the same.

  He wanted to take her here, hard and fast and triumphantly. Except instinct told him he’d need more than one quick taste to satisfy this craving.

  How had he resisted her for a whole week?

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me on the way back down exactly what you are interested in, Damaso.’

  He snagged her hand in his again and turned her towards the rough track leading away from the cliff. Her fingers linked with his, shooting erotic pleasure through him that felt in some strange way almost innocent. How long since he’d simply held a woman’s hand?

  * * *

  Marisa towel-dried her hair while looking out at her private courtyard in the luxurious eco-resort. A bevy of butterflies danced through the lush leaves.

  She tried to focus on how she’d capture them on film but all she could think about was Damaso Pires. The feel of his hand enclosing hers as they’d clambered down the track. The wrench of loss when he’d let her go as they’d approached the others. The way his burning gaze had stripped her bare.

  No wonder she’d avoided him.

  But now she craved him. She, who’d learned to distrust desire!

  Yet this was something new. With Damaso Pires she sensed a link, a feeling almost of recognition, that she’d never experienced. It reminded her a little of the very different bond she’d shared with Stefan.

  Marisa shook her head. Was grief clouding her thoughts?

  Physical exertion, even danger, didn’t ease her pain. Since Stefan’s death she’d been shrouded in grey nothingness, till Damaso had reached out to her. Could she do it? Give herself to a stranger? Excitement and fear shivered through her. Despite what the world believed, Marisa wasn’t the voracious sexpot the press portrayed.

  Then she remembered how she’d felt trading words with him, their bodies communicating in subtle hints and responses as ancient as sex itself.

  She’d felt happy. Excited. That aching feeling of isolation had fled. She’d felt alive.

  A knock sounded on her door, reverberating through her hollow stomach. Second thoughts crowded in, old hurts. Marisa glanced in the mirror. Barefoot, damp hair slicked back from a face devoid of make-up, she looked as far from a princess as you could get.

  Did he want the real woman, not the royal? She wavered on the brink of cowardice, of wanting to pretend she hadn’t heard him. She’d taken chances on men before and been disappointed. More, she’d been eviscerated by their callous selfishness.

  The knock came again and she jumped.

  She had to face this.

  With Damaso, for the first time in years, she dared risk herself again. That tantalising link between them was so intense, so profound. She wanted to trust him. She wanted desperately not to be alone anymore.

  Her heart pounded as she opened the door. He filled the space before her, leaning against one raised arm. His
eyes looked black and hungry in the early-evening light. Her stomach swooped.

  With a single stride he entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him, eyes holding hers.

  ‘Querida.’ The word caressed her as his gaze ate her up. If he was disappointed she hadn’t dressed up, he didn’t show it. If anything his eyes glowed warm with approval. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’

  ‘Have you?’ She stood straighter.

  ‘How could I?’ His smile was lop-sided, the most devastating thing she’d ever seen. Then one large palm cupped her cheek and he stepped close. His head lowered and the world faded away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘MALDIÇÃO! WHAT YOU do to me.’ Damaso’s voice rumbled through her bones, his hands gripping tight at her hips as his mouth moved against her ear. Marisa shivered as her hyper-aware nerve endings protested at the sensory overload.

  She’d never felt so vulnerable, so naked. As if their love-making had stripped her bare of every shield she’d erected between herself and a hostile world.

  Yet, strangely that didn’t scare her. Not with Damaso.

  Marisa clutched his bare back, sleek and damp, heaving slightly as he fought for breath. His chest pushed her down into the wide mattress and she revelled in the hard, hot weight of him, even the feel of his hairy legs imprisoning hers.

  All night Damaso had stayed, taking his time to seduce her, not just with his body but with the fierce intensity he’d devoted to pleasing her. He was a generous lover, patient when unexpected nerves had made her momentarily stiff and wooden in his arms. She’d been mortified, sure he’d interpret her body’s reaction as rejection. Instead he’d looked into her eyes for an endless moment, then smiled before beginning a leisurely exploration of every erogenous zone on her body.

  Marisa shivered and held him tight. Holding him in her arms felt...

  ‘I’m too heavy. Sorry.’

  Before she could protest, he rolled over onto his back, pulling her with him. She clung fast, needing to maintain the skin-to-skin contact she’d become addicted to in the night.

  Marisa smiled drowsily. She’d been right: Damaso was different. He made her feel like a new woman. And that wasn’t merely the exhaustion of a long night’s loving speaking.

  ‘Are you all right?’ She loved the way his voice rippled like dark, molten chocolate in her veins. She’d never known a man with a more sensuous voice.

  ‘Never better.’ She smiled against his damp skin then let her tongue slick along the solid cushion of his muscled chest. He tasted of salt and that indefinable spicy flavour that was simply Damaso.

  He sucked in a breath and her smile widened. She could stay here, plastered to him, for ever.

  ‘Witch!’

  His big hand was gentle on her shoulder, lifting her away. After lying against the furnace of his powerful body, the pre-dawn air seemed cold against her naked skin. She opened her mouth to protest but he was already swinging his legs out of bed. She lifted a hand to catch him back then let it drop. He’d be back once he’d disposed of the condom. Then they could drowse in each other’s arms.

  Marisa hooked a pillow to her, trying to make up for the loss of Damaso. She buried her nose in its softness, inhaling his scent, letting her mind drift pleasurably.

  They had another week left on the tour. A week to get to know each other in all the ways they’d missed. They’d skipped straight to the potent attraction between them, bypassing the usual stages of acquaintanceship and friendship.

  Anticipation shimmied through her. The promise of pleasure to come. Who’d have thought she could feel so good when only yesterday...?

  She shook her head, determined to enjoy the tentative optimism filling her after so long in a grey well of grief.

  Marisa looked forward to learning all those little things about Damaso—how he liked his coffee, what made him laugh. What he did with his time when he wasn’t looking dark and sulkily attractive like some sexy renegade, or running what someone in the group had called South America’s largest self-made fortune.

  A sound made her turn. There, framed in the doorway, stood Damaso, watching her.

  The first fingers of dawn light limned his tall body, throwing his solid chest, taut abdomen and heavy thighs into relief. The smattering of dark hair on his chest narrowed and trickled in a tantalising line down his body. Marisa lay back, looking appreciatively from between slitted eyes. Even now, sated after their loving, he looked formidably well-endowed. As if he was ready to...

  ‘Go to sleep, Marisa. It’s been a long night.’ The dark enticement of his voice was edged with an undercurrent she couldn’t identify.

  Shoving the spare pillow aside, she smoothed her arm over the still-warm space beside her.

  ‘When you come back to bed.’ She’d sleep better with him here, cradling her as before. It wasn’t sex she craved but his company. The rare sense of wellbeing he’d created.

  Damaso stood, unmoving, so long anxiety stroked phantom fingers over her nape. Almost, she reached out to drag up the discarded sheet. She hadn’t felt embarrassed by her nudity earlier, when he’d looked at her with approval and even something like adoration in his gaze. But this felt different. His stare was impenetrable, that tiny pucker of a frown unexpected.

  The silence lengthened and Marisa had to clench her hands rather than scoop up the sheet. She’d never flaunted herself naked but with Damaso it had felt right. Till now.

  He prowled across the room with a grace she couldn’t help but appreciate. He stopped at the edge of the bed, drawing in a deep breath. Then he bent abruptly to scoop something off the floor—his discarded jeans. He dragged the faded denim up those long thighs.

  Surely he had underwear? she thought foggily, before the implication struck.

  Her gaze met his and rebounded from an impenetrable black stare. Gone was the spark of excitement in his gaze, the wolfish hunger that should have scared her yet had made her feel womanly and powerful. Gone was the sizzle of appreciation she’d so enjoyed when they’d sparred verbally.

  His eyes held nothing.

  ‘You’re leaving.’ Her voice was hollow. Or was that her body? Ridiculously, she felt as if someone had scooped out her insides.

  ‘It’s morning.’ His gaze flicked to the full-length window.

  ‘Barely. It’s still hours till we need to be up.’ How she spoke so calmly, she didn’t know. She wanted to scuttle across the bed and throw herself into his arms, beg for him to stay.

  Beg... Marisa had never begged in her life.

  Pride had been one of her few allies. After years facing down family disapproval and the wilder accusations of the ravenous press, she’d been stripped of everything but pride. Now she was tempted to throw even that away as desperation clutched at her.

  ‘Exactly. You should get some sleep.’

  She blinked, confused at the hint of warmth in his voice, so at odds with his unreadable expression. She felt like she’d waded into knee-deep water and suddenly found herself miles out to sea.

  More than ever Marisa wanted to cover herself. Heat crept from her feet to her face as his hooded gaze surveyed her. Was that a flicker of regret in his eyes?

  ‘It’s best I go now.’

  Marisa bit down a protest. Perhaps he was trying to protect them from gossip, leaving her room before even the staff were up. But since the pair of them had missed dinner last night it was probably too late for that.

  ‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then.’ She sat up, pinning a bright smile on her face. There would be time enough to spend together in the next week.

  ‘No. That won’t be possible.’ He finished the buttons on his shirt and strode to the bedside table, reaching for his watch.

  ‘It won’t?’ She sounded like a parrot! But she couldn’t seem to engage her brain.

  He paused in the act of wrapping his watch around his sinewy wrist.

  ‘Listen, Marisa. Last night was remarkable. You were remarkable. But I never promised you hearts and fl
owers.’

  Indignation stiffened her spine, almost dousing the chill dread in her veins. ‘I hardly think expecting to see you at breakfast has anything to do with hearts and flowers, as you so quaintly put it.’

  Damn him! She leaned down and grabbed the sheet, pulling it up under her arms. At least now she wasn’t quite so naked.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ The hint of a growl tinged his deep tone and Marisa felt a tiny nub of satisfaction that she’d pierced his monumental self-assurance. For that was what it was—that unblinking stare from eyes as cool and unfeeling as obsidian.

  ‘No, Damaso, I don’t know what you mean.’ She regarded him with what she hoped looked like unconcern, despite the fact she was crumbling inside.

  ‘I gave no commitment.’ As lover-like statements went, this one hit rock bottom.

  ‘I didn’t ask for any.’ Her voice was tight.

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’ Suddenly he looked away, intent on his watch. ‘You aren’t the type. That’s why last night was perfect.’

  ‘The type?’ Out of nowhere a chill crept over her bare shoulders.

  ‘The type to cling and pretend a night in bed means a lifetime together.’

  His eyes met hers again and she felt the force of desire like a smack in the chest. Even as he rejected her the air sizzled between them. Surely she didn’t imagine that? Yet the jut of his jaw told her he was intent on ignoring it.

  There she’d been, daydreaming that this might be the start of something special. That, after a lifetime of kissing frogs and finding only warty toads, she might actually have found a man who appreciated her for herself.

  She should have known better. Such a man didn’t exist.

  Marisa’s stomach plunged, reopening that vast chasm of emptiness inside.

  ‘So what did it mean to you, Damaso?’ She clipped the words out.

  ‘Sorry?’

  He looked perplexed, as if no woman had ever confronted him like that. But Damaso was an intelligent man. He knew exactly what she was asking.

  ‘Well, clearly you don’t want me expecting a repeat of last night.’ Even now she waited, breathless, hoping she was wrong. That he did want to spend more time with her, and not just for sex. Marisa wanted it so badly that she discovered she’d curled her hands into hard fists, the nails scoring her skin.