Marisa didn’t know whether to hope it was a mistake or hope it wasn’t—she was too stunned to know how she felt.
One thing she was sure of, though—she wouldn’t be raising any baby of hers within sight of Bengaria’s royal palace. She’d protect it as fiercely as any lioness defending her cub.
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Marisa turned to find a smiling maid at the open door from the suite out to the private terrace where she sat. ‘I’ve brought herbal tea and the chef has baked some sesame-water crackers for you.’ She lifted a tray and Marisa caught the scent of fresh baking. Her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, worried about bringing on another bout of nausea.
‘I didn’t order anything.’
‘It’s with the hotel’s compliments, ma’am.’ The maid hesitated a moment then stepped out onto the terrace, putting her laden tray on a small table.
‘Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.’ Marisa eyed the delicate biscuits and felt a smile crack her tense features. The doctor must have organised this.
Leaving the edge of the balcony, she took a seat beside the table. An instant later the maid bustled back, this time with a lightweight rug.
‘It’s cooling down.’ She smiled. ‘If you’d like?’ She lifted the rug.
Silently Marisa nodded, feeling ridiculously choked as the downy rug woven in traditional local designs was tucked around her legs. How long since anyone had cossetted her? Even Stefan, who’d loved her, had never fussed over her.
She blinked and smiled as the maid poured scented, steaming tea and settled the plate of biscuits closer.
‘Is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?’
‘Nothing. Thank you.’ Her voice sounded scratchy, as if it came from a long distance. ‘Please thank the chef for me.’
Alone again, Marisa sipped the delicately flavoured tea and nibbled a cracker. It tasted divine. Or perhaps that was simply because her stomach didn’t rebel. She took another bite, crunching avidly.
She needed to make plans. First, a trip to Lima and another pregnancy test. Then... Her mind blanked at the thought of what came next.
She couldn’t bear to go back to her villa in Bengaria. The memories of Stefan were too strong and, besides, the villa belonged to the crown. Now Stefan had gone, it belonged to her uncle and she refused to live as his pensioner. He’d demand she reside in the palace where he could keep an eye on her. They’d had that argument before Stefan had been cold in his grave.
Marisa drew the rug close. She’d have to find a new home. She’d put off the decision for too long. But where? Bengaria was out. Every move she made there was reported and second-guessed. She’d lived in France, the United States and Switzerland as a student. But none were home.
Marisa sipped her tea and bit into another biscuit.
Fear scuttled through her. She knew nothing about being a mother and raising children. Her pregnancy would be turned into a royal circus if she wasn’t careful.
Well, she’d just deal with that when and if the time came, and hope she was more successful than in the past.
‘Marisa?’
Her head swung round at the sound of a fathoms-deep voice she’d never expected to hear again. Her fingers clenched around delicate bone china as her pulse catapulted.
It really was him, Damaso Pires, filling the doorway to her suite. He looked big and bold, his features drawn in hard, sharp lines that looked like they’d been honed in bronze. Glossy black hair flopped down across his brow and flirted with his collar, but did nothing to soften that remarkable face.
‘What are you doing here?’ She put the cup down with a clatter, her hand nerveless. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I knocked but there was no answer.’
Marisa lifted her chin, remembering the way he’d dumped her. ‘That usually means the person inside wants privacy.’
‘Don’t get up.’ He stepped onto the terrace, raising his hand, as if to prevent her moving.
She pushed the rug aside and stood, hoping he didn’t see her sway before finding her balance. The nausea really had knocked the stuffing out of her.
‘I repeat, Senhor Pires, why are you here?’ Marisa folded her arms. He might top her by more than a head but she knew how to stand up to encroaching men.
‘Senhor Pires?’ His brows drew together in a frown that made her think of some angry Inca god. ‘It’s a little late for formalities, don’t you think?’
‘I know,’ she said, stepping forward, surging anger getting the better of her, ‘that I’ve a right to privacy.’
Her stomach churned horribly as she remembered how he’d made her feel: an inch tall and cheap. She’d have thought she’d be used to it after a lifetime of not measuring up. But this man had wounded her more deeply because she’d been foolhardy enough to believe he was different.
He digested her words in silence, his expression unperturbed.
‘Well?’ Marisa tapped her foot, furious that her indignation was mixed with an unhealthy dollop of excitement. No matter how annoyed she was, there was no denying Damaso Pires was one fantastic looking man. And as a lover...
‘Let me guess. You discovered I was here and thought you’d look me up for old times’ sake.’ She drew a quick breath that lodged halfway to her lungs. ‘I’m afraid I’m not interested in a trip down memory lane. Or in continuing where we left off.’
She had more self-respect than to go back to a man who’d treated her as he had.
She stepped forward. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone.’
Her steps petered out when she came up against his impassable form. His spread legs and wide shoulders didn’t allow space for her to pass.
Dark eyes bored into hers and something tugged tight in her belly. If only she could put it down to a queasy stomach but to her shame Marisa knew she responded to his overt, male sexuality. A frisson of awareness made her nape tingle and her breasts tighten.
Surely a pregnant woman wouldn’t respond so wantonly?
The thought sideswiped her and her gaze flickered from his. Today’s news had upended her world, leaving her feeling adrift and frail. What did she know about pregnancy?
‘Marisa.’ His voice held a tentative edge she didn’t remember. ‘Are you all right?’
Her head snapped up. ‘I will be when I’m allowed the freedom of my own suite, alone.’
He stepped back and she moved away into the sitting room, conscious with every cell in her body of him looming nearby. Even his scent invaded her space, till she had to focus on walking past and not stopping to inhale.
She was halfway across the room, heading for the entrance, when he spoke again. ‘We need to talk.’
Marisa kept walking. ‘As I recall, you made it clear last time I saw you that our...connection was at an end.’ Valiantly she kept her voice even, though humiliation at how she’d left herself open to his insulting treatment twisted a searing blade through her insides.
‘Are you trying to tell me you thought otherwise?’
Her steps faltered to a halt. If she’d truly been unaffected by his abrupt desertion, she wouldn’t be upset at his return, would she? She certainly wouldn’t show it. But it was beyond even Marisa’s acting powers to pretend insouciance. The best she could manage was haughty distance.
She needed him out of the way so she could concentrate on the news she still had trouble processing. That she was probably pregnant—with his child.
Marisa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather her strength. She’d face him later if she had too. Now she needed to be alone.
‘I didn’t think anything, Damaso.’ She lingered over his name with dripping, saccharine emphasis. ‘What we shared is over and done with.’
Her fingers closed around the door handle but, before she could tug it open, one long arm shot over her shoulder. A large hand slammed palm-down onto the door before her, keeping it forcibly closed. The heat of Damaso’s body encompassed her, his breath riffling her hair as if he was
breathing as hard as she.
‘What about the fact you’re carrying my child?’
She gasped. How did he know?
Marisa stared blankly at the strong, sinewy hand before her: the light sprinkling of dark hairs; the long fingers; the neat, short nails.
She blinked, remembering how that hand had looked on her pale breast, the pleasure it had wrought. How she’d actually hoped, for a few brief hours, she’d found a man who valued her for herself. How betrayed she’d felt.
‘Marisa?’ His voice was sharp.
She drew a jagged breath into tight lungs and turned, chin automatically lifting as he glowered down at her from his superior height.
The sight of him, looking so lofty and disapproving, stoked fire in her belly. She’d deal with him on her terms, when she was ready.
‘I don’t know what you think gives you the right to come here uninvited and throw your weight around. But it’s time you left. Otherwise I’ll have the management throw you out.’
* * *
Damaso stared into blazing azure eyes and felt something thump hard in his belly. Energy vibrated off her in waves. Just meeting her stare sent adrenalin shooting into his bloodstream.
His body tensed, his groin tightening at the challenge she projected.
She tempted him even as her disdainful gaze raked him. But it wasn’t only dismissal he read in her taut features. The parted lips, the throbbing pulse, the fleeting shadow in her bright eyes gave her away.
He aroused her. He sensed it as surely as he recognised the symptoms in his own body. He hadn’t got her out of his system even now.
Without thinking, he put his hand to her face, cupping her jaw so that a frantic pulse jumped against his skin. His fingers brushed her silk-soft hair.
She felt every bit as good as he remembered. Better than he’d allowed himself to believe. He leaned towards her, lowering his head. Discussion could wait.
Sudden pain, a white-hot flash of agony, streaked up his arm.
Stunned, Damaso saw she’d fastened on to a pressure point in some fancy martial arts manoeuvre. He sucked in a breath, tamping down his instinctive response to overpower her. He’d never learned to fight by any code of rules. Where he’d grown up, violence had been endemic, brutal and often deadly. In seconds he could have her flat on her back in surrender. He forced himself to relax, ignoring the lancing pain.
‘I’m calling the management.’ She breathed heavily, as if it was she, not he, in agony.
‘I am the management, pequenina.’
‘Sorry?’ Her fierce expression eased into owlish disbelief.
‘I own the resort.’ Damaso tried to move his fingers but another dart of pain shot through him. ‘You can let me go,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I promise not to touch you.’
‘You own it?’ Her grip loosened and he tugged his hand free, flexing it as pins and needles spread up his arm. For an amateur, her self-defence skills were impressive.
‘I do. It was my team of architects who designed it. My builders who constructed it.’
‘The staff report to you?’ Her tone was sharp. ‘That explains a lot.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘I don’t see why the doctor should run to you with news of my health, even if you employ him. What about patient confidentiality?’ She didn’t raise her voice but the way she bit out the words, as if chipping off shards of glacial ice, spoke volumes.
Damaso shook his head. ‘He didn’t breathe a word.’
At her frown he explained, ‘I was here, in the suite, when he confirmed your test results.’
She stared up at him, her eyes bright as lasers, and just as cutting. Damaso felt his cheeks redden, almost as if he blushed under her accusing stare.
It was impossible, of course. Embarrassment was a luxury denied those who’d survived by scavenging off others’ refuse. Nothing fazed him, not even the shocked accusation in her glare. He didn’t care what others thought.
Yet he looked away first.
‘I’d heard you were ill and came to see how you were.’
‘How very considerate.’ Her hands moved to her hips, pulling the fabric of her designer T-shirt taut over those delectable breasts. Belatedly, Damaso tore his gaze away, only to find himself staring at her flat stomach. She cradled his baby there. The shock of it dried his throat. He wanted to slip his hand beneath the drawstring of her loose trousers and press his palm to the softness of her belly.
The snap of fingers in front of his face startled him.
‘Being the owner of this place doesn’t give you the right to pry into my private life.’
‘It was unintentional. I was coming to see you.’
‘That’s no excuse for spying on what is my affair.’
‘Hardly spying, Marisa.’ Her flashing eyes told him she disagreed. ‘And this affair affects both of us.’
Colour streaked her cheekbones, making her look ridiculously young and vulnerable.
He softened his voice. ‘We need to talk.’
She shook her head, her bright hair slipping like spun gold across her dark shirt. With quick grace she turned and crossed the room to the vast windows framing the view of the Andes. She stood rigid, as if his presence pained her.
‘A month and a day, remember, Marisa? This is as much my business as yours.’
She didn’t move, not so much as a muscle. Her unnatural stillness disturbed him.
‘When were you going to tell me?’
Still she said nothing. Damaso’s skin tightened till it felt like hundreds of ants crawled over him.
‘Or weren’t you going to? Were you planning to get rid of it quietly with no one the wiser?’
Damaso grimaced at the pungent sourness filling his mouth. Had she decided to get rid of his child?
His child!
He’d been stunned by the news he was to be a father. It had taken hours to come to grips with the fact he’d have a child—blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.
For the first time in his life, he’d have family.
The idea astounded him, scared him. He, who’d never expected to have a family of his own. Yet to his amazement part of him welcomed the idea.
He didn’t know exactly how he expected this to play out. But one thing was absolutely certain: no child of his would be abandoned as he’d been.
No child of his would grow up alone or neglected.
It would know its father.
It would be cared for.
He, Damaso Pires, would make sure of that personally. The intensity of his determination was stronger than anything he’d known.
He must have moved for he found himself behind Marisa. Her hair stirred with each breath he exhaled. His fingers flexed, as if to reach for her hips and pull her to him, or shake her into speech.
‘Say something!’ Damaso wasn’t used to being ignored, especially by women he’d known intimately. Especially when something as profoundly important as this lay between them.
‘What do you want me to say?’ When she turned, her eyes were wide and over-bright. ‘No, I hadn’t planned an abortion? No, I hadn’t decided when I’d tell you, if at all? I haven’t had time even to get my head around the idea of being pregnant.’
She jabbed a finger into his sternum. ‘I don’t see this being as much your business as mine.’ Her finger stabbed again. ‘If I’m pregnant, I’ll be the one carrying this baby. I’ll be the one whose body and life and future will change irrevocably. Not you.’
Her finger wobbled against his chest; her whole hand was shaking, Damaso realised. He wrapped his hand around hers but she tugged loose from his hold and backed away as if his touch contaminated her.
Too late for that, my fine lady.
* * *
Marisa watched his harsh mouth curve in a smile that could only be described as feral. He looked dangerous and unpredictable, his eyes a black gleam that made her want to step back again. Instead she planted her feet.
How had he turned the tables, so his intrusion on her privacy ha
d become a litany of accusations against her? Enough was enough. She was tired of being bullied and judged.
‘Obviously you’ve had time to jump to all sorts of conclusions about this pregnancy, if there is one.’ She fixed him with a stony gaze.
‘You deny it?’ He scowled.
‘I reserve judgement until I’ve got a second opinion.’ She braced her hands on her hips, refusing to cower before his harsh expression. ‘But obviously you’ve gone beyond that stage.’
‘I have.’ His gaze dropped to her stomach and she felt a hot stirring inside as if he’d touched her there. Abruptly, his dark eyes locked on hers again. ‘There’s only one sensible option.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’ His brooding features tightened, a determined light in his eyes. ‘We’ll marry.’
CHAPTER FOUR
MARISA COULDN’T PREVENT the ripple of laughter that slipped from her mouth.
‘Marry?’ She shook her head. Astonishment punctured the bubble of tension cramping her chest. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t even know you.’
His downturned mouth and furrowed brow told her he didn’t appreciate her levity. Or maybe he didn’t like the panicked edge that see-sawed through her laughter.
Marisa didn’t like it either. She sounded, and felt, too close to the edge.
‘You knew me well enough for us to create a baby together.’ His deep voice held a bite that eradicated the last of her semi-hysterical laughter. It brought her back to earth with a thump.
‘That’s not knowing. That’s sex.’
He shrugged, lifting those broad shoulders she’d clung to through their night together. She’d dug her nails into his flesh as ecstasy had consumed her. She’d never wanted to let him go and had snuggled against his solid shoulder through the night.
Until he’d made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with her.
‘You’ve changed your tune.’ Did he hear the echo of hurt in her tone? Marisa was beyond caring; she just knew she had to scotch this insanity.
‘That was before there was a child, princesa.’
She stiffened. ‘There still may not be one. I won’t be sure till I’ve had another test. It could have been a false positive.’
Damaso Claims His Heir Page 4
