‘I thought I’d have a little more time before it became public.’ She tried for nonchalance, though an undercurrent of nerves made her body tense. Once the news was out...
‘It’s an unconfirmed rumour. Nothing they can prove.’
‘I suppose I’ve weathered worse.’
Memories rose of being pilloried at just fifteen. Someone on the gymnastics squad had leaked the fact that Marisa was on the Pill and it had been splashed across the press, along with photos of her partying.
No one had been interested in the fact she’d been prescribed the medication to help deal with periods so painful they’d interfered with her training, or that the parties were strictly chaperoned. Everything had been twisted. Innocent glances in photos turned into lascivious stares, smiles into wanton invitations. They’d portrayed her as a little slut, precocious, uncontrollable and without morals.
Once typecast by the paparazzi, there’d been no way to turn the tide of popular opinion.
The palace had been ineffectual. It was only years later she’d begun to suspect the palace had left her to fend for herself—a brutal lesson in dancing to her uncle’s tune or else. Eventually, after years fighting the tide, Marisa had given up and begun to take perverse pleasure in living down to expectations.
She breathed deep and stepped back, registering anew the gentle swish of water against her legs.
‘At least I don’t have to worry about the press here.’ She pasted on a smile. ‘Thank you, Damaso. It seems you were right. If I’d stayed in a hotel, I’d be under siege.’
Was it her imagination or did his gaze warm a fraction? ‘In the circumstances, I’d prefer not to have been right.’
It was tempting to bask in the fragile sensation of being looked after. But she couldn’t afford to get used to it.
They walked side by side up the beach, scooping up their discarded shoes and turning towards the house.
They’d just stepped onto the cropped emerald turf when a white-coated servant appeared and spoke to Damaso in swift Portuguese.
‘What is it?’ Marisa sensed the instant change in him.
‘A message for you. You had a phone call and they’re calling back in fifteen minutes.’
‘Who was it?’ But already Marisa felt her stomach plunge like a rock off a precipice. She knew exactly who it had been.
His words confirmed her fears. ‘The King of Bengaria.’
CHAPTER FIVE
DAMASO PACED THE shaded loggia, the tray of coffee and his laptop forgotten. Through the full-length glass he had a perfect view of Marisa.
He’d begun to wish he hadn’t given her privacy to take her call. Not when instinct urged him to march in and rip the phone out of her hand.
That, by itself, gave him pause.
He didn’t interfere in the lives of others. He was never interested enough to do so. But, watching Marisa stand to attention beside the desk in his study, Damaso knew an inexplicable urge to break the habit of a lifetime.
What was the King saying? As far as he could see, she hadn’t had the chance to say much. Yet her body spoke volumes. Her spine was ramrod-stiff and she paced with military precision, like a soldier on parade. Her mouth was a flat line and her shoulders inched high towards her ears.
She wore the figure-hugging white capri pants and yellow crop top from the beach. There she’d looked like a sexy embodiment of the summer sun—bright and vibrant. Now, with her pinched features, she seemed like another woman.
To hell with it. He strode towards the glass doors that separated them.
Then he stopped, for now Marisa was talking.
This close he heard her voice, though not the words. She spoke crisply, with definite emphasis. Her chin lifted and she looked every inch the pure-bred aristocrat: haughty and regal.
She paused, as if listening, then spoke sharply, her arm slicing the air in a violent sweep. She turned and marched across the room, her toned body taut and controlled, ripe with pride and determination.
Damaso stared, unable to believe the visceral stab of desire that hit him as he watched her lay down the law. A woman in control—that had never been his fantasy. Always he was the hunter, the master, the one who set the rules.
Was that what had made their night together so cataclysmically memorable? The sense of two matched people coming together as equals, neither in control?
If that was so, why this unfamiliar urge to protect her? It had to be because of the baby. Since he’d learned of her pregnancy she’d become the centre of his thoughts—a rival even to his business empire, which had given him purpose and identity all his adult life.
Damaso breathed hard, aware he was on unfamiliar ground.
It took him a few moments to realise she’d ended the call. Now she stood, shoulders slumped, hands braced wide on the desk. As he watched, her head bowed in a move that spoke of a bone-deep weariness.
Something stirred in Damaso’s belly. That tickle of concern he’d first felt the morning he’d left her in the jungle. When, despite her anger and her hauteur, he’d sensed something out of kilter in her queenly dismissal of him.
‘Marisa?’ He was through the door before he had time to reconsider.
Instantly she straightened. If he hadn’t been looking, he’d never have seen the strain etching her face before she smoothed it.
‘Yes?’
Damaso stared, confronted by a cool, self-contained princess, the hint of a polite smile curving her soft lips. Only the glitter of strong emotion in her eyes, now darkened to midnight sapphire, belied that regal poise.
‘What did he want?’
Her delicate eyebrows arched high, as if surprised at his temerity in questioning her. That cut no ice with Damaso.
Silently he waited. Eventually her gaze skittered from his. She shrugged. ‘King Cyrill wasn’t pleased when his public relations advisors told him there were rumours I was pregnant.’
‘They were quick off the mark!’
Her mouth tightened. ‘They’re always careful to keep tabs on me.’ Did he imagine an emphasis on ‘me’?
‘And what did you say? Did you confirm the pregnancy?’ Damaso wished he knew more about the Bengarian monarchy. He’d had no interest in the small European kingdom till someone on the trek had pointed Marisa out as the infamous party princess he’d vaguely heard about. How close were she and the King? Obviously their conversation had taxed Marisa’s strength, despite her show of unconcern.
She half-turned and stroked a finger idly along the gleaming surface of his desk. ‘It’s none of his business.’ Defiance edged her tone. ‘But then I realised there was nothing to be gained by waiting. I’d have to face the flak sooner or later.’
‘Flak? Because you’re not married?’ He knew next to nothing about royals—except that their lives seemed steeped in tradition.
She laughed, the sound so bitter he wondered if it hurt. ‘Not married. Not in a relationship. Not seeing a man vetted and approved by the palace. Not doing what a Bengarian princess is supposed to do. Take your pick.’
Damaso stepped closer, drawn by the pain in her voice. ‘What is it you’re supposed to be doing?’
Marisa’s head lifted, her chin angling, as if facing an opponent.
‘Being respectably and sedately courted by a suitable prince, or at least a titled courtier. Keeping out of the press, except in carefully staged set pieces arranged by the palace. Not causing a scandal, particularly now.’
‘Now? Why now?’ Why hadn’t he taken time to find out more about Marisa’s European homeland?
Because his focus was and always had been on building his business. That was what he lived for. What made him who he was.
Marisa straightened, but once again refused to meet his gaze. ‘I’d like to say it’s because the country is still in mourning for Stefan. But it’s because Cyrill doesn’t want any scandal in the lead up to his coronation.’
At Damaso’s enquiring look, she explained. ‘Cyrill is my uncle, my father’s younger
brother. My father was king and after my father died Cyrill was Regent of Bengaria for eleven years, till Stefan came of age at twenty-one.’ She sucked in a breath and for a moment he thought she’d finished speaking. ‘Stefan was my twin brother and King of Bengaria. He died in a motorboat accident two months ago.’
Two months ago? Damaso frowned, searching her face. Her brother had been barely cold in his grave when Damaso had met Marisa. She hadn’t acted like a woman grieving the loss of a loved one.
Yet what did he know of grief or loss? He’d never had so much as a best friend, let alone family.
‘You don’t like your uncle?’
Marisa turned startled eyes on him, then laughed again, the sound short and sharp. ‘I can’t stand him.’ She paused. ‘He was our guardian after our father died and to all intents and purposes King.’ Her voice held a sour note that told far more about their relationship than her words. ‘Even when Stefan was crowned, Cyrill was there in the background, trying to manipulate opinion whenever Stefan dared to instigate change.’
‘But now you’re free of him.’
Marisa turned to stare out across the lawns to the sandy crescent of Damaso’s private beach. It looked so peaceful, so perfect. But the sight did nothing to calm her. Not after Cyrill’s threats.
The last day and a half, she’d been in a state of shock. And now this... Once more her uncle threatened to turn her life inside out.
‘It’s not that simple.’ Foolishly, she’d thought it was. With Stefan gone, Marisa had no interest in Bengarian politics. She just hadn’t counted on the fact that Bengaria wasn’t ready to wash its hands of her. A fact her uncle had been at pains to point out.
‘Marisa? What is it?’ Damaso’s voice deepened and she forced herself to look up, only to find herself pinioned by his questioning gaze. Between Damaso and her uncle, she had no chance of peace! What she needed was time to sort herself out, away from domineering men. Even if one of them made her question her need for solitude.
‘Are you going to tell me or will I ring your uncle?’
Shock warred with laughter at the idea of anyone calling Cyrill on the spur of the moment. Who would win? Her uncle, with his smug self-importance and devious ways, or Damaso with his my-way-or-the-highway approach?
‘He wouldn’t talk to you.’
‘No one is that inaccessible, Marisa.’ Damaso crossed his arms, one slashing dark eyebrow lifting in enquiry. He didn’t bluster but there was such innate determination in his stance, his expression, she had no doubt her uncle would come off the worse in a contest of wills. ‘Why aren’t you free of him?’
With a sigh, she sank into a nearby armchair. ‘Because he holds the purse strings. As simple as that.’ And, fool that she was, she hadn’t seen it coming. How could she not have thought of it earlier?
Because she’d been wiped out by grief, grimly battling to face each new day after Stefan’s death and not to wear her pain publicly. She’d actually thought she could break her ties with the palace. How naïve, especially after experiencing her uncle’s Machiavellian ways first-hand.
Every penny she had was now sequestered by royal command. How was she going to find herself a home and provide for her child when everything she owned no longer belonged to her? Marisa bit her cheek hard as she felt her mouth tremble.
She’d thought she was adrift and rudderless without Stefan, but now...
‘He’s threatened to stop your allowance?’ Damaso’s tone was casual.
‘Yes, he’s stopping my allowance, as you call it—the money invested for me by my parents.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘He’s also threatening to freeze my assets, including my personal bank account.’
Fire kindled in Damaso’s eyes. ‘By what right?’
‘By right of the sovereign. In Bengaria, that means everything. He has control over all members of his extended family if he chooses to use it.’ She sank back in her seat, weary beyond reckoning. It was a power even her strict father wouldn’t have invoked. ‘It’s legal. Just not ethical.’
That was Cyrill all over. Anything to get his own way.
Who’d have thought his plans would still include her after the breach between them? She shuddered, wondering if he really wanted her back in Bengaria, or whether this was an elaborate tactic to make her suffer for repudiating him.
Damaso sank down before her, his gaze capturing hers. ‘You’ll want for nothing now you’re with me.’
He meant it. It was there in his steady stare.
‘Except I’m not with you! I haven’t agreed to marry you.’ Her heart hammered high in her throat as she read his implacable expression.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. This was a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Right now he wanted her.
Correction: he wanted her baby.
Chilled to the marrow, Marisa crossed her arms, shielding her child.
Damaso and Cyrill both wanted to control her for their own ends. Both wanted her child—Damaso for reasons she didn’t fully understand, Cyrill because her baby had royal blood, making it a potential pawn in his elaborate schemes to extend the power of the crown.
‘So, go out and get a job. Support yourself.’ Impatience edged Damaso’s tone. Marisa had heard it before from people who didn’t know her but believed all they read in the press.
About to hide her feelings behind the usual show of casual disdain, something stopped her.
Damaso’s good opinion shouldn’t matter. He’d already shown how little he thought of her. Yet she paused. She was tired of being judged and found wanting.
‘You think I haven’t tried?’ At the surprise in his eyes, she turned away, hunching her shoulder against his disbelief. ‘Who’d take me seriously, especially when the press start hounding me, pestering my employer and other staff? Making bets on how long I’ll stick it out?’
She shuddered, remembering how her naïve optimism had been shattered again and again. Failure had bred failure. Her reputation hung like an albatross around her neck: dilettante; party girl; frivolous, unable to stick to anything. How many times had she tried to do something worthwhile, only to have the opportunity snatched away?
Last time the press had camped outside the special school where she’d volunteered until both staff and children had become unsettled and nervous. Finally the director had asked her not to come any more.
‘I’ve tried. Don’t think I haven’t.’ Marisa heard the shaky echo of defeat in her voice. It scared her. All she had left was her independence. She’d fought so long for that and she had to be strong now.
Instantly she was on her feet, needing to move, to think.
But Damaso was before her, his large hand wrapping around her wrist before she could take a step.
He looked down into her pale face, her wide eyes, shadowed now instead of bright, and felt the tiniest tremor ripple under her skin. Slowly she lifted her chin as if distancing herself from him. Was it an unconscious gesture, that superior set of the head, or a practised move designed to scare off plebeians such as himself?
Yet, holding her slender wrist, it struck him that behind the air of well-bred hauteur lurked a world of pain.
Damaso was an expert at reading people. It was a skill he’d cultivated and exploited even as a child, gauging which adults would respond to a skinny kid’s wide-eyed hungry look with an offer of food and which with a swift kick. But in all his years his understanding had rarely turned to empathy.
Yet, what other explanation could there be for this protectiveness? This need to wrap his arms around her and hold her close?
There were violet smudges under her fine eyes and she couldn’t quite disguise the way her lips trembled. She did a magnificent job of hiding it but once more he recognised a vulnerability about Princess Marisa of Bengaria that went far deeper than the mere loss of funds.
His hand gentled on her arm.
‘Whatever he does, he can’t touch you here.’
It was meant for reassurance, but h
e felt her stiffen.
‘But I haven’t said I’d stay.’
Sharp heat twisted in Damaso’s belly. He refused to countenance a future where his child grew up without him.
His child.
The words were like a beam of light, illuminating a hollow in the dark void of his soul he’d never known till now. He’d never thought to belong to anyone. Yet he knew with deep gut instinct that he had to be part of his baby’s life. His child would have a father, a family, such as he’d never known. His child would never be alone and frightened. It would never want for anything.
Damaso’s hand tightened around Marisa’s.
He wasn’t the sort to step back from what he wanted. He’d never have survived the slums if he hadn’t learned early to take life by the throat and hang on tight.
But there was more than one way to get what he wanted. He was fast learning Marisa wasn’t the two-dimensional party girl the world thought she was. He’d seen hints of it from the first. Her revelations about her uncle and her distress when Damaso had snapped that she should get a job had shattered that image.
‘Let me go, Damaso. You’re hurting me.’
Yet she stood stock still, too proud to fight his hold. Unexpectedly, his chest squeezed at her defiant posture. Holding her as he did, he felt her tremble.
‘Am I?’ He slid his fingers down to wrap around hers and lifted her hand, inhaling the tang of her skin’s scent. Slowly he lowered his head and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. Instantly her pulse flickered hard and fast. He kissed her again and heard her swift intake of breath.
‘Damaso. Let go of me.’ Her voice had a distinct wobble. It reminded him of her broken cry of ecstasy the first time she’d climaxed beneath him. Heat saturated his skin as his libido shifted gear, rousing in an instant.
‘What if I don’t want to?’ Her fingers twitched in his hold as he kissed her again.
Damaso didn’t look up. Instead he held her hand and laved the centre of her palm, feeling her tiny shudder of reaction and its echo in the tightening of his groin.
Damaso Claims His Heir Page 6
