Damaso Claims His Heir

by Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

  It was a warning that the seducer could also be the seduced. But Damaso had no doubt who was in control. He’d keep Marisa here by whatever means worked—by force, if necessary—but far better to convince her she wanted to remain exactly where she was.

  ‘I want you to stay.’

  ‘Really?’

  He tugged her hand and she stumbled a half-step closer. Damaso took advantage of her momentum to wrap his other arm around her and draw her close. Slowly, with a thoroughness designed to break the strongest will, he pressed his lips to her wrist again, then higher, planting firm kisses along Marisa’s forearm. When he got to her elbow she jerked in his hold, her breath a soft gasp.

  Instantly the heat drenching his skin stabbed deep into his belly, igniting a fire that spread to his groin.

  He wanted her.

  Just like that, he wanted her again. Not only the baby—but Marisa, lithe and sexy, in his bed.

  From her elbow he took his time tracing a path up her soft flesh till he reached her bare shoulder. He felt her choppy breathing flutter over his throat, the gentle softening of her body in his hold, and triumph filled him.

  She’d stay, and on his terms.

  Damaso nuzzled the pulse point at the base of her neck and she arched back, giving him unfettered access.

  His groin was rock-hard as he gathered her in and kissed his way up her neck to the corner of her mouth.

  Desperate hunger rose. Despite the carnal intimacies they’d shared, he’d yet to taste her lips. She’d always distracted him with her body, her caresses. He intended to remedy that.

  He turned his head to take her mouth but she wrenched away. Taken by surprise, he wasn’t quick enough to catch her back. She broke free and stood, breathing heavily, one palm pressed to her chest as if fearing her heart might catapult free.

  Damaso was about to reach for her when his vision cleared and he read her expression: confusion, desire and fear, all etched starkly on features drawn too tight.

  An iron fist crushed his chest, forcing the air from his lungs.

  She looked so weary. Yet she drew herself up, as if to repel a hostile takeover. Her chin angled proudly in that familiar tilt, but her face was flushed, and one hand twisted the edge of her top.

  Damaso could seduce her. He’d felt her tremble on the brink of surrender. But at what cost?

  For the first time in his life, Damaso pulled back from the edge of victory. Not because he didn’t want her but because Marisa wasn’t ready.

  He breathed deep, stunned at the decision he’d made without thinking—putting her needs before his.

  Somehow he managed a smile. He watched her eyes widen.

  ‘I have a proposal, Marisa.’

  Instantly she stiffened.

  ‘Stay here while we get to know each other. Relax and recuperate till the morning sickness passes. Take the time to rest and don’t worry about your uncle. He can’t reach you here.’ He swept an arm towards the windows. ‘Swim, eat, sleep and take all the time you need. Then later we’ll talk. In the meantime treat this as a private resort.’

  ‘Your private resort.’

  He nodded, barely stifling impatience. ‘I’ll be here. It’s my home.’ He neglected to mention his apartment in the city and the other residences scattered around the globe. He had no intention of leaving Marisa. How could he seduce her into staying permanently if he wasn’t here?

  Eyes bright as lasers sized him up and he had the unexpected sensation Marisa knew exactly what he intended. His hands clenched as she surveyed him. Patience wasn’t his strong suit.

  Finally, she spoke. ‘I have one condition. There’ll be no coercion.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘As your guest, I expect you to respect my privacy. When I want to leave, you won’t try to prevent me. I’m here of my own free will. I refuse to have my movements curtailed.’

  Damaso inclined his head, wondering how long it would take to convince her it wasn’t privacy she craved.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A SHADOW BLOTTED the sun and Marisa opened her eyes, squinting up from the sun lounger.

  ‘You’ll burn if you stay there any longer.’ Damaso’s voice turned the warning into a seductive samba of delicious sound. That deep, liquid, ultra-masculine voice, the lilt of his accent, sent her nerves into overdrive.

  Immediately her drowsy comfort vanished as her heart took up a wild percussion rhythm. Even after weeks on his island she wasn’t immune to the sheer sensual appeal of the man. And she’d tried. How she’d tried!

  Her mouth dried as she saw he’d stripped off his shirt, his skin dark-gold in the afternoon sun. The board shorts he wore rode low over his hips, drawing the eye to the sculpted perfection of taut muscle.

  A whorl of sensation twisted between her legs, making her shift uneasily.

  ‘I put sunscreen on just a while ago.’ Her voice sounded reedy, and no wonder. She’d never met a man as physically compelling as Damaso. Despite her efforts to blot their night together from her memory, she remembered exactly how it had felt, pressed up against that glorious body, embraced by those powerful arms.

  She’d never thought she’d regret the end of her morning sickness, but after mere weeks it had waned and without its distraction Marisa found herself conscious of Damaso at a deep physical level that disturbed her.

  ‘Here.’ Damaso held up a tube of sunscreen, squirting some onto his palm. ‘Let me protect you.’

  ‘No!’ Why did his words make her think of another sort of protection altogether? One that had already failed?

  Heat scored Marisa’s cheeks as she reached out and took the tube from him. ‘Thanks, but I’ll do it myself.’ She did not need Damaso’s hands on her.

  Their time on his island had only escalated her awareness of him. He hadn’t touched her, but the intensity in his dark eyes whenever they rested on her was proof he hadn’t forgotten their night together either. And, despite the way her thoughts chased round in her head as she tried to plot a future for herself and her baby, Marisa found herself too drawn to this almost-stranger.

  The last thing she needed was to give up her independence and allow another man power over her. She would rely only on herself now her baby was on its way. She was determined to protect her child from the negative influences she’d experienced, overbearing men included.

  At least Damaso hadn’t crowded her during these last weeks. Unlike her uncle, whose constant phone and email messages unsettled her.

  Marisa slapped the cream on her arms, across her cleavage and down to her midriff and legs.

  Still Damaso stood, unmoving. She felt him watching every slide of her palm and felt heat build deep inside. It was as if he was the one touching her flesh, making her nerves tingle in response to his heavy-lidded stare.

  ‘What about your back?’

  For answer, Marisa shrugged into a light linen turquoise shirt.

  Was that a smile tugging his mouth at the corner?

  ‘You’re a very independent woman, Marisa.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ In her uncle’s book, ‘independent’ had been synonymous with ‘troublesome’.

  ‘Absolutely nothing. I admire independence. It can make the difference between life and death.’

  Marisa opened her mouth to ask what he meant when he dropped to his knees beside her, hemming her in. They hadn’t been this close, close enough for his body to warm hers, for weeks.

  Instantly, sexual awareness hummed through her body and effervesced in her bloodstream. The shocking intensity of it dried her automatic protest.

  ‘You missed a bit,’ he murmured, bending close.

  Then he was touching her, but not in the long, sensuous strokes she’d expected. Instead his brow furrowed with concentration as he painted sun cream across her nose in gentle dabs, as if she were a child.

  She didn’t feel in the least childlike.

  Damaso’s eyelashes were long and lustrous, framing deep-set eyes dark as bitter chocolate. The late sun burnished his face and Marisa�
�s breath hissed between her teeth at the force of the longing that pooled deep inside.

  For she wanted him. She wanted his touch, his body, and above all his tenderness, with an urgency that appalled her.

  Oh yes, he could be tender when it suited him. But she hadn’t forgotten how he’d dismissed her after their night together, when she’d begun to wonder if she’d finally found someone who might value her.

  Marisa sat back, jerking from his touch.

  Never had she craved a man like this. Was it pregnancy hormones, playing havoc with her senses?

  He surveyed her steadily, as if she wore her thoughts on her face. But surely he had no idea what she was thinking? She’d learned to hide her thoughts years ago.

  Slowly Damaso lifted his hand but this time he swiped the remaining sun cream across his chest in a wide, glistening arc. Marisa swallowed and told herself to look away. But her fascination with his body hadn’t abated. How could it, when in the late afternoon light he looked like some gilded deity, an embodiment of raw masculine potency?

  ‘What’s that scar?’

  If he noticed the wobble in her voice, he didn’t show it. Instead he looked down at the neat line that curved at the edge of his ribs.

  ‘A nick from a knife.’ His tone was matter-of-fact, just like his shrug.

  Marisa tried not to cringe at the idea of a knife slicing that taut, golden flesh.

  ‘And that one?’ She’d noticed it the night they’d spent together: a puckered mark near his hip bone that had made her wince even though it was silvered with age.

  ‘Why the curiosity?’

  ‘Why not?’ It was better than dwelling on how he made her feel. With him so close, she couldn’t get up and move away, not without revealing how he unsettled her. It was a matter of pride that she kept that to herself.

  The gleam in his eyes made her wonder if he knew she was looking for distraction. But he didn’t look superior, or amused. Instead, he met her regard steadily.

  ‘You want me to marry you but I don’t know anything about you,’ she prompted.

  It was the first time marriage had been mentioned since she’d arrived, as if by common consent they’d agreed to avoid the matter. Marisa wondered if she’d opened a can of worms by mentioning it again.

  Would he try to force her hand now she’d brought it up? That was her uncle’s tactic—bulldozing through other people’s wishes to get what he wanted.

  Damaso crossed his arms over his chest, as if contemplating her question. The movement tautened each bunching muscle, highlighting the power in his torso.

  Marisa kept her eyes on his face, refusing to be distracted.

  ‘It was another knife.’

  ‘Not the same one?’ She frowned.

  ‘No.’

  So much for explanation. This was like drawing blood from a stone. ‘You got yourself into trouble a lot when you were young?’

  Damaso shook his head. ‘I got myself out of it. There’s a difference.’

  At her puzzled look, he shrugged and Marisa swallowed quickly. Did he realise how tempted she was to reach out and explore the planes and curves of his naked torso?

  Of course he knew. He watched her like a hawk, seeking signs of vulnerability.

  ‘I’m a survivor, Marisa. That’s why I’m still here— because I did what it took to look after myself. I never started a fight, but I ended plenty.’

  There was no bravado in his words. They were plain, unadorned by vanity.

  The realisation sent a trickle of horror down her spine. She’d had her troubles but none had involved fighting for survival against a knife attack.

  ‘It sounds like life was tough.’

  Something flickered in his eyes. Something she hadn’t seen before. Then he inclined his head a fraction. ‘You could say that.’

  Abruptly he moved, rising in a single, powerful surge. He leaned down, reaching to help her up, but Marisa looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen the gesture.

  She’d never been a coward but inviting Damaso’s touch was asking for trouble. She stood unaided then turned back to him, putting a pace between them as she did so. Nevertheless, her skin tingled from being so close.

  ‘What about you? What’s the scar at the back of your neck?’

  Marisa’s head jerked up. He couldn’t see the scar now; it was covered by her single thick plait. Which meant he’d noted and remembered it from the night they’d spent together. Heat fizzed from her toes to her breasts as their gazes locked. Damaso had spent his time that night learning her body with a thoroughness that had undone her time and again.

  ‘A fall off the beam.’

  ‘The beam?’ One eyebrow arched.

  ‘In gymnastics we sometimes perform on a beam, elevated off the ground. This—’ her hand went automatically to the spot on her nape just below her hairline ‘—was an accident when I was learning.’

  ‘You’re a gymnast?’ He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.

  ‘Was. Not any more.’ Bitterness welled on her tongue. ‘I’m too old now to be a top-notch competitor.’ But that wasn’t why she was no longer involved in the sport she’d adored, why she wasn’t even coaching it. She’d come to terms with that years before, so the sudden burst of regret took her by surprise.

  Could pregnancy make you maudlin?

  Despite her physical wellbeing after these weeks of rest and privacy from prying eyes, Marisa was unable to settle. Her emotions were too close to the surface. Perhaps all those years repressing them were finally catching up with her.

  ‘I think I’ll stretch my legs.’ She turned and wasn’t surprised when Damaso fell into step beside her, shortening his stride to fit hers.

  In silence they walked along the soft sand of the beach. Surprisingly, despite the tug of awareness drawing her belly tight, Marisa felt almost comfortable in his company. If only she could forget about Damaso as a lover.

  They’d reached the end of the beach when the thoughts she’d been bottling up demanded release.

  ‘Why, Damaso?’ She swung round to find him watching. ‘Why do you want marriage?’ Though he hadn’t raised the idea recently, it still pressed down on her. ‘Lots of parents don’t marry.’

  ‘Yours were married.’

  ‘That’s no recommendation.’ She didn’t bother to hide her bitterness.

  ‘They weren’t happy?’

  She shrugged and bent to pick up a shell, pearly-pink and delicate on her palm.

  ‘No, they weren’t.’ She paused, then sighed. Why not tell him? Then maybe he’d understand her reluctance to marry. ‘It was an arranged marriage, made for dynastic reasons. My mother was beautiful, gentle, well-born—and rich, of course.’ Her mouth twisted. Bengaria’s royal family always looked for ways to shore up its wealth. ‘My father wasn’t a warm man.’ She bit her lip. ‘They weren’t well-matched.’ At least, not from what she remembered and the stories she’d heard. Her mother had died so long ago, she only had a few precious memories of her.

  ‘That doesn’t mean all marriages are doomed to failure.’

  ‘So, were your parents happy together?’ If he’d grown up in a close-knit, loving family, that might explain why he insisted on marriage.

  Damaso watched her in silence so long, she felt tension knot between her shoulder blades.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t remember my parents.’

  ‘You’re an orphan?’

  ‘No need to sound so shocked. I’ve had a long time to get used it.’ His smile was perfunctory, not reaching his eyes.

  ‘Then why marriage? Why not—?’

  ‘Because I will be part of my son’s life. Or my daughter’s. I’m not interested in child support by proxy. My child will have me to support them.’ His face was tight and implacable.

  Marisa shivered. The way he spoke, all their child needed was him. Where was she in his grand scheme? She intended to be there to protect her baby, come what m
ay.

  ‘You don’t trust me to be a fit mother, is that it?’ Pain bruised her chest as she thought of the scandal that dogged her. These past weeks had opened up emotional wounds she’d thought long buried. ‘You’re judging me on what you’ve read in the press.’

  Sure, she’d done her share of partying, but the reality wasn’t anything like the media’s lurid reports. Her notoriety had gained a life of its own, with kiss-and-tell stories by men she’d never even met.

  Damaso shook his head. ‘I’m not judging you, Marisa. I’m simply saying I won’t settle for a long-distance relationship with my own flesh and blood.’ She heard the echo of something like yearning in his deep voice.

  Was that it? Did he want their child, rather than just feel responsible for it? The idea held a powerful appeal. Already she knew she’d do whatever was needed to ensure her baby’s well-being. Marisa blinked up at his stern face, looking for signs of softness.

  If only she could read him. It was rare that she sensed the man behind his steely reserve. She saw only what he allowed.

  How could she trust a man she didn’t know?

  ‘What sort of man would I be to walk away from our child and leave all the responsibility on your shoulders?’

  He had no idea how much she wanted support now. But responsibility without caring was a dangerous combination. That was how Cyrill had been with her and Stefan and it had poisoned their lives. She had to protect her baby.

  ‘Doesn’t our child have a right to both parents?’ His eyes searched hers. She felt the force of his stare right to her toes. ‘Doesn’t it deserve all the security we can give it?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘There are no buts, Marisa.’ Suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, drawing her close enough to feel the ripple of energy radiating from him. ‘I refuse to abandon my child to make its own way in the world. I want to keep it safe, nurture it, care for it and protect it from all danger. I want it never to feel alone. Is that a crime?’

  Suddenly, it was as if the rigid blankness of a mask had been ripped aside, revealing a man who, far from being cold and remote, was racked by strong feeling. A man whose hands shook with the force of stark emotion she saw in eyes that glittered almost black.