Damaso Claims His Heir

by Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

  She could have said more—about how she’d always wanted a pet, about her growing desire to care for something after being so alone. But in truth she’d looked into those hopeful, canine eyes and felt a twang of fellow feeling. Here was another outcast, someone who didn’t fit and didn’t expect to be wanted.

  Damaso moved closer and the dog shivered. Marisa put out a soothing hand to gentle it.

  ‘I can find a good home for it. It doesn’t belong here.’ His offer surprised her and she jerked her gaze back up.

  ‘Thank you.’ His expression told her he didn’t want anything to do with the dog. ‘I appreciate it. But I want to look after him myself.’

  If she could do a good job of looking after a dog, perhaps she could work her way up to caring for a baby. Besides, he trusted her; she couldn’t let him down now.

  Damaso’s gaze shifted to the dog and Marisa sucked in her breath at the antipathy in that stare. No wonder the poor thing was shaking.

  ‘You can’t be serious. Look at it! It’s a mongrel. If you must have a dog, at least let me get one for you from a breeder.’

  ‘A pure-bred, you mean?’ Her hand slowed and she put the soap down.

  ‘Why not? Surely that’s more fitting?’

  ‘For a princess?’

  ‘It’s what you are, Marisa. There’s no point pretending otherwise.’

  ‘Is that what you think I’m doing? Pretending to be someone I’m not?’ Hurt scored her voice. Is that what he thought she’d been doing on her visit today?

  ‘Of course not.’ He strode away then spun on his foot. ‘Just look at it. No matter what you do, it will always be a slum-bred mongrel.’

  The words echoed in her head. Marisa read Damaso’s taut features, the rigidity of his big frame. She’d only seen him like this once before, when he’d been so adamant she stay away from the favela.

  Because he was ashamed of where and how he’d grown up?

  It didn’t seem possible. She’d never met a man more grounded and self-assured than Damaso.

  Yet he harped so often about her royal lineage, as if that mattered a scrap compared with character.

  ‘It’s probably carrying disease too.’

  Marisa shook her head and reached for a bucket of rinse water. ‘I’ve taken Max to the vet and he’s had the all clear.’

  ‘Max?’

  Marisa tipped the water gently over the dog and reached for another bucket.

  ‘He reminds me of my great-uncle, Prince Maximilian.’ Despite the tension in the air, she smiled. ‘Same long nose, same big brown eyes.’

  Great-Uncle Max had been a scholar, happier with his books than playing politics, but he’d always had time for Marisa, even hiding her when she’d played hooky from history classes. But then Uncle Max had had a way of bringing the past alive in a way her teachers didn’t.

  She blinked hard, surprised to feel her eyes prickle at the memory of those brief snatches of childhood happiness.

  Damaso watched her intently from beneath lowered brows, his gaze shifting from her to the dog.

  ‘You really do care about the animal.’ There was a thread of shock in Damaso’s voice.

  Admittedly Max, drenched and bony, wasn’t the most handsome dog around, but he had character.

  Marisa shrugged and finished rinsing off the soap suds. Even she was surprised at how quickly she and Max had bonded. She couldn’t send him back to the streets, not now. Despite what Damaso thought, this wasn’t some deliberate test of his forbearance. It had been an impulsive decision that she’d known instinctively was right.

  ‘Very well, it can stay, but I don’t want to see it inside.’

  Damaso turned back into the apartment before Marisa could thank him, but a tiny glow of heat flared inside and spread. ‘Hear that, Max?’ She reached for the towel Beatriz had provided and began to dry him. ‘You can stay.’

  They’d both found sanctuary with Damaso. His reasons weren’t purely altruistic, since he was angling to convince her to stay long-term. But Marisa had experienced enough duplicity to know actions did count louder than words.

  She wondered if Damaso had any idea how much his generosity meant.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘THE CITY LOOKS wonderful at this time of night.’

  Damaso watched across the table as Marisa leaned back in her seat, sipping from a goblet of sparkling water as she surveyed the panorama. The view from his private roof garden had always been spectacular but he’d never found time to appreciate it until Marisa had moved in with him.

  There were a lot of things he hadn’t fully appreciated.

  His gaze roved her golden hair, loose over her shoulders, the dreamy expression in her eyes and the ripe lushness of her breasts beneath the filmy, sea-green top.

  He’d known many beautiful women but none of them had made the breath seize in his lungs or his chest contract.

  ‘I love this city.’ Her smile widened.

  ‘You do?’ He raised his beer glass to his lips rather than reveal how pleased he was by her announcement. ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s vibrant, so different from Bengaria. There’s so much happening, and the Paulistanos have such energy.’ She looked at the table between them and the remains of the meal Beatriz had served. Her hand slipped to her stomach. ‘Plus, I love the food. If I’m not careful, I’ll be fat as butter by the time the baby’s born.’

  Damaso shook his head. Only a lover would know she’d put on a mere couple of pounds during her pregnancy. As that had only made her pert breasts fuller, he wasn’t complaining.

  He tried to imagine her swollen with his child and a stab of possessiveness seared through him.

  Just as well she enjoyed the life here. He wasn’t letting her go, even if she had yet to come to terms with the fact.

  ‘My uncle has invited me to his coronation.’

  Damaso stilled, fingers tightening on his glass. ‘You’re not going? You hate Cyrill.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘At first I didn’t intend to, but I’m wondering. I don’t want to see him, but sometimes it feels like I’m hiding here, afraid to go home and face the music.’ Her jaw angled higher in that determined way she had. ‘I don’t like that.’

  He frowned. ‘I thought you told me Bengaria wasn’t home.’

  She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t happy there but it’s in my blood.’

  ‘So what are you thinking? That you owe it to your uncle to hold his hand through the coronation? You want to play happy families with him?’

  Marisa’s mouth turned down. ‘Not that. I just wondered if it wasn’t better to face them all.’

  ‘Why?’ He leaned close. ‘So they can lecture you about your irresponsible behaviour in getting pregnant?’

  Damaso silently cursed his straight talking when she winced and looked away. Yet everything in him rose up in protest at the idea of her leaving, even for a short visit.

  If she went to Bengaria, what was to stop her staying? Certainly not love for him. They had great sex, and she seemed as content as he to spend time together, but nothing she’d done or said indicated she’d fallen for him.

  His pulse quickened. Was that what he wanted—Marisa head over heels in love with him?

  That would solve all his problems. Marisa in love would be a Marisa committed to staying. It would hardly matter that he didn’t know the first thing about love or relationships. She had enough warmth for the pair of them, the three of them.

  In his bleaker moments he wondered if he had it in him to learn how to love.

  ‘You think going back would be a mistake?’

  Damaso paused, conscious that this was the first time Marisa had asked his advice.

  Was it wishful thinking, or was this a turning point?

  Stifling a triumphant smile, he tempered his words, cautious not to sound dictatorial like her uncle. Marisa could be persuaded, not ordered. He’d learned that quickly. Better if she thought staying was her decision.

 
‘I think you need to consider how your uncle will try to use your presence to his advantage. Do you want to be his dupe?’

  The tightening of her lips told him he’d struck a chord. Marisa was proud. She wouldn’t want to play into the hands of a man she despised.

  ‘Why don’t you decide later?’ Damaso knew better than to push his advantage. ‘Tell me about your day,’ he urged. ‘I haven’t seen you for hours.’

  There was another first. He looked forward to their evenings together, discussing the day’s events. It was something he’d never experienced with anyone else.

  ‘I took the kids to the gallery.’ She leaned forward, her eyes shining, and he congratulated himself on hitting on something to take her mind off Cyrill. ‘You should have seen how excited they were. Silvio spent a couple of hours with them and they drank it all in.’

  ‘I’m sure they did.’ He remembered the first time he’d left the neighbourhood where he’d grown up. The excitement and fear. The children Marisa had taken under her wing with her photography classes would never have dreamed of anything as plush as Silvio’s gallery. As the most successful photographer in South America, and probably beyond, he could name his own price for his work.

  ‘I have to thank you for introducing me to him.’ Marisa’s hand found his and he threaded his fingers through hers, marvelling again at how something so delicate and soft could be so strong. ‘I’ve admired his work for years, but...’

  ‘No need to thank me.’ They’d been over that weeks ago, when Damaso had taken her to Silvio’s gallery. She’d been in seventh heaven, so rapt in Silvio’s artwork that the photographer had taken an immediate shine to her. They’d been thick as thieves ever since.

  Damaso might have been jealous of the way Marisa spoke so often of Silvio, except it was his work she was interested in, and her responsiveness to Damaso was unabated.

  Anything that strengthened Marisa’s ties to Brazil, such as her friendship with Silvio, was something Damaso encouraged. Besides, watching her enthusiasm as she talked about how her young photographers had blossomed at this rare opportunity was like watching a flower open to the sun.

  Something stirred and eddied in his chest as a smile lit her face.

  She was so happy.

  It was only now, seeing her excitement, hearing her enthusiasm, that he realised how she’d changed. She’d always seemed vibrantly alive. But now Damaso knew her well enough to recognise that in the past some of her vivacity had been a persona, like clothing worn to project an image.

  Damaso knew about that. In the early days he’d acted the part of successful businessman even when he’d had barely enough money to feed himself. He’d poured everything into becoming the man he was determined to be. Convincing others to trust him had been part of that.

  Seeing Marisa glow from within, he realised the woman he’d met in the jungle had been going through the motions, despite her bright, engaging smile. Grief had muted her.

  The real Marisa was stunning, almost incandescent. The sort of woman to draw men, like moths to flame.

  He’d never felt as lucky as he did now, despite the niggle of doubt, because she hadn’t yet agreed to marry him. His hand tightened on his beer and he took another swallow.

  ‘Silvio offered to meet them again and look at their work. Isn’t that fantastic?’

  ‘Fantastic,’ he murmured. ‘But they’re already learning a lot from you.’

  Marisa’s sessions with the kids had been a huge success. He’d heard from a number of sources how enthusiastically not only the teens but their parents too had responded, plus he’d seen the results.

  Marisa shook her head. ‘I’m an amateur.’

  ‘A talented amateur.’

  ‘Flatterer.’ Her eyes danced and again Damaso felt familiar heat in his belly.

  It still unsettled him, knowing Marisa was going to the favela. He wanted to lock her away so she couldn’t be hurt. But seeing her now, he knew he was right to hold back.

  Movement at the end of the table caught his eye as the mongrel dog sidled up to her chair. With a fond glance, Marisa reached down and stroked its head, then tickled it under the chin. The dog closed its eyes in ecstasy and leaned closer.

  Damaso’s mouth thinned. What did she see in it? Watching her delicate fingers ruffle its fur just seemed wrong. He could give her a dog bred specifically to be a perfect companion. Instead she settled for a ragged mongrel that looked like it belonged on the streets, no matter how much she bathed and brushed it.

  Marisa caught the direction of his stare.

  ‘Why don’t you like him?’ Marisa’s head tilted to one side in that characteristic look of enquiry.

  Damaso shrugged. ‘I don’t have time for pets.’

  Her silence told him she didn’t buy that.

  ‘But it’s not just any pet, is it? You offered to get me another dog to replace him.’ She paused, studying him carefully. ‘It’s something about Max.’

  Damaso said nothing. He’d agreed to let the animal stay. What more could she want?

  ‘It’s because of where he comes from, isn’t it?’ She leaned across the table. ‘Is that why you can’t bear to look at him?’

  Marisa sank back in her chair, her fingers burrowing deep into Max’s fur as understanding hit out of the blue.

  She’d been in Damaso’s island home, and here in his city penthouse, and only now realised that, while he didn’t display his wealth with crass ostentation, everything was of the highest quality materials and craftsmanship.

  Nor had she seen anything with the patina of age— no antiques, nothing second-hand. Everything was pristine, as if it had been made yesterday. Many of the pieces had been created by world-renowned artisans, from the artwork to the furniture, and of course the architectural design of the buildings.

  The same applied to his luxury hotel in the Andes. Only the best, nothing ordinary or even old.

  Terrible foreboding tingled down Marisa’s backbone and she straightened, putting down her glass. She put both hands on the table, as if to draw strength from the polished metal.

  ‘What is it?’ No fool, Damaso had picked up her sudden mood change, from curiosity to stomach-curdling distress.

  ‘Everything you own is top of the range, isn’t it? Only the absolute best.’ Even the kitchen where Beatriz presided would do a Michelin-starred restaurant proud.

  ‘What of it? I can afford it and I appreciate quality.’

  ‘Quality.’ The word tasted bitter. It had been a favourite of her uncle’s, especially when he berated her for mixing with the ‘wrong’ sort of people.

  Marisa swallowed hard, telling herself she was mistaken. Yet nothing could dispel the suspicion now it had surfaced.

  ‘Marisa? What is it?’ Damaso’s brows drew down in a frown that, instead of marring his features, emphasised their adamantine charisma. ‘There’s nothing wrong with owning beautiful things.’

  ‘It depends why you want them.’

  For long seconds she fought the sickening idea, but it was no good. Finally the words poured out. ‘Is that why you’re so insistent marriage is our only option?’

  His eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about? I don’t see the connection.’

  ‘I come with a pedigree. Having a royal title means I’m quality.’ She dragged in a breath that didn’t fill her lungs and stared into his expressionless features, looking for some sign she was wrong.

  ‘You think I’m hung up on a royal title?’

  Marisa pressed her palms harder into the cool metal of the table.

  ‘I know you want my baby.’ How stark the words sounded, crashing through the truce they’d built so painstakingly. Yet she couldn’t shy away from the truth. ‘But maybe there’s more to it.’

  Inside a voice cried that she was wrong. That Damaso was different. But how could she trust her judgement on this? She’d been wrong before.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He sat so still she knew he exercised steely control.

  �
�Your reaction to me visiting the favela is out of proportion to the danger, especially given the bodyguards you insist on.’ Something flashed in his eyes and her heart dived. ‘I think the reason you don’t like Max is because he comes from a slum.’

  Marisa paused and waited but Damaso said nothing. The only animation was the tic of a pulse in his clenched jaw.

  ‘Tell me the truth, Damaso.’ She sucked in an unsteady breath. ‘Do you want me as a trophy to add to your collection? After all, a princess comes pretty close to the top of the heap if you care for titles and quality.’ Try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself gagging on the word.

  She’d thought she knew Damaso, that they shared something fragile and precious, something that made her happier than she could ever remember being. She’d begun to trust him, to hope.

  ‘If you want to hide from your past and pretend it never happened, saddling yourself with me isn’t the way to do it. Remember, most people don’t think of me as a quality item. I’m sullied goods.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’ He lunged across the table, his hand slamming down on hers, holding her captive. His dark eyes sparked, as if she’d tapped into a live volcano. ‘Don’t ever say such things about yourself.’

  Marisa tried to look down her nose at him. She’d learned the trick from her haughty uncle and it had proven invaluable when she’d wanted to hide private hurt. But it didn’t work now. Somehow she’d lost the knack—or Damaso had burrowed too far beneath her defences.

  Desperation added an edge to her voice. ‘Why not? It’s what everyone thinks, even if they don’t say it to my face. You might consider me the royal icing on the cake of your success, something special to add to your collection.’ She swept a glance beyond the exquisite hand-forged table and chairs to the sculptures scattered through his private garden that would have done any national gallery proud. She gulped, her throat raw. ‘But I’m flawed, remember? That detracts from my value.’

  He moved so fast, her head spun. Large hands cupped her cheeks, turning her head up to where he towered above her.