Damaso lowered his head, his mouth hovering near her ear, his breath warm on her skin. ‘The portrait of me?’
Marisa nodded and kept walking, the jittery, excited feeling in her stomach telling her she was in danger of revealing too much to this perceptive man.
They stopped on the threshold of the room and, as luck would have it, the spectators parted so they had an unhindered view.
The tingling began somewhere in her chest and spread out in ever-widening ripples just as it did every time she saw it. The photographer in her saw composition and light, focus and angle. The woman saw Damaso.
Not the Damaso the world was used to—the fiercely focused businessman—but a man she’d only just discovered. The slanting light traced his features lovingly in the black and white shot, revealing the broad brow, strong nose, the angle of cheekbone and jaw and the tiny lines at the corner of his eyes. But it did more. It captured him in a rare, unguarded moment, hunkering down with a dark-haired little boy, bent over a battered toy truck.
The man in the photo leant protectively close to the tot, as if to shield him from the football game that was a blur of action on the uneven dirt behind them. His eyes were on the boy and his expression...
Marisa swallowed. How had she ever wondered if Damaso would make a good father? It was all there in his face: the intense focus on the child; the protectiveness; the pleasure lurking at the corners of his firm mouth as he solemnly helped the boy fill the back of the truck with dirt scooped from the earth at their feet.
Damaso would make a wonderful father; she knew it in her bones. Since being with him her doubts about her ability to be a good mother had receded too. His praise and his trust did so much for her. His steady presence had even helped her to find a purpose.
‘Thank you for agreeing to let me hang this one.’ Her voice was husky and she had to work to counter the urge to press her palm to the tiny swell where her belly sheltered their child.
Beside her, Damaso shrugged. ‘You and Silvio were so adamant it had to be included. How could I refuse?’
‘I—’
‘How fortunate to find you here, princess.’
Marisa’s head jerked around at the interruption, her hackles rising at the deliberate emphasis on her title. Her stomach dropped as she recognised the country’s most notorious art critic, an older woman renowned for her venom rather than her eye for talent. They’d met at a high-profile event where they’d had opposing views on the merit of a young sculptor.
The woman’s cold, hazel eyes told Marisa she hadn’t forgotten, or forgiven.
‘Damaso.’ She turned. ‘Have you met—?’
‘I have indeed. How are you, Senhora Avila?’
‘Senhor Pires.’ The woman’s toothy smile made Marisa shiver. ‘You’re admiring the princess’s work?’ Again that emphasis on her title. ‘I hear Silvio is quite taken with his protégée.’ Her gimlet gaze and arch tone said she couldn’t see why. ‘That he’s even considering taking her on as an assistant!’
Fed up with being spoken about as if she wasn’t there, Marisa simply pasted a smile on her face. If this vulture wanted details, let her pump Silvio. Knowing how Silvio despised the woman, she wouldn’t get far.
When the silence lengthened the woman’s face tightened. ‘Of course, there are some who’d say social status is no replacement for real talent. But these days so much of the art scene is about crass commercialisation rather than true excellence. Anything novel sells.’
Her dismissive attitude scored at something dark inside Marisa. The belief that beneath her determined bravado her uncle had been right. That she had nothing of value to offer.
Dimly she was aware of Damaso squeezing her fingers.
She caught herself up. She’d let doubts undermine her too long. No more. She opened her mouth to respond but Damaso was quicker.
‘Personally I think anyone with real discernment only has to see these works to recognise an amazing talent.’ His tone was rich, dark chocolate coating a lethal blade. ‘As for milking social status, I don’t see any reference in the studio or the catalogue to the princess’s royal status.’
Beside her he loomed somehow taller, though she hadn’t seen him move. ‘I suspect those who gripe about social status are only hung up on it because they’re not happy with their own.’
Marisa bit back a gasp. It was the sort of thing she’d often longed to say but had never felt free to express.
‘Well!’ Senhora Avila stiffened as if she’d been slapped. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Damaso’s challenging stance. Finally she looked away, her gaze sliding to the photo.
‘I must say, Senhor Pires, this piece paints you in a new light. You look quite at home in that slum.’ Her eyes darted back to him, glittering with malice. ‘Could it be true, after all? The whisper that that’s where you came from? No one seems to know for sure.’
Marisa stepped forward, instinctively moving to block the woman’s venom. She knew how raw and real Damaso’s past was to him, even now. His hand pulled her back to his side and she leaned into him as his arm circled her shoulders.
‘I don’t see why my birthplace is noteworthy to someone whose interest purports to be in art.’ His tone lowered the temperature by several degrees. ‘It’s true I grew up in a favela. What of it? It wasn’t an auspicious start but it taught me a lot.’
He leaned towards the woman and Marisa saw her eyes widen. ‘I’m proud of what I’ve done with my life, Senhora Avila. What about you? Can you name something constructive you’ve done with yours?’
The critic mouthed something inarticulate and spun on her heel, scuttling away into the crowd beyond.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Marisa murmured. ‘She’ll blab to the whole world what she’s learned.’
‘Let her. I’m not ashamed of who I am.’ He turned her towards him, his gaze piercing, as if the glamorous throng around them didn’t exist. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course.’ Marisa stood straighter, still shaken by the force of anger that had welled when the woman had turned on Damaso.
Because Marisa loved him.
There, she’d admitted it, if only silently. She’d fought so hard against the truth, acknowledging it was a relief. Marisa hugged the knowledge to herself, excitement fizzing through her veins.
She felt as if she could take on the world.
‘You should have let me answer for myself. I’m not some dumb bimbo, you know.’
His mouth curled up at one corner. That smile should be outlawed for the way it made her insides melt.
‘You? A bimbo?’ He laughed and she had to fight the urge to lean closer. ‘As if.’ His expression sobered. ‘But you can’t ask me to stand by while that viper makes snide comments about the woman I intend to marry.’
Was it her imagination or did the crowd around her ripple in response to that low-voiced announcement?
‘Not here, Damaso!’ Suddenly she wanted more than anything to be alone with him. She longed for the privacy of his city penthouse or, even better, his island hideaway. ‘Let’s talk at home.’
The promise in his sultry stare sent her heart fluttering against her ribs. He looked like he wanted to devour her on the spot. Even his public assertion that he intended to marry her, something that would once have raised her ire, sent a thrill of excitement through her.
Yet it was another hour before they could leave, an hour of accolades that should have meant everything to her. Instead, Marisa was on edge, her mind reeling as she finally confronted her true feelings for Damaso. She wanted him...permanently.
The one thing she didn’t know was what he felt for her. He’d publicly revealed his past to deflect that critic’s spite. A past he’d once guarded jealously.
* * *
At last they were in the limo. Marisa couldn’t sit still. Adrenalin streamed through her body, making it impossible to relax. She wanted to blurt out her feelings but what would that achieve? He famously didn’t do relationships. Just m
arriage for the sake of his child.
But surely the way he’d stood up to that harpy meant something?
Something as impossible as him loving her?
The idea shimmered like a beacon in the distance, filling her heart with hope.
Even if he didn’t love her, Marisa couldn’t resist any longer. She’d marry him anyway. She’d never meet a better man than Damaso, or a man she cared about more.
She wanted to spend her life with him.
A weight slid off her shoulders as doubt was banished. She wanted love, she’d fight to get it, but she’d start small if she had to. Surely she could make him love her in time?
She was so engrossed in her thoughts she barely noticed him talking on his phone until he spoke to her.
‘It’s bad news, Marisa. A fire in the new Caribbean eco-resort.’
‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘They’re checking now. It’s too early to say. But I need to go there tonight.’
Marisa reached out and wrapped her hands around his tight fist. She knew how much worker safety meant to him and this new complex, due to open in weeks, had been the focus of his attention for so long.
‘Of course you should go. You’ve invested too much time and effort not to.’
‘I’ll be gone a week, probably more like two. You can come with me. I don’t like leaving you alone.’
‘I’ll hardly be alone.’ She shook her head. ‘You’d get more done without me and I have lots of work to do too, remember? Silvio and the kids are relying on me.’
Besides, it struck her that she had other unfinished business.
She’d used Damaso’s opposition as an excuse to stay away from her homeland. Yet increasingly she’d known she had to face her past just as Damaso had faced his.
Her past took the form of her uncle and the Bengarian court and press. Staying in Brazil, pretending the coronation wasn’t happening, felt too much like hiding, as if she was ashamed of who she was and what she’d done.
If she didn’t stand up to them, how could she hold her head high?
Marisa was determined to become the woman she wanted so badly to be—not just for herself but for Damaso and their child. For Stefan too. She’d make them proud.
She wanted to be strong the way Damaso was. The past was part of her, but she had to prove to herself she wasn’t cowed by it.
Besides, she had to be stronger now than ever before. Enough to take the chance and stay with a man who had never said he loved her and who might never say it.
Marisa swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fear crawling down her spine.
She’d go to the coronation, face her past and reconcile the two parts of her life. Maybe then she’d be the sort of woman Damaso could love.
‘Marisa? What is it? You have the strangest expression.’
She turned, her emotions welling unstoppably. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she urged. ‘Just go. I’ll be fine while you’re away. I’ll be busy.’
She needed to do this alone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HIS TWO WEEKS in the Caribbean had felt like two months. More.
Damaso jabbed the button for the penthouse and shoved his hand through his hair. He needed a haircut. He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble, and knew he should have shaved on the plane. But he’d still been working frantically, trying to get everything organised so he could come back a couple of days early.
He’d shave when he got to the apartment.
Except he knew once he saw Marisa his good intentions of sparing her delicate skin would fly out of the window. There would be no holding back.
He needed her now.
He needed her in ways he’d never needed a woman. His arms felt empty without her. He missed her smile, her sassy challenges, the sly way she teased him, the fearless way she stood up to him. He missed having her nearby, sharing the small stuff from their days he’d never thought important before he met her.
The doors opened and he strode into the apartment.
‘Marisa?’
Long strides took him past the vast sitting room to their bedroom suite. She wasn’t there. He headed back down the corridor.
‘Marisa?’
‘Senhor Pires.’ It was Beatriz, wiping her hands on an apron. ‘I didn’t expect you back yet.’
‘I changed my plans.’ He looked past her for Marisa. Surely she’d heard him by now. ‘Where is the princess?’
Beatriz stilled, her brows lifting. ‘She’s gone, Senhor.’ Damaso felt his blood turn sluggish, as if his heart had slowed. ‘Back to Bengaria for the coronation.’
Damaso rocked on his feet, absorbing the smack of shock. He’d spoken to Marisa daily and she’d said nothing about leaving.
Because she feared he’d stop her?
It was the only explanation.
That last night at the exhibition he’d mentioned marriage and she’d tried to hustle him away. Because she’d decided to leave him?
‘Senhor? Are you all right?’
Damaso shook his head, trying to stop the sick feeling surging through him. He reached out and splayed a hand against the wall, grateful for its solidity.
‘Can I get you—?’
‘Nothing,’ he croaked. ‘I don’t need anything.’
Except Marisa. Hell! It felt like the world crumbled beneath his feet.
Heedless of Beatriz’s concerned gaze, he stumbled back to the bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later Damaso slumped on the bed. He’d tried her phone but it was switched off. He’d checked his email—nothing. He’d even accessed her personal email, something he’d never before stooped to doing, and found nothing relevant.
There was no note, no message. Nothing except, in the drawer of her bedside table, a crumpled letter from her uncle. A letter demanding her presence for the coronation. A letter that spelled out the importance of Marisa returning to meet the man her uncle intended her to marry.
Bile rose in Damaso’s throat as his gut knotted.
She’d left him and gone to her uncle, the man she abhorred.
Because she’d rather marry some blue-blooded aristocrat than Damaso, a man without a family tree to his name? A man whose only pretensions to respectability had been bought with his phenomenal success. A man who still bore scars from his slum background.
He’d have sworn that didn’t matter to Marisa. But, if not that, then what?
Unless, like him, Marisa had doubts about his ability to be a father. To provide love.
How could you give what you’ve never known?
Fear gouged his belly, scraping at his deepest, most hidden self-doubt.
Something nudged his knee and he slanted his gaze down. That ragged mutt of Marisa’s leaned against him, its chin resting on his leg, its eyes soulful in its ugly face.
The dog’s coat felt surprisingly soft under his fingers. Its huge eyes narrowed to slits of pleasure as Damaso stroked one torn ear.
‘You miss her too, don’t you, Max?’
Strangely, it seemed completely natural to talk to the dog. It leaned close, its weight warm and comforting.
Surely she’d have taken the mutt if she’d intended leaving for good?
That shard of hope gave him strength.
‘Don’t fret.’ Damaso straightened his spine. ‘I’m going to get her back, whatever it takes.’ He refused to dwell on whether he spoke to reassure the dog or himself.
* * *
The cathedral was huge and impressive. Damaso barely gave it a glance as he stalked up the red carpet, ignoring the usher frantically trying to catch his attention.
The atmosphere was expectant and the air smelt of massed blooms, expensive scent and incense. Baroque organ music swelled, lending pomp to the occasion.
Damaso slowed, surveying the crowd. He saw uniforms and dark suits on the packed seats, clerical robes and women in designer dresses. But the hats the women wore obscured profiles and made it impossible to identify the wearers till they turned and stared.
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br /> ‘Princess Marisa,’ he barked to the usher. ‘Where is she?’
‘The princess?’ The man’s gaze flicked nervously up the centre aisle to the front seats. Instantly Damaso strode away, leaving the goggling man behind.
Heads whipped around as he passed but he looked neither right nor left as he scanned the front rows. Pale blue, lemon, ivory, that light shade of brown women insisted on giving names like ‘beige’ or ‘taupe’. His stare rested on each woman then moved on, dismissing them in turn. White, pink, more pink, light grey. They were dressed expensively but sedately. Obviously there was a book of etiquette on what to wear for a coronation: expensive but subdued.
Damaso shifted his gaze to the other side of the aisle. Grey, black, and...deep sapphire-blue swirled with an orange so vivid it reminded him of the sun blazing on his island beach at sunset. He faltered, his heart pounding.
He’d found her.
Instead of a suit she wore a dress that left the golden skin of her arms bare. She looked like a ray of light amidst the sedate pastels. She moved her head and the jaunty concoction of orange on her golden hair caught the light. It looked saucy even from behind.
His pace lengthened till he stood at the end of the row and he caught the full impact of her outfit. Elegant, but subtly sexy in the way the fabric hugged her curves. At her throat she wore the magnificent topaz necklace and for a moment Damaso could only stare, wondering what it meant that she’d chosen to wear his gift to an event that would be televised to millions.
The murmurs became a ripple of sound around him. The usher had caught up and was whispering urgently about the correct seating.
Still Marisa didn’t turn. Her attention was on the man sitting on her far side. A man with a chiselled jaw, wide brow and face so picture-book handsome he didn’t look real. Or maybe that was because of the uniform he wore. His jacket was white with gold epaulets, a double row of golden buttons down the front, and he sported a broad sash of indigo that perfectly matched his eyes.
Damaso’s fists curled. Was this the man she was supposed to marry?
Far from spurning him, she was in deep conversation with the guy. He said something and she leaned closer, her hand on his sleeve.
Damaso Claims His Heir Page 16
