Damaso Claims His Heir

He wanted to take her here, hard and fast and triumphantly. Except instinct told him he’d need more than one quick taste to satisfy this craving.

How had he resisted her for a whole week?

‘Perhaps you could tell me on the way back down exactly what you are interested in, Damaso.’

He snagged her hand in his again and turned her towards the rough track leading away from the cliff. Her fingers linked with his, shooting erotic pleasure through him that felt in some strange way almost innocent. How long since he’d simply held a woman’s hand?

* * *

Marisa towel-dried her hair while looking out at her private courtyard in the luxurious eco-resort. A bevy of butterflies danced through the lush leaves.

She tried to focus on how she’d capture them on film but all she could think about was Damaso Pires. The feel of his hand enclosing hers as they’d clambered down the track. The wrench of loss when he’d let her go as they’d approached the others. The way his burning gaze had stripped her bare.

No wonder she’d avoided him.

But now she craved him. She, who’d learned to distrust desire!

Yet this was something new. With Damaso Pires she sensed a link, a feeling almost of recognition, that she’d never experienced. It reminded her a little of the very different bond she’d shared with Stefan.

Marisa shook her head. Was grief clouding her thoughts?

Physical exertion, even danger, didn’t ease her pain. Since Stefan’s death she’d been shrouded in grey nothingness, till Damaso had reached out to her. Could she do it? Give herself to a stranger? Excitement and fear shivered through her. Despite what the world believed, Marisa wasn’t the voracious sexpot the press portrayed.

Then she remembered how she’d felt trading words with him, their bodies communicating in subtle hints and responses as ancient as sex itself.

She’d felt happy. Excited. That aching feeling of isolation had fled. She’d felt alive.

A knock sounded on her door, reverberating through her hollow stomach. Second thoughts crowded in, old hurts. Marisa glanced in the mirror. Barefoot, damp hair slicked back from a face devoid of make-up, she looked as far from a princess as you could get.

Did he want the real woman, not the royal? She wavered on the brink of cowardice, of wanting to pretend she hadn’t heard him. She’d taken chances on men before and been disappointed. More, she’d been eviscerated by their callous selfishness.

The knock came again and she jumped.

She had to face this.

With Damaso, for the first time in years, she dared risk herself again. That tantalising link between them was so intense, so profound. She wanted to trust him. She wanted desperately not to be alone anymore.

Her heart pounded as she opened the door. He filled the space before her, leaning against one raised arm. His eyes looked black and hungry in the early-evening light. Her stomach swooped.

With a single stride he entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him, eyes holding hers.

‘Querida.’ The word caressed her as his gaze ate her up. If he was disappointed she hadn’t dressed up, he didn’t show it. If anything his eyes glowed warm with approval. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’

‘Have you?’ She stood straighter.

‘How could I?’ His smile was lop-sided, the most devastating thing she’d ever seen. Then one large palm cupped her cheek and he stepped close. His head lowered and the world faded away.

CHAPTER TWO

‘MALDIÇÃO! WHAT YOU do to me.’ Damaso’s voice rumbled through her bones, his hands gripping tight at her hips as his mouth moved against her ear. Marisa shivered as her hyper-aware nerve endings protested at the sensory overload.

She’d never felt so vulnerable, so naked. As if their love-making had stripped her bare of every shield she’d erected between herself and a hostile world.

Yet, strangely that didn’t scare her. Not with Damaso.

Marisa clutched his bare back, sleek and damp, heaving slightly as he fought for breath. His chest pushed her down into the wide mattress and she revelled in the hard, hot weight of him, even the feel of his hairy legs imprisoning hers.

All night Damaso had stayed, taking his time to seduce her, not just with his body but with the fierce intensity he’d devoted to pleasing her. He was a generous lover, patient when unexpected nerves had made her momentarily stiff and wooden in his arms. She’d been mortified, sure he’d interpret her body’s reaction as rejection. Instead he’d looked into her eyes for an endless moment, then smiled before beginning a leisurely exploration of every erogenous zone on her body.

Marisa shivered and held him tight. Holding him in her arms felt...

‘I’m too heavy. Sorry.’

Before she could protest, he rolled over onto his back, pulling her with him. She clung fast, needing to maintain the skin-to-skin contact she’d become addicted to in the night.

Marisa smiled drowsily. She’d been right: Damaso was different. He made her feel like a new woman. And that wasn’t merely the exhaustion of a long night’s loving speaking.

‘Are you all right?’ She loved the way his voice rippled like dark, molten chocolate in her veins. She’d never known a man with a more sensuous voice.

‘Never better.’ She smiled against his damp skin then let her tongue slick along the solid cushion of his muscled chest. He tasted of salt and that indefinable spicy flavour that was simply Damaso.

He sucked in a breath and her smile widened. She could stay here, plastered to him, for ever.

‘Witch!’

His big hand was gentle on her shoulder, lifting her away. After lying against the furnace of his powerful body, the pre-dawn air seemed cold against her naked skin. She opened her mouth to protest but he was already swinging his legs out of bed. She lifted a hand to catch him back then let it drop. He’d be back once he’d disposed of the condom. Then they could drowse in each other’s arms.

Marisa hooked a pillow to her, trying to make up for the loss of Damaso. She buried her nose in its softness, inhaling his scent, letting her mind drift pleasurably.

They had another week left on the tour. A week to get to know each other in all the ways they’d missed. They’d skipped straight to the potent attraction between them, bypassing the usual stages of acquaintanceship and friendship.

Anticipation shimmied through her. The promise of pleasure to come. Who’d have thought she could feel so good when only yesterday...?

She shook her head, determined to enjoy the tentative optimism filling her after so long in a grey well of grief.

Marisa looked forward to learning all those little things about Damaso—how he liked his coffee, what made him laugh. What he did with his time when he wasn’t looking dark and sulkily attractive like some sexy renegade, or running what someone in the group had called South America’s largest self-made fortune.

A sound made her turn. There, framed in the doorway, stood Damaso, watching her.

The first fingers of dawn light limned his tall body, throwing his solid chest, taut abdomen and heavy thighs into relief. The smattering of dark hair on his chest narrowed and trickled in a tantalising line down his body. Marisa lay back, looking appreciatively from between slitted eyes. Even now, sated after their loving, he looked formidably well-endowed. As if he was ready to...

‘Go to sleep, Marisa. It’s been a long night.’ The dark enticement of his voice was edged with an undercurrent she couldn’t identify.

Shoving the spare pillow aside, she smoothed her arm over the still-warm space beside her.

‘When you come back to bed.’ She’d sleep better with him here, cradling her as before. It wasn’t sex she craved but his company. The rare sense of wellbeing he’d created.

Damaso stood, unmoving, so long anxiety stroked phantom fingers over her nape. Almost, she reached out to drag up the discarded sheet. She hadn’t felt embarrassed by her nudity earlier, when he’d looked at her with approval and even something like adoration in his gaze. But this felt different. His stare was impenetrable, that tiny pucker of a frown unexpected.

The silence lengthened and Marisa had to clench her hands rather than scoop up the sheet. She’d never flaunted herself naked but with Damaso it had felt right. Till now.

He prowled across the room with a grace she couldn’t help but appreciate. He stopped at the edge of the bed, drawing in a deep breath. Then he bent abruptly to scoop something off the floor—his discarded jeans. He dragged the faded denim up those long thighs.

Surely he had underwear? she thought foggily, before the implication struck.

Her gaze met his and rebounded from an impenetrable black stare. Gone was the spark of excitement in his gaze, the wolfish hunger that should have scared her yet had made her feel womanly and powerful. Gone was the sizzle of appreciation she’d so enjoyed when they’d sparred verbally.

His eyes held nothing.

‘You’re leaving.’ Her voice was hollow. Or was that her body? Ridiculously, she felt as if someone had scooped out her insides.

‘It’s morning.’ His gaze flicked to the full-length window.

‘Barely. It’s still hours till we need to be up.’ How she spoke so calmly, she didn’t know. She wanted to scuttle across the bed and throw herself into his arms, beg for him to stay.

Beg... Marisa had never begged in her life.

Pride had been one of her few allies. After years facing down family disapproval and the wilder accusations of the ravenous press, she’d been stripped of everything but pride. Now she was tempted to throw even that away as desperation clutched at her.

‘Exactly. You should get some sleep.’

She blinked, confused at the hint of warmth in his voice, so at odds with his unreadable expression. She felt like she’d waded into knee-deep water and suddenly found herself miles out to sea.

More than ever Marisa wanted to cover herself. Heat crept from her feet to her face as his hooded gaze surveyed her. Was that a flicker of regret in his eyes?

‘It’s best I go now.’

Marisa bit down a protest. Perhaps he was trying to protect them from gossip, leaving her room before even the staff were up. But since the pair of them had missed dinner last night it was probably too late for that.

‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then.’ She sat up, pinning a bright smile on her face. There would be time enough to spend together in the next week.

‘No. That won’t be possible.’ He finished the buttons on his shirt and strode to the bedside table, reaching for his watch.

‘It won’t?’ She sounded like a parrot! But she couldn’t seem to engage her brain.

He paused in the act of wrapping his watch around his sinewy wrist.

‘Listen, Marisa. Last night was remarkable. You were remarkable. But I never promised you hearts and flowers.’

Indignation stiffened her spine, almost dousing the chill dread in her veins. ‘I hardly think expecting to see you at breakfast has anything to do with hearts and flowers, as you so quaintly put it.’

Damn him! She leaned down and grabbed the sheet, pulling it up under her arms. At least now she wasn’t quite so naked.

‘You know what I mean.’ The hint of a growl tinged his deep tone and Marisa felt a tiny nub of satisfaction that she’d pierced his monumental self-assurance. For that was what it was—that unblinking stare from eyes as cool and unfeeling as obsidian.

‘No, Damaso, I don’t know what you mean.’ She regarded him with what she hoped looked like unconcern, despite the fact she was crumbling inside.

‘I gave no commitment.’ As lover-like statements went, this one hit rock bottom.

‘I didn’t ask for any.’ Her voice was tight.

‘Of course you didn’t.’ Suddenly he looked away, intent on his watch. ‘You aren’t the type. That’s why last night was perfect.’

‘The type?’ Out of nowhere a chill crept over her bare shoulders.

‘The type to cling and pretend a night in bed means a lifetime together.’

His eyes met hers again and she felt the force of desire like a smack in the chest. Even as he rejected her the air sizzled between them. Surely she didn’t imagine that? Yet the jut of his jaw told her he was intent on ignoring it.

There she’d been, daydreaming that this might be the start of something special. That, after a lifetime of kissing frogs and finding only warty toads, she might actually have found a man who appreciated her for herself.

She should have known better. Such a man didn’t exist.

Marisa’s stomach plunged, reopening that vast chasm of emptiness inside.

‘So what did it mean to you, Damaso?’ She clipped the words out.

‘Sorry?’

He looked perplexed, as if no woman had ever confronted him like that. But Damaso was an intelligent man. He knew exactly what she was asking.

‘Well, clearly you don’t want me expecting a repeat of last night.’ Even now she waited, breathless, hoping she was wrong. That he did want to spend more time with her, and not just for sex. Marisa wanted it so badly that she discovered she’d curled her hands into hard fists, the nails scoring her skin.

‘No.’ He paused, his face very still. ‘This can’t go anywhere. There’s no point complicating things further.’

Complicating? Now there was a word. The sort of word men used to denigrate what made them uncomfortable.

‘So, out of curiosity...’ She kept her voice even with an effort. ‘What was last night to you? Did you make a bet with the others that you could get me into bed?’

‘Of course not! What sort of man do you think I am?’

Marisa raised her eyebrows, surveying his shocked expression with a dispassionate eye even as hurt carved a channel through her insides. ‘I don’t know, that’s the point.’

She’d vowed never to be burned again. Yet here she was, regretting the impulse that had made her open herself to him.

Marisa had been so sure that this time she’d found a man who at least had no hidden agenda. How many times did she have to learn that particular lesson? Bitterness soured her tongue.

‘So it was the princess thing, was it? You’d never done it with a royal?’

He loomed over her, his jaw set.

‘Why are you being deliberately insulting?’

And it wasn’t insulting, the way he was shoving her aside once he’d had what he wanted, without as much as a ‘good morning’ or a ‘thank you’ or even a ‘see you later’?

Bile burned in the pit of her stomach and she swallowed hard when it threatened to rise. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how he’d hurt her. She’d finally reached out to someone, trusted herself with a man...

Marisa bit her cheek, cutting off that train of thought. She’d been right to hesitate when he’d held out his hand to her on the climb. If only she’d followed her instinct and not touched him.

‘I merely want to get it clear in my mind.’ She rose and wrapped the sheet around her. She still had to look up at him but at least she wasn’t sitting like a supplicant at his feet.

‘It was sex, great sex. That’s all.’ Suddenly there was fire in his eyes and a frisson of angry energy sparked from him. ‘Is that what you needed to hear?’

‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head, wondering how she’d managed to invest simple animal attraction with such significance.

Because she was so needy?

Because she was so alone?

What a pathetic woman she was. Maybe her uncle was right after all.

‘Marisa?’

She looked up to find Damaso frowning. This time it was concern she read on his features. He’d even moved closer, his hand half-lifted.

Marisa stiffened. She didn’t need anyone’s pity, especially this man who’d seen her as perfect for just a night, no strings attached. No doubt, like too many others, he saw her as a woman who wouldn’t mind being bedded then shunned.

Her skin crawled and pain stabbed hard between her ribs. It was all she could do not to clutch at her side, doubled up at the force of what she felt.

‘Well, if we’ve finished here, you might as well go.’ She looked past him to the bathroom. ‘I have a yearning for a long, hot shower.’ She wished she could scrub away the hurt that welled as easily as she could wash away the scent of his skin on hers. ‘And don’t worry; I won’t look out for you at breakfast.’

‘I won’t be here. I’m leaving.’

Marisa blinked and looked away, making a production of gathering up her robe where it had been discarded last night.

So there’d never been a chance for them at all. Damaso had always planned to leave and hadn’t had the decency to tell her.

That, as nothing else, clarified exactly what he thought of her. She’d never felt so bruised by a man, so diminished. Not since the night Andreas had admitted he’d bet his friends he could get her into bed.

Pain swelled and spread, threatening to poleaxe her where she stood. She had to get away.

Marisa drew herself up and headed for the bathroom. She paused in the doorway, clutching it for support, and looked over her shoulder.

To her surprise, Damaso hadn’t moved. He watched her with a scowl on his face. A scowl that did nothing to reduce the magnetism of his honed features.

He opened his mouth to speak and Marisa knew she couldn’t bear to hear any more.

‘I wonder if that makes me a notch on your belt or you a notch on mine?’ Her voice was a throaty drawl, the best she could manage with her frozen vocal chords.

Then, with a flick of the trailing sheet that only long hours’ practice in a ball gown and train could achieve, she swept into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

* * *

‘It’s a pleasure to have you visit, sir.’ The manager smiled as he led the way.

Damaso strode through the lodge, his gaze lingering approvingly on the lofty spaces, the mix of local stone, wood and vast expanses of glass that gave this mountain eyrie an aura of refined, ultra-modern luxury. He’d been right to build it, despite the problems constructing on such a site. Even after a mere six months the place had become a mecca for well-heeled travellers wanting to experience something different.

Beyond the massive windows the vista was stunning as the setting sun turned the jagged Andean peaks and their snowy mantle a glowing peach-gold. Below, even the turquoise surface of the glacier-fed river was gilded in the last rays of light.

‘Your suite is this way, sir.’ The manager gestured Damaso and his secretary forward.

‘I’ll find it myself, thanks.’ Damaso’s eyes remained fixed on the remarkable view.

‘If you’re sure, sir.’ The manager paused. ‘Your luggage has been taken ahead.’

Damaso nodded dismissal to both men and headed into the main lounge. Something about the stillness and the feeling of being up above the bustle of the world drew him. Not surprising, given he’d worked like the devil for the last month, his schedule even more overloaded than usual.

Yet, no matter how frenetic his days or how short his nights, Damaso hadn’t found his usual pleasure in managing and building his far-flung empire.

Something niggled at him. A sense of dissatisfaction he hadn’t the time or inclination to identify.

He looked around, surprised to find the vast room empty. Turning, he strolled towards a door through which came the hum of voices. The bar was this way. Perhaps he’d have a drink before dinner. He had a full night ahead with his laptop before tomorrow’s inspection and meetings.

Laughter greeted him as he stepped across the threshold, halting him mid-stride. Rich laughter, infectious and appealing. It coiled through his belly and wrapped tight around his lungs.

His pulse gave a hard thump then took off.

He knew that laugh.

Damaso’s neck prickled as if delicate fingers brushed his nape, trailing languidly and drawing his skin tight with shivering awareness.

Marisa.

There she was, her golden hair spilling around her shoulders, her smile pure invitation to the men crowded close. Her eyes danced as she spoke, as she leaned towards them as if sharing some confidence. Damaso couldn’t hear what she said over the thunder of blood pounding in his ears.

But there was nothing wrong with his eyes. They traced the black dress that hugged her sinuous curves. The hemline hovered high above her knees, making the most of the contrast between sparkly black stretch fabric and shapely legs that would make grown men sit up and beg.

He should know. He’d spent hours exploring those legs along with every inch of her delectable body. Everything about her had enthralled him, even the long, curving sweep of her spine had been delicious. Was delicious.

A wave of energy surged through him. He found himself stepping forward until his brain clicked into gear. Did he mean to stalk across and rip her away from her slavering fans? What then? Throw her over his shoulder and take her to his room?

A resounding yes echoed through his whole being.

That stopped him in his tracks.

There’d been a reason he’d left her so abruptly a month before.

Left? He’d run as fast as he could.

It had nothing to do with business commitments and everything to do with the unprecedented things she’d made him feel. Not just desire and satiation, but something far bigger.

He’d got out of her bed with every intention of returning to it then had realised for the first time in his life there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

The idea was utterly foreign and completely unnerving.

That was when he’d decided to order a helicopter back to the city. Not his finest moment. Even with his date-them-then-dump-them reputation, he usually displayed far more finesse in leaving a lover.

Even now part of him regretted leaving her after just one night. What they’d shared had been amazing.

Marisa’s gurgle of laughter floated in his ears. Damaso swung round and walked back the way he’d come.

Once was enough with any woman. This...reaction to Princess Marisa of Bengaria was an anomaly. He didn’t do relationships. He couldn’t. Nothing would ever change that.

He strode up the stairs and along a wide corridor to the owner’s suite.

She was nothing to him. Just another party girl. Had she even gone home after the rainforest vacation? Probably not. She was probably whiling away a couple of months in exclusive resorts at her nation’s expense while trying out some new lovers along the way.

His teeth ground together and his pace picked up.

* * *

There was a tap on the conference-room door before a concerned-looking staff member entered.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ Her eyes shifted from the manager to Damaso, his secretary and the other senior staff at the large table.

‘Yes?’ the manager asked.

She shut the door behind her. ‘One of the guests has been taken ill on the slopes. They’re coming back now.’

‘Ill, not an accident?’ Damaso heard the note of worry in the manager’s voice. Illness was one thing; an accident under the supervision of the lodge’s staff was another.

‘It sounds like altitude sickness. She only arrived yesterday.’

‘She?’ Damaso surprised himself by interrupting.

‘Yes, sir.’ The woman twisted her hands together, turning back to her boss. ‘That’s why I thought you should know. It’s Princess Marisa.’

‘You’ve called a doctor?’ Damaso found himself standing, his fists braced on the table.

‘Don’t worry, there’s one on staff,’ the manager assured him. ‘Only the best for our clients, as you know.’

Of course. That was what set Damaso’s hotels apart—attention to detail and the best possible services.

‘The doctor will be with her as soon as she arrives,’ the manager assured Damaso, nodding dismissal to the staff member, who backed out of the door.

Damaso forced himself to sit but his focus was shot. For the next half hour he struggled to concentrate on profits, projections and the inevitable glitches that arose with any new enterprise. Finally he gave up.