Damaso Claims His Heir

‘I have something to attend to,’ he said as he stood and excused himself from the meeting. ‘You carry on.’

He knew he was behaving inexplicably. Since when did Damaso Pires delegate anything he could do himself? Especially when he’d crossed the continent to take these meetings personally.

Five minutes later he was stalking down a quiet corridor, following a nervous maid.

‘This is the princess’s suite, sir.’ She gestured to the double doors with their intricately carved rock-crystal handles. Tentatively she knocked but there was no answer.

Damaso reached for the door and found it unlocked. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘I’m a friend of the princess.’ Ignoring her doubtful gaze, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

‘Friend’ hardly described his relationship with Marisa. They didn’t have a relationship. Yet curiously he hadn’t been able to concentrate on the business that had brought him here till he checked on her himself.

The sitting room was empty but on the far side another set of double doors was ajar. He heard the murmur of a woman’s voice followed by the deeper tones of a man.

‘Is it possible you’re pregnant?’

CHAPTER THREE

‘NO!’ THE WORD jerked out in shock. ‘I’m not pregnant.’ Still shivery from nausea, Marisa squinted up at the doctor.

Her? A mother? Why would she bring a child into the world when she couldn’t get her own life on track?

She could just imagine her uncle’s horror: impulsive, unreliable Marisa who frittered her time away with unsuitable interests rather than knuckling down to the role she was born to. Not that he had faith in her ability to perform that role.

‘You’re absolutely certain?’ The doctor’s gaze penetrated and she felt herself blush as she hadn’t since she’d been a teen.

She waved one hand airily. ‘Technically, I suppose it’s possible.’ She drew a slow breath, trying to ease her cramped lungs as images she’d fought hard and long to obliterate replayed in her head. ‘But it was just one night.’

‘One night is all it takes,’ the doctor murmured.

Marisa shook her head. ‘Not this time. I mean we...he used a condom. Condoms.’ The blush in her cheeks burned like fire. Not from admitting she’d been with a man; after all, she was twenty-five.

No, the scorching fire in her face and belly came from the memory of how many condoms they’d gone through—just how insatiable they’d been for each other. Until Damaso had said he wanted nothing more to do with her.

‘Condoms aren’t a hundred per cent effective, you know.’ The doctor paused. ‘You’re not using any other contraceptive?’

‘No.’ Marisa’s mouth twisted. All those years on the Pill while she’d been in training and now... Should she have kept taking it?

‘Forgive me for asking but how long ago was this night you’re talking about?’

‘Just over a month ago. A month and a day, to be exact.’ Her voice sounded ridiculously husky. She cleared her throat, telling herself to get a grip. Her periods weren’t regular—the time lapse meant nothing. ‘But I’ve had no other symptoms. Surely I would have? It has to be altitude sickness. That’s what the guide thought.’

Even now the room swooped around her when she moved.

The doctor shrugged. ‘It could be. On the other hand, your nausea and tiredness could indicate something else. It’s best we rule out the possibility.’ He delved into his bag and held something out to her. ‘Go on, it won’t bite. It’s a simple pregnancy test.’

Marisa opened her mouth to argue but she was too wrung out to fight. The sooner she proved him wrong, the sooner he’d give her something to make her feel better.

Reluctantly she took the kit and headed to the bathroom.

* * *

Damaso stood unmoving, staring blindly at the sunlight pouring across the richly carpeted floor.

He didn’t know what stunned him more—the possibility of Marisa being pregnant, or the fact he’d been her only recent lover.

When he’d left her in the rainforest he’d expected her to find someone else to warm her bed. The way she’d teased those guys in the bar just last night—pouting and showing off that taut, delectable body—he’d been certain she’d ended the night with a man.

If the press was to be believed, she had no scruples about sharing herself around.

Yet she’d been so certain there’d only been him.

That was why Damaso had stayed where he was during the conversation. Eavesdropping wasn’t his style, but he was no fool. His wealth made him a target for fortune hunters. It had seemed wiser to wait and hear what she admitted to the doctor in case she tried to bring a paternity suit.

His mouth tightened. He was no woman’s easy prey.

But then he recalled the raw shock in her voice. She wasn’t playing coy with the doctor—that much was clear. She’d been speaking the truth about the date. If anything there’d been a tremor almost of fear in her voice at the thought of unplanned pregnancy.

A month and a day, she’d said. So precise. Which meant that if she was pregnant it was with Damaso’s baby.

Shock rooted him to the spot. He was always meticulous about protection. Inconceivable to think it had failed this time.

Even more inconceivable that he should have a child.

Alone almost from birth, and certainly for as long as he could remember, Damaso had turned what could have been weakness into his greatest strength—self-sufficiency. He had no one and needed no one. It had always been that way. He had no plans for that to change.

He plunged his hand through his hair, raking it back from his forehead. He should have had it cut but this last month he’d thrown himself into work with such single-minded focus there’d been no time for fripperies.

A month and a day. His gut churned.

A murmur of voices dragged his attention back to the other room. In two strides he was there, arm stretched out to open the door.

Then his arm fell as the unthinkable happened.

‘Ah, this confirms it, Your Highness. You’re going to have a baby.’

* * *

Marisa wrapped her arms around herself as she stared out at the remarkable view. The jagged peaks were topped with an icy covering that the setting sun turned to candy pink, soft peach, brilliant gold and every shade in between. Shadows of indigo lengthened like fingers reaching down the mountain towards her, beckoning.

Realisation struck that this was one invitation she couldn’t take up. No more climbing for her, no skydiving or white-water rafting if she was pregnant. All the activities she’d used to stave off the grimness of her life were forbidden.

For the hundredth time Marisa slipped her palm over her belly, wonderment filling her at the fact she was carrying another life inside her.

Could the doctor be wrong?

Marisa felt fine now, just a little wobbly and hollow. She didn’t feel as if she was carrying a baby.

She’d head to the city and have another test. After all, the kit wasn’t infallible.

Marisa didn’t know whether to hope it was a mistake or hope it wasn’t—she was too stunned to know how she felt.

One thing she was sure of, though—she wouldn’t be raising any baby of hers within sight of Bengaria’s royal palace. She’d protect it as fiercely as any lioness defending her cub.

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Marisa turned to find a smiling maid at the open door from the suite out to the private terrace where she sat. ‘I’ve brought herbal tea and the chef has baked some sesame-water crackers for you.’ She lifted a tray and Marisa caught the scent of fresh baking. Her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, worried about bringing on another bout of nausea.

‘I didn’t order anything.’

‘It’s with the hotel’s compliments, ma’am.’ The maid hesitated a moment then stepped out onto the terrace, putting her laden tray on a small table.

‘Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.’ Marisa eyed the delicate biscuits and felt a smile crack her tense features. The doctor must have organised this.

Leaving the edge of the balcony, she took a seat beside the table. An instant later the maid bustled back, this time with a lightweight rug.

‘It’s cooling down.’ She smiled. ‘If you’d like?’ She lifted the rug.

Silently Marisa nodded, feeling ridiculously choked as the downy rug woven in traditional local designs was tucked around her legs. How long since anyone had cossetted her? Even Stefan, who’d loved her, had never fussed over her.

She blinked and smiled as the maid poured scented, steaming tea and settled the plate of biscuits closer.

‘Is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?’

‘Nothing. Thank you.’ Her voice sounded scratchy, as if it came from a long distance. ‘Please thank the chef for me.’

Alone again, Marisa sipped the delicately flavoured tea and nibbled a cracker. It tasted divine. Or perhaps that was simply because her stomach didn’t rebel. She took another bite, crunching avidly.

She needed to make plans. First, a trip to Lima and another pregnancy test. Then... Her mind blanked at the thought of what came next.

She couldn’t bear to go back to her villa in Bengaria. The memories of Stefan were too strong and, besides, the villa belonged to the crown. Now Stefan had gone, it belonged to her uncle and she refused to live as his pensioner. He’d demand she reside in the palace where he could keep an eye on her. They’d had that argument before Stefan had been cold in his grave.

Marisa drew the rug close. She’d have to find a new home. She’d put off the decision for too long. But where? Bengaria was out. Every move she made there was reported and second-guessed. She’d lived in France, the United States and Switzerland as a student. But none were home.

Marisa sipped her tea and bit into another biscuit.

Fear scuttled through her. She knew nothing about being a mother and raising children. Her pregnancy would be turned into a royal circus if she wasn’t careful.

Well, she’d just deal with that when and if the time came, and hope she was more successful than in the past.

‘Marisa?’

Her head swung round at the sound of a fathoms-deep voice she’d never expected to hear again. Her fingers clenched around delicate bone china as her pulse catapulted.

It really was him, Damaso Pires, filling the doorway to her suite. He looked big and bold, his features drawn in hard, sharp lines that looked like they’d been honed in bronze. Glossy black hair flopped down across his brow and flirted with his collar, but did nothing to soften that remarkable face.

‘What are you doing here?’ She put the cup down with a clatter, her hand nerveless. ‘How did you get in?’

‘I knocked but there was no answer.’

Marisa lifted her chin, remembering the way he’d dumped her. ‘That usually means the person inside wants privacy.’

‘Don’t get up.’ He stepped onto the terrace, raising his hand, as if to prevent her moving.

She pushed the rug aside and stood, hoping he didn’t see her sway before finding her balance. The nausea really had knocked the stuffing out of her.

‘I repeat, Senhor Pires, why are you here?’ Marisa folded her arms. He might top her by more than a head but she knew how to stand up to encroaching men.

‘Senhor Pires?’ His brows drew together in a frown that made her think of some angry Inca god. ‘It’s a little late for formalities, don’t you think?’

‘I know,’ she said, stepping forward, surging anger getting the better of her, ‘that I’ve a right to privacy.’

Her stomach churned horribly as she remembered how he’d made her feel: an inch tall and cheap. She’d have thought she’d be used to it after a lifetime of not measuring up. But this man had wounded her more deeply because she’d been foolhardy enough to believe he was different.

He digested her words in silence, his expression unperturbed.

‘Well?’ Marisa tapped her foot, furious that her indignation was mixed with an unhealthy dollop of excitement. No matter how annoyed she was, there was no denying Damaso Pires was one fantastic looking man. And as a lover...

‘Let me guess. You discovered I was here and thought you’d look me up for old times’ sake.’ She drew a quick breath that lodged halfway to her lungs. ‘I’m afraid I’m not interested in a trip down memory lane. Or in continuing where we left off.’

She had more self-respect than to go back to a man who’d treated her as he had.

She stepped forward. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone.’

Her steps petered out when she came up against his impassable form. His spread legs and wide shoulders didn’t allow space for her to pass.

Dark eyes bored into hers and something tugged tight in her belly. If only she could put it down to a queasy stomach but to her shame Marisa knew she responded to his overt, male sexuality. A frisson of awareness made her nape tingle and her breasts tighten.

Surely a pregnant woman wouldn’t respond so wantonly?

The thought sideswiped her and her gaze flickered from his. Today’s news had upended her world, leaving her feeling adrift and frail. What did she know about pregnancy?

‘Marisa.’ His voice held a tentative edge she didn’t remember. ‘Are you all right?’

Her head snapped up. ‘I will be when I’m allowed the freedom of my own suite, alone.’

He stepped back and she moved away into the sitting room, conscious with every cell in her body of him looming nearby. Even his scent invaded her space, till she had to focus on walking past and not stopping to inhale.

She was halfway across the room, heading for the entrance, when he spoke again. ‘We need to talk.’

Marisa kept walking. ‘As I recall, you made it clear last time I saw you that our...connection was at an end.’ Valiantly she kept her voice even, though humiliation at how she’d left herself open to his insulting treatment twisted a searing blade through her insides.

‘Are you trying to tell me you thought otherwise?’

Her steps faltered to a halt. If she’d truly been unaffected by his abrupt desertion, she wouldn’t be upset at his return, would she? She certainly wouldn’t show it. But it was beyond even Marisa’s acting powers to pretend insouciance. The best she could manage was haughty distance.

She needed him out of the way so she could concentrate on the news she still had trouble processing. That she was probably pregnant—with his child.

Marisa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather her strength. She’d face him later if she had too. Now she needed to be alone.

‘I didn’t think anything, Damaso.’ She lingered over his name with dripping, saccharine emphasis. ‘What we shared is over and done with.’

Her fingers closed around the door handle but, before she could tug it open, one long arm shot over her shoulder. A large hand slammed palm-down onto the door before her, keeping it forcibly closed. The heat of Damaso’s body encompassed her, his breath riffling her hair as if he was breathing as hard as she.

‘What about the fact you’re carrying my child?’

She gasped. How did he know?

Marisa stared blankly at the strong, sinewy hand before her: the light sprinkling of dark hairs; the long fingers; the neat, short nails.

She blinked, remembering how that hand had looked on her pale breast, the pleasure it had wrought. How she’d actually hoped, for a few brief hours, she’d found a man who valued her for herself. How betrayed she’d felt.

‘Marisa?’ His voice was sharp.

She drew a jagged breath into tight lungs and turned, chin automatically lifting as he glowered down at her from his superior height.

The sight of him, looking so lofty and disapproving, stoked fire in her belly. She’d deal with him on her terms, when she was ready.

‘I don’t know what you think gives you the right to come here uninvited and throw your weight around. But it’s time you left. Otherwise I’ll have the management throw you out.’

* * *

Damaso stared into blazing azure eyes and felt something thump hard in his belly. Energy vibrated off her in waves. Just meeting her stare sent adrenalin shooting into his bloodstream.

His body tensed, his groin tightening at the challenge she projected.

She tempted him even as her disdainful gaze raked him. But it wasn’t only dismissal he read in her taut features. The parted lips, the throbbing pulse, the fleeting shadow in her bright eyes gave her away.

He aroused her. He sensed it as surely as he recognised the symptoms in his own body. He hadn’t got her out of his system even now.

Without thinking, he put his hand to her face, cupping her jaw so that a frantic pulse jumped against his skin. His fingers brushed her silk-soft hair.

She felt every bit as good as he remembered. Better than he’d allowed himself to believe. He leaned towards her, lowering his head. Discussion could wait.

Sudden pain, a white-hot flash of agony, streaked up his arm.

Stunned, Damaso saw she’d fastened on to a pressure point in some fancy martial arts manoeuvre. He sucked in a breath, tamping down his instinctive response to overpower her. He’d never learned to fight by any code of rules. Where he’d grown up, violence had been endemic, brutal and often deadly. In seconds he could have her flat on her back in surrender. He forced himself to relax, ignoring the lancing pain.

‘I’m calling the management.’ She breathed heavily, as if it was she, not he, in agony.

‘I am the management, pequenina.’

‘Sorry?’ Her fierce expression eased into owlish disbelief.

‘I own the resort.’ Damaso tried to move his fingers but another dart of pain shot through him. ‘You can let me go,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I promise not to touch you.’

‘You own it?’ Her grip loosened and he tugged his hand free, flexing it as pins and needles spread up his arm. For an amateur, her self-defence skills were impressive.

‘I do. It was my team of architects who designed it. My builders who constructed it.’

‘The staff report to you?’ Her tone was sharp. ‘That explains a lot.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘I don’t see why the doctor should run to you with news of my health, even if you employ him. What about patient confidentiality?’ She didn’t raise her voice but the way she bit out the words, as if chipping off shards of glacial ice, spoke volumes.

Damaso shook his head. ‘He didn’t breathe a word.’

At her frown he explained, ‘I was here, in the suite, when he confirmed your test results.’

She stared up at him, her eyes bright as lasers, and just as cutting. Damaso felt his cheeks redden, almost as if he blushed under her accusing stare.

It was impossible, of course. Embarrassment was a luxury denied those who’d survived by scavenging off others’ refuse. Nothing fazed him, not even the shocked accusation in her glare. He didn’t care what others thought.

Yet he looked away first.

‘I’d heard you were ill and came to see how you were.’

‘How very considerate.’ Her hands moved to her hips, pulling the fabric of her designer T-shirt taut over those delectable breasts. Belatedly, Damaso tore his gaze away, only to find himself staring at her flat stomach. She cradled his baby there. The shock of it dried his throat. He wanted to slip his hand beneath the drawstring of her loose trousers and press his palm to the softness of her belly.

The snap of fingers in front of his face startled him.

‘Being the owner of this place doesn’t give you the right to pry into my private life.’

‘It was unintentional. I was coming to see you.’

‘That’s no excuse for spying on what is my affair.’

‘Hardly spying, Marisa.’ Her flashing eyes told him she disagreed. ‘And this affair affects both of us.’

Colour streaked her cheekbones, making her look ridiculously young and vulnerable.

He softened his voice. ‘We need to talk.’

She shook her head, her bright hair slipping like spun gold across her dark shirt. With quick grace she turned and crossed the room to the vast windows framing the view of the Andes. She stood rigid, as if his presence pained her.

‘A month and a day, remember, Marisa? This is as much my business as yours.’

She didn’t move, not so much as a muscle. Her unnatural stillness disturbed him.

‘When were you going to tell me?’

Still she said nothing. Damaso’s skin tightened till it felt like hundreds of ants crawled over him.

‘Or weren’t you going to? Were you planning to get rid of it quietly with no one the wiser?’

Damaso grimaced at the pungent sourness filling his mouth. Had she decided to get rid of his child?

His child!

He’d been stunned by the news he was to be a father. It had taken hours to come to grips with the fact he’d have a child—blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.

For the first time in his life, he’d have family.

The idea astounded him, scared him. He, who’d never expected to have a family of his own. Yet to his amazement part of him welcomed the idea.

He didn’t know exactly how he expected this to play out. But one thing was absolutely certain: no child of his would be abandoned as he’d been.

No child of his would grow up alone or neglected.

It would know its father.

It would be cared for.

He, Damaso Pires, would make sure of that personally. The intensity of his determination was stronger than anything he’d known.

He must have moved for he found himself behind Marisa. Her hair stirred with each breath he exhaled. His fingers flexed, as if to reach for her hips and pull her to him, or shake her into speech.

‘Say something!’ Damaso wasn’t used to being ignored, especially by women he’d known intimately. Especially when something as profoundly important as this lay between them.

‘What do you want me to say?’ When she turned, her eyes were wide and over-bright. ‘No, I hadn’t planned an abortion? No, I hadn’t decided when I’d tell you, if at all? I haven’t had time even to get my head around the idea of being pregnant.’

She jabbed a finger into his sternum. ‘I don’t see this being as much your business as mine.’ Her finger stabbed again. ‘If I’m pregnant, I’ll be the one carrying this baby. I’ll be the one whose body and life and future will change irrevocably. Not you.’

Her finger wobbled against his chest; her whole hand was shaking, Damaso realised. He wrapped his hand around hers but she tugged loose from his hold and backed away as if his touch contaminated her.

Too late for that, my fine lady.

* * *

Marisa watched his harsh mouth curve in a smile that could only be described as feral. He looked dangerous and unpredictable, his eyes a black gleam that made her want to step back again. Instead she planted her feet.

How had he turned the tables, so his intrusion on her privacy had become a litany of accusations against her? Enough was enough. She was tired of being bullied and judged.

‘Obviously you’ve had time to jump to all sorts of conclusions about this pregnancy, if there is one.’ She fixed him with a stony gaze.

‘You deny it?’ He scowled.

‘I reserve judgement until I’ve got a second opinion.’ She braced her hands on her hips, refusing to cower before his harsh expression. ‘But obviously you’ve gone beyond that stage.’

‘I have.’ His gaze dropped to her stomach and she felt a hot stirring inside as if he’d touched her there. Abruptly, his dark eyes locked on hers again. ‘There’s only one sensible option.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course.’ His brooding features tightened, a determined light in his eyes. ‘We’ll marry.’

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