Damaso Claims His Heir

‘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.