Damaso Claims His Heir

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.’

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f8fdc2cb-01c0-5aab-a469-f62da089ab39)

MARISA COULDN’T PREVENT the ripple of laughter that slipped from her mouth.

‘Marry?’ She shook her head. Astonishment punctured the bubble of tension cramping her chest. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t even know you.’

His downturned mouth and furrowed brow told her he didn’t appreciate her levity. Or maybe he didn’t like the panicked edge that see-sawed through her laughter.

Marisa didn’t like it either. She sounded, and felt, too close to the edge.

‘You knew me well enough for us to create a baby together.’ His deep voice held a bite that eradicated the last of her semi-hysterical laughter. It brought her back to earth with a thump.

‘That’s not knowing. That’s sex.’

He shrugged, lifting those broad shoulders she’d clung to through their night together. She’d dug her nails into his flesh as ecstasy had consumed her. She’d never wanted to let him go and had snuggled against his solid shoulder through the night.

Until he’d made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with her.

‘You’ve changed your tune.’ Did he hear the echo of hurt in her tone? Marisa was beyond caring; she just knew she had to scotch this insanity.

‘That was before there was a child, princesa.’

She stiffened. ‘There still may not be one. I won’t be sure till I’ve had another test. It could have been a false positive.’

Damaso tilted his head, as if examining a curious specimen. ‘The idea of a child is so horrible to you?’

‘No!’ Marisa’s hand slipped to her stomach then, realising what she’d done, she dropped her arm to her side. ‘I just need to be sure.’

He nodded. ‘Of course. And when we are sure, we’ll marry.’

Marisa blinked. Why did talking to Damaso Pires feel like trying to make headway against a granite boulder?

‘This is the twenty-first century. People don’t have to marry to have children.’

He crossed his arms, accentuating the solid muscle of his torso beneath the pristine business shirt, reinforcing his formidable authority. Wearing casual trekking gear, he’d been stunning, but dressed for business he added a whole new cachet to the ‘tall, dark, handsome’ label.

If only she didn’t respond at that visceral, utterly feminine level. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by such rampant masculinity.

‘We’re not talking about people. We’re talking about us and our child.’

Our child. The words resonated inside Marisa, making her shiver. Making the possibility of pregnancy abruptly real.

She put out a hand and grabbed the back of a nearby settee as the world swam.

Suddenly he was there before her, his hand firm on her elbow. ‘You need to sit.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to say she needed to be alone but she felt wobbly. Perhaps she should rest—she didn’t want to do anything that might endanger her baby.

And just like that she made the transition from protest to acceptance.

Not only acceptance but something stronger—something like anticipation.

Which showed how foolish she was. This situation had no built-in happy ending.

Marisa let Damaso guide her to a seat. The pregnancy no longer felt like a possibility, to be disproved with a second test. It felt real. Or maybe that was because of the way Damaso held her—gently, yet as if nothing could break his hold.

She lowered her eyes, facing the thought of motherhood alone. Learning to be a good mother when she had no idea what that was. The only things she’d ever been good at were sports and creating scandal.

Marisa bit down a groan, picturing the furore in the Bengarian royal court, the ultimatums and machinations to put the best spin on this. The condemnation, not just from the palace, but from the press.

In the past she’d pretended not to feel pain as the palace and the media had dealt her wound after wound, slashing at her as if she wasn’t a flesh-and-blood woman who bled at their ferocious attacks.

‘I’ll get the doctor.’ Damaso crouched before her, his long fingers still encircling her arm.

‘I don’t need a doctor.’ She needed to get a grip. Wallowing in self-pity wasn’t like her and she couldn’t afford to begin now. More than ever she had to find a way forward, not just for herself, but for her child.

‘You need someone to care for you.’

‘And you’re appointing yourself my protector?’ She couldn’t keep the jeering note from her voice.