Damaso Claims His Heir

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.

‘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.