Damaso Claims His Heir. Annie West
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‘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.