Damaso Claims His Heir. Annie West
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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