Reluctantly she looked back and there he was: a bulky figure trying, ineffectually, to blend into the foliage just above the beach.
Even in Bengaria she’d had more freedom!
Marisa waded into the warm shallows till she was up to her calves, letting the tiny waves lap against her legs. She breathed deep, trying to feel at one with the gentle surge and wane of the water, focusing on slowing her pulse.
It was years since she’d practised the techniques she’d used to prepare herself for a gymnastics competition. If ever she’d needed to feel grounded, it was now.
She was going to be a mother.
Joy, mingled with fear, spilled through her veins. Despite the circumstances, she couldn’t regret the child she carried. Did she have what it took to raise it and care for it the way it deserved?
She had no one to turn to, no one to trust, but Damaso: a stranger who saw this baby as a responsibility.
Fleetingly, Marisa thought of the others who’d claim a say in her child’s future.
Her relatives. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her torso. No matter what it took, she’d keep her child safe from them.
The advisors of the Bengarian Court. No, they’d simply follow her uncle’s lead.
Her friends. Marisa bit her lip. She’d given up seeking real friends long ago—after the few she’d had were ostracised by the palace for being too uncultured and common for her to mix with.
Which left her alone.
Her smile was crooked as she gazed towards the mainland. She’d always been alone, even when Stefan had been alive. There was only so much he’d been able to do to support her. He’d had his own troubles. She’d been lucky—as a mere princess, she was window dressing, for she’d never inherit the crown. Poor Stefan, as crown prince, had borne the brunt of everyone’s expectations from birth.
‘Marisa.’
She swung around to see Damaso at the water’s edge. In lightweight trousers and a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, he looked too sexy for her peace of mind.
Her heart crashed against her ribs and her lungs tightened, squeezing the air from her body till she felt breathless and light-headed. Her skin tingled as his dark gaze slid over her. She was burning up, a pulse throbbing between her legs.
‘We need to talk.’
‘You don’t waste time, do you?’ She crossed her arms.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve come straight from the doctor, haven’t you?’ He’d said they’d find out if she was pregnant then they’d talk about the future. ‘Can’t you give me some breathing space?’
She hadn’t meant to say it aloud but she felt hemmed in by news of the pregnancy, by the security guard, by the fact she’d have to tell her uncle. Above all, by this man, who for reasons she didn’t understand made her feel, right to her core.
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
Marisa sucked in a breath. ‘I’m not afraid of you, Damaso.’ How dared he even think it? She, who’d never turned from a physical challenge in her life.
‘No?’ She supposed that tightening of his mouth at one corner was supposed to be a smile. She didn’t see anything funny about the situation.
‘Absolutely not.’ Facing down a sexy Brazilian with an ego the size of Rio’s Sugarloaf Mountain was nothing compared with what she’d dealt with before.
Yet she didn’t move to join him. Instead he waded out to meet her, the water covering first his bare feet then soaking his trousers. Marisa’s mouth dried as if she hadn’t tasted water in a week.
He stopped a breath away, his scent mingling with the salt tang of the water.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Fine.’ It was true. She’d been sick again this morning but tea and dry toast in bed and a slow start to the day had made the nausea easier to handle.
‘Good. We need to talk.’ His intent scrutiny made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Some sixth sense told her he wasn’t here to continue an argument about marrying for the baby’s sake.
‘What is it?’ She’d received bad news before and, attuned after Stefan’s recent death, she knew Damaso would rather not break this news. ‘Is it the baby?’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘Did the doctor tell you something she didn’t tell me?’
He took her elbow as she lunged towards him, her heart pounding frantically. ‘It’s not the baby. Nothing like that.’
Instinctively Marisa planted her hand on his chest, needing his support. She felt the steady thud of his heart beneath her palm and managed to draw a calming breath. She pushed down a moment’s terror that there’d been something the doctor hadn’t shared.
‘What, then? Tell me!’
His mouth thinned to a grim line. ‘It’s the press. There’s been a report that you’re pregnant.’
‘Already?’ Her head swung towards the multi-level residence commanding the half-moon bay.
‘It wasn’t one of my staff. No one here would dream of going to the press with a story about a guest of mine.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Something passed across his face that Marisa couldn’t fathom. ‘For the right sort of money...’
He shook his head. ‘My people wouldn’t betray me.’
Fleetingly, Marisa wondered what bond could possibly be so strong between a billionaire and his paid staff.
‘It was someone from the hotel in Peru. One of the kitchen staff. They overheard my request for something to settle your morning sickness.’
‘Your request?’ Marisa dragged her hand back from his chest as if scalded. She’d thought the doctor had ordered tea and crackers for her.
The thought of Damaso leaving her room and heading to the kitchens to make a personal request on her behalf made her still. It didn’t fit with the way he’d treated her. But, now she considered it, since learning of her pregnancy he’d been intent on looking after her.
She’d been too annoyed at his high-handed actions to acknowledge it, possibly because his way of helping was to try taking control.
‘It was a new staff member. Now an ex-staff member. They won’t work in any of my enterprises again.’ The steely note in his voice made Marisa feel almost sorry for whoever had thought to profit from gossiping to the press.
‘I thought I’d have a little more time before it became public.’ She tried for nonchalance, though an undercurrent of nerves made her body tense. Once the news was out...
‘It’s an unconfirmed rumour. Nothing they can prove.’
‘I suppose I’ve weathered worse.’
Memories rose of being pilloried at just fifteen. Someone on the gymnastics squad had leaked the fact that Marisa was on the Pill and it had been splashed across the press, along with photos of her partying.
No one had been interested in the fact she’d been prescribed the medication to help deal with periods so painful they’d interfered with her training, or that the parties were strictly chaperoned. Everything had been twisted. Innocent glances in photos turned into lascivious stares, smiles into wanton invitations. They’d portrayed her as a little slut, precocious, uncontrollable and without morals.
Once typecast by the paparazzi, there’d been no way to turn the tide of popular opinion.
The palace had been ineffectual. It was only years later she’d begun to suspect the palace had left her to fend for herself—a brutal lesson in dancing to her uncle’s tune or else. Eventually, after years fighting the tide, Marisa had given up and begun to take perverse pleasure in living down to expectations.