She breathed deep and stepped back, registering anew the gentle swish of water against her legs.
‘At least I don’t have to worry about the press here.’ She pasted on a smile. ‘Thank you, Damaso. It seems you were right. If I’d stayed in a hotel, I’d be under siege.’
Was it her imagination or did his gaze warm a fraction? ‘In the circumstances, I’d prefer not to have been right.’
It was tempting to bask in the fragile sensation of being looked after. But she couldn’t afford to get used to it.
They walked side by side up the beach, scooping up their discarded shoes and turning towards the house.
They’d just stepped onto the cropped emerald turf when a white-coated servant appeared and spoke to Damaso in swift Portuguese.
‘What is it?’ Marisa sensed the instant change in him.
‘A message for you. You had a phone call and they’re calling back in fifteen minutes.’
‘Who was it?’ But already Marisa felt her stomach plunge like a rock off a precipice. She knew exactly who it had been.
His words confirmed her fears. ‘The King of Bengaria.’
CHAPTER FIVE
DAMASO PACED THE shaded loggia, the tray of coffee and his laptop forgotten. Through the full-length glass he had a perfect view of Marisa.
He’d begun to wish he hadn’t given her privacy to take her call. Not when instinct urged him to march in and rip the phone out of her hand.
That, by itself, gave him pause.
He didn’t interfere in the lives of others. He was never interested enough to do so. But, watching Marisa stand to attention beside the desk in his study, Damaso knew an inexplicable urge to break the habit of a lifetime.
What was the King saying? As far as he could see, she hadn’t had the chance to say much. Yet her body spoke volumes. Her spine was ramrod-stiff and she paced with military precision, like a soldier on parade. Her mouth was a flat line and her shoulders inched high towards her ears.
She wore the figure-hugging white capri pants and yellow crop top from the beach. There she’d looked like a sexy embodiment of the summer sun—bright and vibrant. Now, with her pinched features, she seemed like another woman.
To hell with it. He strode towards the glass doors that separated them.
Then he stopped, for now Marisa was talking.
This close he heard her voice, though not the words. She spoke crisply, with definite emphasis. Her chin lifted and she looked every inch the pure-bred aristocrat: haughty and regal.
She paused, as if listening, then spoke sharply, her arm slicing the air in a violent sweep. She turned and marched across the room, her toned body taut and controlled, ripe with pride and determination.
Damaso stared, unable to believe the visceral stab of desire that hit him as he watched her lay down the law. A woman in control—that had never been his fantasy. Always he was the hunter, the master, the one who set the rules.
Was that what had made their night together so cataclysmically memorable? The sense of two matched people coming together as equals, neither in control?
If that was so, why this unfamiliar urge to protect her? It had to be because of the baby. Since he’d learned of her pregnancy she’d become the centre of his thoughts—a rival even to his business empire, which had given him purpose and identity all his adult life.
Damaso breathed hard, aware he was on unfamiliar ground.
It took him a few moments to realise she’d ended the call. Now she stood, shoulders slumped, hands braced wide on the desk. As he watched, her head bowed in a move that spoke of a bone-deep weariness.
Something stirred in Damaso’s belly. That tickle of concern he’d first felt the morning he’d left her in the jungle. When, despite her anger and her hauteur, he’d sensed something out of kilter in her queenly dismissal of him.
‘Marisa?’ He was through the door before he had time to reconsider.
Instantly she straightened. If he hadn’t been looking, he’d never have seen the strain etching her face before she smoothed it.
‘Yes?’
Damaso stared, confronted by a cool, self-contained princess, the hint of a polite smile curving her soft lips. Only the glitter of strong emotion in her eyes, now darkened to midnight sapphire, belied that regal poise.
‘What did he want?’
Her delicate eyebrows arched high, as if surprised at his temerity in questioning her. That cut no ice with Damaso.
Silently he waited. Eventually her gaze skittered from his. She shrugged. ‘King Cyrill wasn’t pleased when his public relations advisors told him there were rumours I was pregnant.’
‘They were quick off the mark!’
Her mouth tightened. ‘They’re always careful to keep tabs on me.’ Did he imagine an emphasis on ‘me’?
‘And what did you say? Did you confirm the pregnancy?’ Damaso wished he knew more about the Bengarian monarchy. He’d had no interest in the small European kingdom till someone on the trek had pointed Marisa out as the infamous party princess he’d vaguely heard about. How close were she and the King? Obviously their conversation had taxed Marisa’s strength, despite her show of unconcern.
She half-turned and stroked a finger idly along the gleaming surface of his desk. ‘It’s none of his business.’ Defiance edged her tone. ‘But then I realised there was nothing to be gained by waiting. I’d have to face the flak sooner or later.’
‘Flak? Because you’re not married?’ He knew next to nothing about royals—except that their lives seemed steeped in tradition.
She laughed, the sound so bitter he wondered if it hurt. ‘Not married. Not in a relationship. Not seeing a man vetted and approved by the palace. Not doing what a Bengarian princess is supposed to do. Take your pick.’
Damaso stepped closer, drawn by the pain in her voice. ‘What is it you’re supposed to be doing?’
Marisa’s head lifted, her chin angling, as if facing an opponent.
‘Being respectably and sedately courted by a suitable prince, or at least a titled courtier. Keeping out of the press, except in carefully staged set pieces arranged by the palace. Not causing a scandal, particularly now.’
‘Now? Why now?’ Why hadn’t he taken time to find out more about Marisa’s European homeland?
Because his focus was and always had been on building his business. That was what he lived for. What made him who he was.
Marisa straightened, but once again refused to meet his gaze. ‘I’d like to say it’s because the country is still in mourning for Stefan. But it’s because Cyrill doesn’t want any scandal in the lead up to his coronation.’
At Damaso’s enquiring look, she explained. ‘Cyrill is my uncle, my father’s younger brother. My father was king and after my father died Cyrill was Regent of Bengaria for eleven years, till Stefan came of age at twenty-one.’ She sucked in a breath and for a moment he thought she’d finished speaking. ‘Stefan was my twin brother and King of Bengaria. He died in a motorboat accident two months ago.’
Two months ago? Damaso frowned, searching her face. Her brother had been barely cold in his grave when Damaso had met Marisa. She hadn’t acted like a woman grieving the loss of a loved one.
Yet what did he know of grief or loss? He’d never had so much as a best friend, let alone family.
‘You don’t like your uncle?’
Marisa turned startled eyes on him, then laughed again, the sound short and sharp. ‘I can’t stand him.’ She paused. ‘He was our guardian after our father died and to all intents and purposes King.’ Her voice held a sour note that told far more about their relationship than her words. ‘Even when Stefan was crowned, Cyrill was there in the background, trying to manipulate opinion whenever Stefan dared to instigate change.’