The last thing she needed was to give up her independence and allow another man power over her. She would rely only on herself now her baby was on its way. She was determined to protect her child from the negative influences she’d experienced, overbearing men included.
At least Damaso hadn’t crowded her during these last weeks. Unlike her uncle, whose constant phone and email messages unsettled her.
Marisa slapped the cream on her arms, across her cleavage and down to her midriff and legs.
Still Damaso stood, unmoving. She felt him watching every slide of her palm and felt heat build deep inside. It was as if he was the one touching her flesh, making her nerves tingle in response to his heavy-lidded stare.
‘What about your back?’
For answer, Marisa shrugged into a light linen turquoise shirt.
Was that a smile tugging his mouth at the corner?
‘You’re a very independent woman, Marisa.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ In her uncle’s book, ‘independent’ had been synonymous with ‘troublesome’.
‘Absolutely nothing. I admire independence. It can make the difference between life and death.’
Marisa opened her mouth to ask what he meant when he dropped to his knees beside her, hemming her in. They hadn’t been this close, close enough for his body to warm hers, for weeks.
Instantly, sexual awareness hummed through her body and effervesced in her bloodstream. The shocking intensity of it dried her automatic protest.
‘You missed a bit,’ he murmured, bending close.
Then he was touching her, but not in the long, sensuous strokes she’d expected. Instead his brow furrowed with concentration as he painted sun cream across her nose in gentle dabs, as if she were a child.
She didn’t feel in the least childlike.
Damaso’s eyelashes were long and lustrous, framing deep-set eyes dark as bitter chocolate. The late sun burnished his face and Marisa’s breath hissed between her teeth at the force of the longing that pooled deep inside.
For she wanted him. She wanted his touch, his body, and above all his tenderness, with an urgency that appalled her.
Oh yes, he could be tender when it suited him. But she hadn’t forgotten how he’d dismissed her after their night together, when she’d begun to wonder if she’d finally found someone who might value her.
Marisa sat back, jerking from his touch.
Never had she craved a man like this. Was it pregnancy hormones, playing havoc with her senses?
He surveyed her steadily, as if she wore her thoughts on her face. But surely he had no idea what she was thinking? She’d learned to hide her thoughts years ago.
Slowly Damaso lifted his hand but this time he swiped the remaining sun cream across his chest in a wide, glistening arc. Marisa swallowed and told herself to look away. But her fascination with his body hadn’t abated. How could it, when in the late afternoon light he looked like some gilded deity, an embodiment of raw masculine potency?
‘What’s that scar?’
If he noticed the wobble in her voice, he didn’t show it. Instead he looked down at the neat line that curved at the edge of his ribs.
‘A nick from a knife.’ His tone was matter-of-fact, just like his shrug.
Marisa tried not to cringe at the idea of a knife slicing that taut, golden flesh.
‘And that one?’ She’d noticed it the night they’d spent together: a puckered mark near his hip bone that had made her wince even though it was silvered with age.
‘Why the curiosity?’
‘Why not?’ It was better than dwelling on how he made her feel. With him so close, she couldn’t get up and move away, not without revealing how he unsettled her. It was a matter of pride that she kept that to herself.
The gleam in his eyes made her wonder if he knew she was looking for distraction. But he didn’t look superior, or amused. Instead, he met her regard steadily.
‘You want me to marry you but I don’t know anything about you,’ she prompted.
It was the first time marriage had been mentioned since she’d arrived, as if by common consent they’d agreed to avoid the matter. Marisa wondered if she’d opened a can of worms by mentioning it again.
Would he try to force her hand now she’d brought it up? That was her uncle’s tactic—bulldozing through other people’s wishes to get what he wanted.
Damaso crossed his arms over his chest, as if contemplating her question. The movement tautened each bunching muscle, highlighting the power in his torso.
Marisa kept her eyes on his face, refusing to be distracted.
‘It was another knife.’
‘Not the same one?’ She frowned.
‘No.’
So much for explanation. This was like drawing blood from a stone. ‘You got yourself into trouble a lot when you were young?’
Damaso shook his head. ‘I got myself out of it. There’s a difference.’
At her puzzled look, he shrugged and Marisa swallowed quickly. Did he realise how tempted she was to reach out and explore the planes and curves of his naked torso?
Of course he knew. He watched her like a hawk, seeking signs of vulnerability.
‘I’m a survivor, Marisa. That’s why I’m still here— because I did what it took to look after myself. I never started a fight, but I ended plenty.’
There was no bravado in his words. They were plain, unadorned by vanity.
The realisation sent a trickle of horror down her spine. She’d had her troubles but none had involved fighting for survival against a knife attack.
‘It sounds like life was tough.’
Something flickered in his eyes. Something she hadn’t seen before. Then he inclined his head a fraction. ‘You could say that.’
Abruptly he moved, rising in a single, powerful surge. He leaned down, reaching to help her up, but Marisa looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen the gesture.
She’d never been a coward but inviting Damaso’s touch was asking for trouble. She stood unaided then turned back to him, putting a pace between them as she did so. Nevertheless, her skin tingled from being so close.
‘What about you? What’s the scar at the back of your neck?’
Marisa’s head jerked up. He couldn’t see the scar now; it was covered by her single thick plait. Which meant he’d noted and remembered it from the night they’d spent together. Heat fizzed from her toes to her breasts as their gazes locked. Damaso had spent his time that night learning her body with a thoroughness that had undone her time and again.
‘A fall off the beam.’
‘The beam?’ One eyebrow arched.
‘In gymnastics we sometimes perform on a beam, elevated off the ground. This—’ her hand went automatically to the spot on her nape just below her hairline ‘—was an accident when I was learning.’
‘You’re a gymnast?’ He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.
‘Was. Not any more.’ Bitterness welled on her tongue. ‘I’m too old now to be a top-notch competitor.’ But that wasn’t why she was no longer involved in the sport she’d adored, why she wasn’t even coaching it. She’d come to terms with that years before, so the sudden burst of regret took her by surprise.
Could pregnancy make you maudlin?
Despite her physical wellbeing after these weeks of rest and privacy from prying eyes, Marisa was unable to settle. Her emotions were too close to the surface. Perhaps all those years repressing them were finally catching up with her.
‘I think I’ll stretch my legs.’ She turned and wasn’t surprised when Damaso fell into step beside her, shortening his stride to fit hers.