In silence they walked along the soft sand of the beach. Surprisingly, despite the tug of awareness drawing her belly tight, Marisa felt almost comfortable in his company. If only she could forget about Damaso as a lover.
They’d reached the end of the beach when the thoughts she’d been bottling up demanded release.
‘Why, Damaso?’ She swung round to find him watching. ‘Why do you want marriage?’ Though he hadn’t raised the idea recently, it still pressed down on her. ‘Lots of parents don’t marry.’
‘Yours were married.’
‘That’s no recommendation.’ She didn’t bother to hide her bitterness.
‘They weren’t happy?’
She shrugged and bent to pick up a shell, pearly-pink and delicate on her palm.
‘No, they weren’t.’ She paused, then sighed. Why not tell him? Then maybe he’d understand her reluctance to marry. ‘It was an arranged marriage, made for dynastic reasons. My mother was beautiful, gentle, well-born—and rich, of course.’ Her mouth twisted. Bengaria’s royal family always looked for ways to shore up its wealth. ‘My father wasn’t a warm man.’ She bit her lip. ‘They weren’t well-matched.’ At least, not from what she remembered and the stories she’d heard. Her mother had died so long ago, she only had a few precious memories of her.
‘That doesn’t mean all marriages are doomed to failure.’
‘So, were your parents happy together?’ If he’d grown up in a close-knit, loving family, that might explain why he insisted on marriage.
Damaso watched her in silence so long, she felt tension knot between her shoulder blades.
‘I doubt it.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I don’t remember my parents.’
‘You’re an orphan?’
‘No need to sound so shocked. I’ve had a long time to get used it.’ His smile was perfunctory, not reaching his eyes.
‘Then why marriage? Why not—?’
‘Because I will be part of my son’s life. Or my daughter’s. I’m not interested in child support by proxy. My child will have me to support them.’ His face was tight and implacable.
Marisa shivered. The way he spoke, all their child needed was him. Where was she in his grand scheme? She intended to be there to protect her baby, come what may.
‘You don’t trust me to be a fit mother, is that it?’ Pain bruised her chest as she thought of the scandal that dogged her. These past weeks had opened up emotional wounds she’d thought long buried. ‘You’re judging me on what you’ve read in the press.’
Sure, she’d done her share of partying, but the reality wasn’t anything like the media’s lurid reports. Her notoriety had gained a life of its own, with kiss-and-tell stories by men she’d never even met.
Damaso shook his head. ‘I’m not judging you, Marisa. I’m simply saying I won’t settle for a long-distance relationship with my own flesh and blood.’ She heard the echo of something like yearning in his deep voice.
Was that it? Did he want their child, rather than just feel responsible for it? The idea held a powerful appeal. Already she knew she’d do whatever was needed to ensure her baby’s well-being. Marisa blinked up at his stern face, looking for signs of softness.
If only she could read him. It was rare that she sensed the man behind his steely reserve. She saw only what he allowed.
How could she trust a man she didn’t know?
‘What sort of man would I be to walk away from our child and leave all the responsibility on your shoulders?’
He had no idea how much she wanted support now. But responsibility without caring was a dangerous combination. That was how Cyrill had been with her and Stefan and it had poisoned their lives. She had to protect her baby.
‘Doesn’t our child have a right to both parents?’ His eyes searched hers. She felt the force of his stare right to her toes. ‘Doesn’t it deserve all the security we can give it?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘There are no buts, Marisa.’ Suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, drawing her close enough to feel the ripple of energy radiating from him. ‘I refuse to abandon my child to make its own way in the world. I want to keep it safe, nurture it, care for it and protect it from all danger. I want it never to feel alone. Is that a crime?’
Suddenly, it was as if the rigid blankness of a mask had been ripped aside, revealing a man who, far from being cold and remote, was racked by strong feeling. A man whose hands shook with the force of stark emotion she saw in eyes that glittered almost black.
Is that what had happened to him? Had there been no one to protect and care for him?
Marisa thought of the knife wounds. His previous iron-hard composure. His talk of independence as the difference between life and death.
Horror and pity welled. What had this man survived? How long had he been alone as a child?
But she knew better than to ask. Damaso Pires was many things but an open book wasn’t one of them. He’d revealed what he had grudgingly, presumably to convince her to accept him.
‘Of course it’s not a crime.’ Her voice held a husky edge as her see-sawing emotions overcame her diffidence. She lifted a hand and planted it on his chest—to comfort and reassure, she told herself. Yet the sharp thud of his heart beneath her palm told her it would take more than that to calm him. She tried not to react to the erotic pleasure of hot, male flesh and crisp chest hair against her palm.
‘So you agree.’ Triumph blazed in his face. ‘Marriage is the only option.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Marisa backed away, or tried to. His hold on her shoulders stopped her. Those hard fingers flexed and drew her closer, till her hand on his bare torso was all that separated them. His heat encompassed her; the subtle tang of his skin invaded her nostrils, making her recall the salt taste of him the night they’d been lovers. She quivered as a blast of longing rocked her.
‘I could persuade you.’ His voice dropped to a deep timbre that brushed like raw silk across her skin. His hands softened, smoothing her shoulders and back in a caress that spoke of easy expertise. Marisa bit her lip as her body arched greedily under his touch.
He bent his head, his mouth brushing her hair, his breath hot on her forehead. ‘You’ve kept your distance since we came here, and I’ve let you pretend, but we both feel the connection. You can’t deny it. It’s there every time you look at me, every time I look at you. It hasn’t gone away.’
His marauding hands swept the curve of her spine and out to her hips. He dragged her close and her breath stopped when she felt his arousal hard against her belly.
She closed her eyes, willing her trembling body to move away. His hold was firm but not unbreakable. She could escape. If she wanted to.
Instead she pressed closer, rising on her toes, bringing them into more intimate contact.
Damaso’s breath hissed and Marisa might have felt triumph if she hadn’t been swamped by hunger.
He was right. She’d tried to ignore it but this was why she’d been restless. Not just her pregnancy and the quandary over her future. Those were problems for later, eclipsed by the immediacy of her desire for Damaso.
Seeing him daily but keeping her distance had been an exercise in futility. What control she’d clung to now shattered in response to his potent charisma.
Her neck bowed back as he dropped his head and kissed her throat.