He flung up an arm over his head, staring at the dark ceiling. His resolve had been renowned, and unbreakable, until her.
How had she done it? How had she overridden his determination to be gentle?
This wasn’t what he’d planned. Granted, he’d wanted her in his bed. What better way to bind her to him than with sex? He’d use any tactic he could to convince her marriage was best.
But now he had her where he wanted her, Damaso realised things weren’t so simple.
Tonight hadn’t felt like any sex he’d had before.
It hadn’t felt like he was in control.
On the contrary, his loss of control had been spectacular.
Then there was the way he’d felt. When he’d realised he’d hurt Marisa with his easy assumptions. When he’d knelt and kissed the woman who carried his baby. When she’d come apart so completely, her vulnerability had unravelled something inside, something he couldn’t mend.
Each time he’d climaxed, it seemed he’d lost a little of himself in her.
He shifted. That was nonsense.
‘Damaso?’ Her drowsy voice was like rich, dark honey, sweet and enticing, making his mouth water.
He remembered being twenty-two, a kid from the slums who’d dragged himself into the commercial world with a mix of relentless determination, hard work and luck. He’d put his past behind him and thought he knew it all: how to turn a quick deal, where to find profits, how to satisfy a woman, how to protect himself on streets so much safer and more respectable than the ones he’d known.
He’d been in a breakfast meeting at a hotel. Damaso had followed the other man’s lead, eating as they talked so as not to look too eager. He’d taken a bite of bread slathered in honey and had been instantly addicted.
Such a simple thing that most people took for granted. Yet just a taste had the power to drag him straight back to his past, deprived and wanting. To a time when honey had been a luxury he’d only heard of.
‘Damaso?’ Her hand touched his chest. ‘What’s wrong?’
He mentally shook himself out of abstraction. ‘Nothing.’ He paused, realising how abrupt he sounded. ‘You must be tired. You should sleep.’
Her hand shifted, fluttering over his ribs, and he sucked in a breath as arousal stirred.
‘Would you hold me?’ She sounded tentative, unlike the feisty woman who’d faced him down time and again.
Did the past haunt her too?
How little he knew of her.
Silently he reached out and dragged her close, hoisting her leg over his and pushing her head onto his chest. Then he pulled the sheet over them both.
Holding her in his arms felt surprisingly satisfying. She was soft and serene and fitted snugly against him, as if designed for this. His breathing evened to a slow, relaxed rhythm.
‘I should never have left you alone at the party.’ Naked against him, he realised how tiny she was. She might have energy to burn, and an attitude the size of S?o Paolo, but that didn’t mean she could take on the world alone.
‘You’ve already said that.’ Her mouth moved against his chest.
He had, hadn’t he? It wasn’t like him to dwell on mistakes. Yet he couldn’t shake the guilt that he’d made her a target for unwanted attention.
‘Nevertheless, I’m sorry. You—’
‘Forget it, Damaso. I handled it.’
Damaso firmed his mouth rather than blurt that she shouldn’t have needed to handle it.
‘I’m sorry I lost my temper with you in public.’ She puffed out a breath that warmed his skin. ‘That will just fuel public interest.’
An apology from Marisa, too? Perhaps they were making progress. Damaso stroked a hand along her spine, enjoying its sensuous curve and the way she arched ever so slightly in response.
‘Don’t apologise. I should have known better.’
‘What? Known I wasn’t busy seducing other men and generally behaving badly?’ Marisa’s voice was a whisper yet he heard the tinge of bitterness she couldn’t conceal. ‘How could you? That’s what everyone expects. It’s in all the gossip magazines.’
She lay taut in his arms, that delicious lassitude replaced by tension. Damaso wished now he’d never raised the subject. But he owed her.
‘The magazines are wrong.’
‘I’d rather not discuss it.’ She shifted as if to pull away and he wrapped both arms around her, holding her gently but firmly.
‘I know they’re wrong.’
Marisa stilled. ‘You can’t know that.’
‘But I do.’
‘Don’t!’ She twisted in his hold and he saw her pale face look up at him in the darkness. ‘You don’t need to pretend.’ Her voice was scratchy and over-loud and it made something inside him ache.
‘I don’t know the details, Marisa. Only you do. But I do know you’re not the woman the media paints you.’ He paused, wondering how much he should admit. Then he registered the tiny shivers running through her taut frame and went on. ‘I believed it at first but the more time I spent with you the more I came to realise you’re someone quite different.’ He ventured a caress along her bare shoulder. ‘Someone I want to know.’
It was true. Marisa intrigued him. More than that, he’d discovered he liked her, even when she was prickly and refused to give in to his wishes.
‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ he murmured.
‘Why would I do that?’ No mistaking the wariness in her voice.
‘Because you’re hurting, and talking about it might make you feel better.’
His words surprised even himself. Not that he didn’t mean them. It was how much he meant them, how much he wanted to help, that made him frown.
Since when had he been there for anyone? He was a loner. He’d never been in a long-term relationship. He didn’t dwell on feelings. Yet here he was, offering a sympathetic ear as if he was the go-to guy for emotional support.
Yet he was sincere.
Another first.
If he wasn’t careful this woman would change his life. Already she had him re-thinking so much he’d taken for granted.
‘Why? Because you’re such a good listener?’ Marisa forced lightness into her tone but it didn’t quite mask her pain. Her restless fingers moved over his rib cage until he clamped his hand over hers, spreading it wide against his chest. He liked her touch on him.
‘I have no idea.’ He didn’t bother to add he’d never been anyone’s confidant. ‘Why don’t you try me?’
He said no more but waited, slowly stroking the luxurious softness of her hair from her head down her back.
Marisa’s words, when they came, surprised him.
‘I was fifteen when the press came after me the first time.’ Her voice was firm but a little breathless, as if she couldn’t fill her lungs. Damaso forced himself to keep up the rhythm of his long strokes.
‘There’d been press attention before then, of course. It was inevitable, with us orphaned when we were only ten. Every time we appeared in public they went into a frenzy—the poor little orphan royals.’ Bitterness laced her words. ‘Not that anyone cared enough to check we were all right.’
Damaso digested that in silence. He knew Marisa’s relationship with her uncle, the current king and former regent, was poor, but better not to interrupt her with questions.
She drew a slow breath. ‘Things eased a little over the years. Stefan and I got used to the media presence. Then at fifteen I was trying out for the national gymnastics team and suddenly I was in the spotlight again, initially because of the novelty of me competing with “ordinary” girls, and then...’