Damaso waited.
‘Someone with an axe to grind fed them a story that I was a slut, partying all night with one guy after another, then playing the privileged prima donna among the rest of the competitors by day.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Who was what?’
‘The person who invented the story.’
She lifted her head and even in the darkness he knew she searched his face. ‘You believe me?’
‘Of course.’ It hadn’t occurred to him she might lie. Everything about her, from her repressed emotion to her obvious tension, proclaimed the truth. ‘Besides, I doubt you’d have the energy for bed hopping during the competition. Plus, you’re anything but a prima donna, despite your pedigree.’
He’d watched her play the icy aristocrat when it suited, but he’d also seen how open and accessible she was to everyone on their tour. In his home she treated his staff with courtesy and genuine friendliness.
Marisa fisted one hand on his chest and propped her chin on it, staring.
‘What?’ He couldn’t read her expression, but felt her gaze like the rasp of sharp metal on his flesh.
‘You’re the first person apart from Stefan and my coach to believe me.’ Her voice had a curious, flat tone that he knew hid more than it revealed. He wondered how it had felt being vilified so publicly at such an age.
At least she’d had her brother.
‘Surely your uncle’s PR people would have helped?’
Marisa turned, lying again on her side, her face obscured. ‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’
Damaso waited, curious.
‘They were spectacularly ineffective. But my uncle had never approved of my passion for gymnastics. He thought it unladylike and definitely not suitable for a royal. He disapproved of me being seen in leotards, getting sweaty and dishevelled in public, and especially on live TV. And as for competing with commoners!’
‘He ordered his staff not to support you?’ Damaso frowned. He knew how hard elite athletes worked. One of his few peers to succeed and, like him, make a life outside the slum where they’d grown up had gone on to represent Brazil at football. He’d seen how much dedication and hard work that took.
Marisa shrugged, her shoulder moving against his chest. ‘I never found out. Eventually the gymnastics committee decided it was too counter-productive having me on the team. The press attention was affecting everyone. A week after I turned sixteen, I was dropped from the squad.’
Damaso fought the urge to wrap his arms tight around her. The fact that her voice was devoid of emotion told its own story. His chest tightened.
‘Mighty convenient for your uncle.’ Had he used the negative press stories to push his own ends?
‘That’s what Stefan said.’ Bitterness coloured Marisa’s words. ‘But we could never prove anything, no matter what we suspected.’
Damaso stared into the darkness, putting two and two together. He recalled her hatred of the current king, the way even talking with him on the phone had sapped her energy. He remembered her comment about no one bothering to check she and her brother had been well-cared-for once Cyrill had become their guardian. That level of resentment must have deep roots. Was it possible her uncle had actually fostered the press stories?
‘It’s too late to worry about that now.’ She did a good job of sounding matter-of-fact but he heard the undercurrent in her voice.
‘Because the damage is done?’
‘Sometimes it doesn’t matter if a reputation is deserved. It takes on a life of its own.’ She shifted against him. ‘You’d be amazed how much difference a provocative caption can make to an innocent photo. Anything that didn’t fit was seen as me or the palace trying to put a good face on things.’
‘So you couldn’t win.’
Abruptly Marisa tugged her hand free of his grip and sat up, her back to him. She anchored the sheet beneath her arms and took her time pushing her hair back from her face.
‘I survived.’ Her tone was light. ‘In fact, being known as a party girl made it easier to flout convention when the fancy took me, which it did. Eventually I learned to enjoy the benefits of notoriety, so it’s not all bad. I always get invited to the most interesting parties.’
Damaso propped himself on one elbow, trying to read her profile in the darkness. He guessed her physical withdrawal meant he was getting too close for comfort.
Instinct told him Marisa wasn’t used to sharing confidences either. She was strong and self-reliant in a way he recognised in himself, despite their dissimilar backgrounds.
Which meant it was time to back off. She didn’t want him probing further.
Fat chance. He wanted to know all there was to know about her.
Besides, despite her tone of unconcern he sensed a fragility that intrigued him.
‘Except you wanted something more. You said the other day you’d wanted to work but the press exposure stopped you.’
Had she stiffened or did he imagine it?
Her shoulders rose and fell in what passed for a shrug. ‘It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. I don’t have any qualifications or useful skills.’ Her chin lifted, reminding him of that morning in the jungle resort when she’d turned from beddable siren to haughty empress in the blink of an eye. Now, he’d swear it was a self-protection mechanism. Had it been that, then, too?
Marisa spoke, distracting him. ‘I’m not academically minded. I barely made it through high school. Unless an employer wants someone who can make a perfect curtsey, or chat aimlessly with doddering aristocrats and bland-faced diplomats, my skills aren’t exactly in demand.’
‘Putting yourself down before someone else does it for you?’
That drew a reaction. She whipped round to face him, her hair flaring wide around her shoulders.
‘Just facing facts, Damaso. I’m a realist.’
‘Me too.’ And what he saw was a woman who’d been badly hurt time and again but conditioned herself not to show it.
He should be grateful she didn’t cry on his shoulder.
But he wasn’t. Something wild and dark inside clawed with fury at the way she’d been treated. The way she’d been judged and dismissed.
He wanted to grab her uncle and the media piranhas by their collective throats and choke some apologies out of them.
He wanted to crush Marisa in his arms and hold her till the pain went away. She’d probably shove him aside for his trouble. Besides, what did he know of offering comfort?
‘Let’s end this conversation, Damaso. I’ve had enough.’
Yet he couldn’t leave this.
‘So you played up to your reputation. Who wouldn’t in the circumstances? But we’ve already established you’re not as promiscuous as the world thinks.’
‘Don’t forget the drug-taking and high-stakes gambling.’ Even in the gloom he saw her chin jut higher.
Damaso tilted his head. Why was she raising those rumours? It was as if she’d changed her mind about sharing herself with him and took refuge instead in her reputation for licence.
‘And did you? Snort coke and lose a fortune gambling?’
‘I lost my driver’s licence just two and a half months ago doing twice the speed limit on the hairpin bends above the palace.’
Two and a half months ago. ‘After your brother died?’
‘Leave Stefan out of this.’ Marisa swung her legs out of bed but Damaso’s hand on her arm shackled her so she couldn’t move.