At Marisa’s stare, he shrugged and put the tray on the coffee table. ‘So Beatriz says.’
Great; he and the housekeeper were discussing her health now.
Yet the knowledge soothed rather than annoyed her. Ernesto and Beatriz, like Damaso’s staff on the island, were unlike any servants she’d known. They genuinely cared about their employer and, by extension, her.
She wasn’t used to being cared for. Stefan and she had shared a bond nothing could sever, but each had had their own pursuits and, once he’d become King, Stefan shouldered new responsibilities.
As for Damaso, Marisa was sure he cared. Look at the way he personally escorted her now to restaurants, dance clubs and parties, never leaving her side. Every night his tender seduction drew her more and more under his spell.
Damaso cared, all right. But whether for her or her baby, she wasn’t sure.
She’d spilled her secrets to him, revealing details she’d never shared, and he’d held her and made love to her in such a way, she’d swear he understood.
And yet...
Marisa chewed her lip, confronting the doubts that had racked her since that memorable night when she’d given herself to him again. She’d opened up to Damaso in ways she never had with any man. The catharsis of reliving her past, and giving herself so completely, had left her limp and drained, yet more whole than she’d felt in years. Even the devastating loss of her twin seemed more bearable.
The next morning she’d woken with scratchy eyes and heavy limbs but to a sense of renewed hope. Until she’d found Damaso had left her to sleep late while he went to work.
What had she expected? That he’d stay with her, sharing his own secrets as she’d done hers?
She wasn’t so na?ve. Yet she’d hoped for something. Some breaking down of the barriers between them. At a physical level, the barriers had shattered, but emotionally? It felt like Damaso had retreated even further. She was no closer to knowing him than she’d been a month ago.
Oh, he was tender in bed, and solicitous when they went out. Her mouth twisted as she remembered how he’d staked his claim over her just last night at another exclusive party. Marisa wanted to believe it was because he felt something for her. But more likely he was doing what was necessary to get what he wanted—access to their baby.
The trouble was she longed to trust him as he urged, not just with her body but with her future and her child’s. Even with her heart.
She sucked in a sharp, shocked breath.
How could she think like that? She’d loved two people in her life, her mother and her brother, and their deaths had all but shattered her. Loving was far too dangerous.
‘Madam?’
Ernesto held out a steaming porcelain cup in his massive hand.
Dragged from her circling thoughts, Marisa accepted the cup. She was too wired to sit and eat the pastries Beatriz had prepared, but she’d learned to appreciate Brazilian mint tea. She lowered her head and inhaled, feeling a modicum of calm ease her tense body.
‘I’ll go out when I’ve had this.’ She was too restless to stay indoors.
Ernesto nodded. ‘By helicopter or car?’
It was on the tip of Marisa’s tongue to say she wanted to walk, blocks and blocks through the teeming city. Anything to numb the pain and the trickle of fear the ambassador’s words had stirred. Anything to blot out the fear that she was in danger of swapping one gilded cage for another.
She was safe from her uncle’s machinations—he couldn’t force her into an arranged marriage—but the fact remained she’d let weeks race by without coming up with a plan for her future and the baby’s. She needed to decide where they’d live, not drift aimlessly.
A vision of Damaso’s private island swam in her brain and her lips curved as she imagined splashing in the shallows with an ebony-haired toddler.
Marisa blinked and sipped her tea. Maybe it would soothe her need for action.
‘Where is Damaso today?’
Stupid that her thoughts turned to him so often. He’d never pretended to care for her as anything more than the woman carrying his child. But this last week, despite logic, she’d imagined a deeper connection between them.
How could that be when he left her to her own devices all day? She told herself she was glad he found it so easy to push aside the intimacy of their nights together. Better than having him on hand, reminding her of his demand that they marry.
‘He’s out in the city.’
‘In his office?’ Damaso had pointed out the building to Marisa one night on their way to an exclusive club.
‘No, madam.’
Ernesto’s less than helpful answer made her prick up her ears. Or maybe it was because she sought distraction from her fears.
‘I’d like to see him.’ She watched over the top of the delicate cup as Ernesto’s eyes widened a fraction.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’ What was Damaso doing that he wanted to keep from her? He was as close as a clam about his life.
Ernesto hesitated a moment. ‘He’s in one of the favelas.’
‘Favelas?’ Marisa was sure she’d heard the word before.
‘Poor neighbourhoods. Where the houses aren’t—’ He shrugged, his English apparently failing him. ‘A slum,’ he said finally.
Marisa frowned. That was the last thing she’d expected. She put down her cup and saucer, relieved to have something to divert her from Cyrill’s schemes. ‘You can take me there.’
* * *
‘Truly, madam, this isn’t a good idea.’
Marisa smiled her sympathy at Ernesto as they negotiated a rutted dirt road, but refused to turn back. Not till she found Damaso and what had brought him here.
On either side of the track rose haphazard buildings, some solid-looking and painted in bright colours, others looking like they’d been cobbled together with whatever materials could be salvaged. The scent of fires, spicy food and something much less savoury lingered in the air. Marisa plodded on. It wasn’t the first place she’d visited that didn’t have a reliable sewage system.
They approached a long building painted saffron-yellow and the bodyguards Ernesto had brought fanned out. Ernesto gestured for her to accompany him inside.
The first face she saw was Damaso’s. He sat at a battered metal table with a group of men, all sipping coffee out of tiny cups, engrossed in conversation. His proud features were intent as he listened to an older man speak and he leaned back, as if fading into the background. Yet even in casual jeans and shirt he stood out from the rest.
Marisa’s breath caught as she drank in the sight of him.
He didn’t see her and she stopped just inside the open door, letting her senses adjust.
The building was cavernous. Over behind the men was an indoor basketball court where a bunch of gangly teens played, encouraged by catcalls and cheers.
From a door to the left came the clanging of pots and a delicious savoury scent that could only mean someone was cooking. Over on the far left, she heard music and voices, and straight ahead on a battered wall was tacked a collection of photos.
Instinctively she moved towards the photos, telling herself she hadn’t lost her nerve about seeing Damaso. He was busy, and not with some dusky beauty as she’d half-feared.
Marisa wrestled with self-directed anger. Why had it been so imperative she see him? She could deal with her uncle’s schemes without running to Damaso for support.
The photos ranged from ordinary snapshots to one or two that made her pulse trip a beat. That one of the skinny teenager, his eyes far too old for his face, his expression weary yet his stance all pugnacious machismo, as if he dared the world to mess with him. The wistful look on the old woman’s crinkled face as she watched a young couple in bright colours dance on a cracked concrete floor, their bodies lithe and sinuous, the embodiment of sexual energy.