‘What are you doing here, Marisa?’
‘Admiring the art.’ She didn’t turn, preferring not to respond to Damaso’s dark tone. ‘Some of these are remarkable.’
‘You shouldn’t have come.’ She heard him drag in a breath. ‘Ernesto should have known better.’
‘Don’t blame Ernesto.’ She turned and met his shadowed glare, wondering exactly what she’d interrupted. Damaso’s tension was palpable. She’d never seen him so edgy. ‘He didn’t want to bring me here but his orders are to keep me safe, not a prisoner.’
Damaso’s nostrils flared as he breathed deep, apparently searching for calm. He couldn’t have missed the challenge in her tone. She’d agreed to stay with him, but on condition there was no coercion. Restricting her movements would violate that.
Marisa watched his hands bunch then flex, as if he resisted the urge to pick her up and cart her away. For a moment she was tempted to provoke him, break the invisible barrier that kept him so aloof while she felt impossibly needy.
Hurt and anger warred with pride. This wasn’t the place.
‘You think this place is safe?’ Warning filled his voice.
‘I have guards. Besides, you’re here.’ She didn’t add that at least some of the locals had seemed friendly. She hadn’t missed the wary looks of others and the way a few figures had skulked away into the shadows as they’d passed.
‘That’s different.’
Marisa tilted her head to one side, taking in his clenched jaw and the tight line of white around his mouth.
‘I can see it is.’ She wasn’t a fool. ‘But I was curious.’
‘Now you’ve seen it, you can leave.’
That didn’t even deserve a response. ‘What is this place?’
Damaso shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘A local gathering place. A community centre, if you like.’
‘I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting.’ She nodded to the group of seated men watching them.
‘We’d finished. Now.’ He reached out and took her arm, his hold implacable. ‘It’s time we left.’
‘What are you hiding, Damaso?’
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him and his gaze slid away. Marisa stared, stunned that her instinct had been right. He was concealing something.
Damaso’s lips moved as if he were about to speak but he said nothing. His face took on that spare, hewn look that she’d come to suspect meant he repressed strong feeling.
Instinctively she covered his hand with her own.
‘Now I’m here, won’t you show me around?’ She met his stare openly. ‘It’s important to you,’ she said slowly, ‘or you wouldn’t be here.’ For clearly this wasn’t some high-powered finance meeting that would reap more profits for his ever-expanding empire. ‘Please?’
His exhalation of breath was a warm gust on her face. ‘You’re not leaving till I do, are you?’
Marisa shook her head and felt the rock-solid muscle of his arm ease a little against hers.
‘Very well.’
* * *
Damaso intended the tour to take a brief ten minutes but he’d reckoned without the inevitable interest Marisa aroused. People came out of the woodwork to see the gorgeous blonde Damaso Pires had brought into their midst.
As the clustering numbers grew, tension ratcheted up again. He couldn’t believe she was in any danger with him. Yet he couldn’t be comfortable with Marisa in these surroundings. It just wasn’t right.
To her credit, Marisa wasn’t fazed. She was interested in everything, not pushing herself forward, but not afraid to initiate conversation in her halting Portuguese that Damaso for one found endearing and sexy.
They loved her, drawn by her bright energy and enthusiasm. By the way she didn’t shy from shaking hands and sharing a joke. By her interest, especially in the kids. Some girls had been having a dance class and showed what they’d learnt. When one, a little over-eager, stumbled when she attempted a cartwheel, Marisa showed her how to place her hands, shucking off her shoes and demonstrating, then helping the little one get the move right.
Damaso smothered a smile. It was the first time he’d seen his security staff lost for words. As for the kids, they regarded her with a mix of awe and acceptance that made him proud and infuriated at the same time.
‘This is marvellous.’ Marisa smiled up at the woman who’d served her at the large communal table and dipped her spoon back into the bowl that had been set before her. ‘Tell me what it’s called?’
‘Feijoada—black bean stew.’ Even now, with the budget to live on champagne and lobster, it was Damaso’s favourite dish. In the days when he’d first eaten it, of course, there’d been very little meat to flavour the rich dish, and much more of the rice and beans.
‘Do you think Beatriz would make it for us?’
He nodded. Beatriz, like he, had grown up with it.
One of the little girls sidled closer to Marisa on the long bench seat, her eyes wide. At a comment from Marisa in hesitant Portuguese, she grinned and began talking.
Damaso watched them communicate easily with so few words and felt something tighten and twist deep in his belly. He should have known Marisa would take a visit to a poor neighbourhood in her stride. As a princess, she was no doubt used to playing Lady Bountiful, bringing out that practised smile to charm the adoring crowds.
But this was something else. This wasn’t stage-managed. He felt the warmth of her personality reach out and encompass him as it enthralled the little girl.
Yet some dark thing inside him rebelled at Marisa being here. It coiled through his gut, clawed through his veins and made him itch to drag her away to the world where she belonged. A world of luxury and ease, where he could take care of her while she nurtured the baby they’d created.
That was it. The baby.
She had to think of the baby’s wellbeing, not salve her social conscience visiting the poor.
‘It’s time we left.’
He rose and held out his hand. Even to his own ears the words were abrupt and he saw startled looks directed his way.
The little girl shrank away as if he’d shouted at her and he felt heat score his cheeks as shame flared. But it couldn’t counteract the terrible urgency gnawing at his innards. He had to get Marisa away from here. Now!
It took a lifetime for Marisa to move. His pulse galloped as he watched her turn and say something to the girl that made her grin shyly. Then Marisa rose from her wooden seat with all the grace of an empress. An empress who ignored his outstretched hand with a disdain that knifed right to his chest. Her gaze slid across his face before she turned and thanked first one person and then another for their hospitality.
They clustered around, responding to her warmth and sincerity, and absurdly Damaso felt locked out, as if he were alone in the darkness, cut off from a happiness he hadn’t even known he’d grown accustomed to.
Absurd!
He was successful. Sought-after. He had it all, everything he’d ever dreamed of and more.
Yet when Marisa finally made a move to leave, turning not to him but to Ernesto, something fractured inside.
In two strides Damaso was at her side, tugging her arm through his. She stiffened and her smile grew fixed but she didn’t pull away.
Good! He’d run out of patience.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NEITHER SPOKE ON the journey. He was reminded of the night of the party when he’d been jealous and suspicious, when she’d stood up to him and they’d come together in such a conflagration it had melted his self-control.