When she did move it took a moment to realise what she was doing. She pulled back but only to haul off her top and bra. Her summer-bright eyes held his as her clothes, a tangle of bright silk, fell to the floor.
‘I’m sorry I worried you.’ Her voice was high and breathless, but not as oxygen-starved as he was, watching her small hands anchor his much larger ones over her delectable breasts. The warmth of her soft body melted a little of the ice in his veins. Her nipples, firm and peaked, tickled his palms, making his breath ease out on a sigh.
His brain struggled to compute what she was doing. How had they gone from his life in poverty to this?
‘You could just have told me.’ Her gaze meshed with his as her hand went to the zip of his jeans.
Damaso swallowed hard, giving thanks for the strange yet wonderful impulses of his reckless princess.
* * *
Damaso drowsed at her breast, his hold encompassing her even in sleep. For the first time he hadn’t demurred when she’d told him to stay where he was in the languid aftermath of love-making. Instead of rolling aside, he lay spread across her, as if melding himself with her.
For that was how their loving had felt. Slow and deliberate and possessive in a way that made Marisa’s throat catch and her heart drum when she remembered it.
Yet there’d been desperation too, in his eyes and in the barely contained power of his body bringing her to ecstasy again and again.
Marisa smiled against his warm skin. She was making up for all those years of sexual abstinence. Just one of the benefits of having a lover like Damaso.
Her smile faded.
What would he be like as a husband?
For the first time she allowed herself to consider the possibility dispassionately, pushing aside her anxiety at the idea of tying herself to any man. Would Damaso be any more controlling than the unknown aristocrat her uncle wanted her to marry?
Damaso was dominant, bossy, used to getting his own way. But he’d never bullied her like her uncle, and no one could accuse him of being cold like her father. The more she knew him, the more she wondered how she’d ever thought him cold. Damaso was hot-blooded and passionate. Not just in bed; when he talked of their baby the glow in his eyes revealed a depth of feeling that had at first scared her and now... Marisa blinked. It soothed her, she realised.
She liked him caring so strongly for their baby. It was reassuring to know that if something happened to her Damaso would be there to look after their child.
He made her feel less alone. In the past she’d had Stefan and losing him had devastated her. That tearing hurt had made her even more determined not to open herself up to anyone. But slowly Damaso had been breaking down her barriers. Now he was there, firmly planted in her life, pushing the yawning chasm of darkness back till she no longer felt on a precipice of pain.
He tried to protect her too. Damaso was always at her side now at any society event.
Then there was his reaction to her visit today.
Marisa’s brow puckered, remembering his stark expression when he’d spoken of the danger. She remembered the scars on his body and how he’d got them. Yet instinct told her this was about more than some physical threat.
Clearly Damaso had reacted on a visceral level. Perhaps, if she understood him, she might trust him enough to accept what he offered.
Shame bit. She’d been focused on her independence and on grappling with the changes this pregnancy would bring. She’d been self-absorbed, every bit as selfish as the press painted her.
Oh, she’d been curious about Damaso, always fascinated by the man who’d slowly begun to reveal himself to her. But she’d never pushed to delve deeper. True, he was taciturn about his past, always focusing on the here and now or the future. But she could have tried harder. He’d been genuinely sympathetic when she’d told him about herself. What had she given in return?
Damaso was inextricably part of her life now. As her child’s father and more, much more.
Marisa swept her hands over his broad shoulders, marvelling at the closeness she felt, the bond that wasn’t just to do with the baby but with them as a couple. She hugged him tight.
A couple. It was a new concept.
Maybe for the first time she had, after all, found a man she could trust.
* * *
Her second trip to the favela tested his temper but not in the way she’d expected.
‘I thought we’d agreed it was too risky for you to spend time there.’ He stood, tie wrenched undone at his throat, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, sinewy arms and fists buried in his pockets. His brow was like a thundercloud as he watched her from the door to the private roof-garden.
He looked vital and sexy, and something clenched hard in Marisa’s stomach as she met his scowl. Kneeling as she was, she had to crane her neck to survey his long, powerful body but it was worth it. She had to scotch the impulse to go to him and let him kiss her. If she did there was a danger she might cave in rather than stand her ground. He was that persuasive.
‘I listened to what you said, Damaso, which is why I agreed when Ernesto insisted on taking other guards.’ Privately she thought the security precautions overkill but she’d fight one battle at a time.
‘He should never have allowed you—’
‘We’ve been over that.’ She lifted one wet hand and pushed her hair off her face with the back of her wrist. ‘Don’t you dare bully Ernesto. He was just doing his job. If he’d tried to stop me I’d have gone without him.’ It wouldn’t be the first time she’d evaded professional minders.
‘I was safe. And I was welcome.’ The generous welcome she’d received had been heart-warming. ‘I helped a little with one of the classes and talked to the co-ordinator about reviving the photography project.’
Marisa wasn’t qualified to teach but knew a little about that. Enough to foster the efforts of the few youngsters who’d taken part in an earlier program to develop photography skills. The co-ordinator had talked enthusiastically about career-building. For Marisa, though, it was about helping others find the peace and satisfaction she herself felt looking at the world through the lens of a camera.
‘That would mean going there regularly!’
Marisa didn’t bother answering. She’d known Damaso would be angry but she was determined to proceed. For herself, because selfishly she clung to the idea she could be useful, and for the kids.
Was it preposterous to think she also did this for Damaso? For the orphan he’d been, struggling to survive in a tough environment? Who had helped him? Ever since he’d let her glimpse the pain of his past, she’d found herself imagining him on streets like those she’d walked today. Was it hardship that had honed him into the man he was—ruthless and single-minded, guarding his heart so closely?
She groped for the soap that had fallen into the basin of warm water, feeling it slippery on her palm.
‘And it doesn’t explain what you’re doing with that.’ Damaso’s voice dropped to resonant disapproval.
Marisa surveyed the skinny dog she held by the scruff of the neck. It trembled as it stood in the big basin of tepid water but made no move to escape.
‘He needed a home.’
‘Not this home.’ Damaso stalked across to stand over them, his long shadow falling on the pup.
‘If it’s a problem, I’ll take him elsewhere.’ She paused, more nervous than she’d expected now it came to it. She was sure of her ground, wasn’t she? Yet if he called her bluff... No, that wouldn’t happen. ‘I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding somewhere to stay where dogs are welcome.’