His pulse quickened. Was that what he wanted—Marisa head over heels in love with him?
That would solve all his problems. Marisa in love would be a Marisa committed to staying. It would hardly matter that he didn’t know the first thing about love or relationships. She had enough warmth for the pair of them, the three of them.
In his bleaker moments he wondered if he had it in him to learn how to love.
‘You think going back would be a mistake?’
Damaso paused, conscious that this was the first time Marisa had asked his advice.
Was it wishful thinking, or was this a turning point?
Stifling a triumphant smile, he tempered his words, cautious not to sound dictatorial like her uncle. Marisa could be persuaded, not ordered. He’d learned that quickly. Better if she thought staying was her decision.
‘I think you need to consider how your uncle will try to use your presence to his advantage. Do you want to be his dupe?’
The tightening of her lips told him he’d struck a chord. Marisa was proud. She wouldn’t want to play into the hands of a man she despised.
‘Why don’t you decide later?’ Damaso knew better than to push his advantage. ‘Tell me about your day,’ he urged. ‘I haven’t seen you for hours.’
There was another first. He looked forward to their evenings together, discussing the day’s events. It was something he’d never experienced with anyone else.
‘I took the kids to the gallery.’ She leaned forward, her eyes shining, and he congratulated himself on hitting on something to take her mind off Cyrill. ‘You should have seen how excited they were. Silvio spent a couple of hours with them and they drank it all in.’
‘I’m sure they did.’ He remembered the first time he’d left the neighbourhood where he’d grown up. The excitement and fear. The children Marisa had taken under her wing with her photography classes would never have dreamed of anything as plush as Silvio’s gallery. As the most successful photographer in South America, and probably beyond, he could name his own price for his work.
‘I have to thank you for introducing me to him.’ Marisa’s hand found his and he threaded his fingers through hers, marvelling again at how something so delicate and soft could be so strong. ‘I’ve admired his work for years, but...’
‘No need to thank me.’ They’d been over that weeks ago, when Damaso had taken her to Silvio’s gallery. She’d been in seventh heaven, so rapt in Silvio’s artwork that the photographer had taken an immediate shine to her. They’d been thick as thieves ever since.
Damaso might have been jealous of the way Marisa spoke so often of Silvio, except it was his work she was interested in, and her responsiveness to Damaso was unabated.
Anything that strengthened Marisa’s ties to Brazil, such as her friendship with Silvio, was something Damaso encouraged. Besides, watching her enthusiasm as she talked about how her young photographers had blossomed at this rare opportunity was like watching a flower open to the sun.
Something stirred and eddied in his chest as a smile lit her face.
She was so happy.
It was only now, seeing her excitement, hearing her enthusiasm, that he realised how she’d changed. She’d always seemed vibrantly alive. But now Damaso knew her well enough to recognise that in the past some of her vivacity had been a persona, like clothing worn to project an image.
Damaso knew about that. In the early days he’d acted the part of successful businessman even when he’d had barely enough money to feed himself. He’d poured everything into becoming the man he was determined to be. Convincing others to trust him had been part of that.
Seeing Marisa glow from within, he realised the woman he’d met in the jungle had been going through the motions, despite her bright, engaging smile. Grief had muted her.
The real Marisa was stunning, almost incandescent. The sort of woman to draw men, like moths to flame.
He’d never felt as lucky as he did now, despite the niggle of doubt, because she hadn’t yet agreed to marry him. His hand tightened on his beer and he took another swallow.
‘Silvio offered to meet them again and look at their work. Isn’t that fantastic?’
‘Fantastic,’ he murmured. ‘But they’re already learning a lot from you.’
Marisa’s sessions with the kids had been a huge success. He’d heard from a number of sources how enthusiastically not only the teens but their parents too had responded, plus he’d seen the results.
Marisa shook her head. ‘I’m an amateur.’
‘A talented amateur.’
‘Flatterer.’ Her eyes danced and again Damaso felt familiar heat in his belly.
It still unsettled him, knowing Marisa was going to the favela. He wanted to lock her away so she couldn’t be hurt. But seeing her now, he knew he was right to hold back.
Movement at the end of the table caught his eye as the mongrel dog sidled up to her chair. With a fond glance, Marisa reached down and stroked its head, then tickled it under the chin. The dog closed its eyes in ecstasy and leaned closer.
Damaso’s mouth thinned. What did she see in it? Watching her delicate fingers ruffle its fur just seemed wrong. He could give her a dog bred specifically to be a perfect companion. Instead she settled for a ragged mongrel that looked like it belonged on the streets, no matter how much she bathed and brushed it.
Marisa caught the direction of his stare.
‘Why don’t you like him?’ Marisa’s head tilted to one side in that characteristic look of enquiry.
Damaso shrugged. ‘I don’t have time for pets.’
Her silence told him she didn’t buy that.
‘But it’s not just any pet, is it? You offered to get me another dog to replace him.’ She paused, studying him carefully. ‘It’s something about Max.’
Damaso said nothing. He’d agreed to let the animal stay. What more could she want?
‘It’s because of where he comes from, isn’t it?’ She leaned across the table. ‘Is that why you can’t bear to look at him?’
Marisa sank back in her chair, her fingers burrowing deep into Max’s fur as understanding hit out of the blue.
She’d been in Damaso’s island home, and here in his city penthouse, and only now realised that, while he didn’t display his wealth with crass ostentation, everything was of the highest quality materials and craftsmanship.
Nor had she seen anything with the patina of age— no antiques, nothing second-hand. Everything was pristine, as if it had been made yesterday. Many of the pieces had been created by world-renowned artisans, from the artwork to the furniture, and of course the architectural design of the buildings.
The same applied to his luxury hotel in the Andes. Only the best, nothing ordinary or even old.
Terrible foreboding tingled down Marisa’s backbone and she straightened, putting down her glass. She put both hands on the table, as if to draw strength from the polished metal.
‘What is it?’ No fool, Damaso had picked up her sudden mood change, from curiosity to stomach-curdling distress.
‘Everything you own is top of the range, isn’t it? Only the absolute best.’ Even the kitchen where Beatriz presided would do a Michelin-starred restaurant proud.
‘What of it? I can afford it and I appreciate quality.’
‘Quality.’ The word tasted bitter. It had been a favourite of her uncle’s, especially when he berated her for mixing with the ‘wrong’ sort of people.