Marisa swallowed hard, telling herself she was mistaken. Yet nothing could dispel the suspicion now it had surfaced.
‘Marisa? What is it?’ Damaso’s brows drew down in a frown that, instead of marring his features, emphasised their adamantine charisma. ‘There’s nothing wrong with owning beautiful things.’
‘It depends why you want them.’
For long seconds she fought the sickening idea, but it was no good. Finally the words poured out. ‘Is that why you’re so insistent marriage is our only option?’
His eyes widened. ‘What are you talking about? I don’t see the connection.’
‘I come with a pedigree. Having a royal title means I’m quality.’ She dragged in a breath that didn’t fill her lungs and stared into his expressionless features, looking for some sign she was wrong.
‘You think I’m hung up on a royal title?’
Marisa pressed her palms harder into the cool metal of the table.
‘I know you want my baby.’ How stark the words sounded, crashing through the truce they’d built so painstakingly. Yet she couldn’t shy away from the truth. ‘But maybe there’s more to it.’
Inside a voice cried that she was wrong. That Damaso was different. But how could she trust her judgement on this? She’d been wrong before.
‘What do you mean?’ He sat so still she knew he exercised steely control.
‘Your reaction to me visiting the favela is out of proportion to the danger, especially given the bodyguards you insist on.’ Something flashed in his eyes and her heart dived. ‘I think the reason you don’t like Max is because he comes from a slum.’
Marisa paused and waited but Damaso said nothing. The only animation was the tic of a pulse in his clenched jaw.
‘Tell me the truth, Damaso.’ She sucked in an unsteady breath. ‘Do you want me as a trophy to add to your collection? After all, a princess comes pretty close to the top of the heap if you care for titles and quality.’ Try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself gagging on the word.
She’d thought she knew Damaso, that they shared something fragile and precious, something that made her happier than she could ever remember being. She’d begun to trust him, to hope.
‘If you want to hide from your past and pretend it never happened, saddling yourself with me isn’t the way to do it. Remember, most people don’t think of me as a quality item. I’m sullied goods.’
‘Don’t talk like that!’ He lunged across the table, his hand slamming down on hers, holding her captive. His dark eyes sparked, as if she’d tapped into a live volcano. ‘Don’t ever say such things about yourself.’
Marisa tried to look down her nose at him. She’d learned the trick from her haughty uncle and it had proven invaluable when she’d wanted to hide private hurt. But it didn’t work now. Somehow she’d lost the knack—or Damaso had burrowed too far beneath her defences.
Desperation added an edge to her voice. ‘Why not? It’s what everyone thinks, even if they don’t say it to my face. You might consider me the royal icing on the cake of your success, something special to add to your collection.’ She swept a glance beyond the exquisite hand-forged table and chairs to the sculptures scattered through his private garden that would have done any national gallery proud. She gulped, her throat raw. ‘But I’m flawed, remember? That detracts from my value.’
He moved so fast, her head spun. Large hands cupped her cheeks, turning her head up to where he towered above her.
‘Don’t ever say that again.’ He bit the words out, his face drawn as if in pain, his eyes furious. Oddly, though, his hands felt gentle against her chilled flesh. ‘I won’t have it, do you hear? You’re so wrong.’
Damaso looked down into her wide, drenched eyes and had never felt so furious or helpless. Why couldn’t she see what he saw? A woman worthy of admiration and respect. A woman unlike any he’d known.
Marisa blinked, refusing to let the glittering tears fall. It was typical that even now she put on a show of pride.
Yet the reminder of her vulnerability tore through him. Damaso dropped to his knees beside her seat, only vaguely aware of the dog darting out of the way.
He felt as if something had broken inside him when he saw her hurting so badly.
Leaning close, he drew in the familiar scent of green apples and sweet woman. Every instinct clamoured for him to haul her to him and make love to her till he blotted all doubt from her mind. But she needed to hear the words.
He swallowed hard. ‘You’ve begun to believe your uncle’s lies.’ He saw her eyes widen. ‘He’s always put you down, tried to restrict you and mould you, but you didn’t let him. You were too strong for that. Don’t let him win now by undermining your confidence.’
Damaso paused, letting her digest that.
‘For the record, any man would be proud to have you as his wife. And not because of your royal blood. You’re bright and caring, not to mention beautiful. You’re intelligent, fun and good company. You must have noticed how everyone wants to be with you.’
It was painful to watch the doubt still clouding her eyes. ‘You know how much I want you, Marisa.’ He grabbed one of her hands and planted it on his chest so she could feel the way his heart sprinted.
‘You want my baby,’ she said slowly. ‘But do you want me or the cachet of marrying into royalty? If social status is important, that would be some achievement for a boy from the slums.’
‘I want us to be a family.’ The words rumbled up from some place deep inside. Family. The strength of his need for Marisa and their child undid him. ‘I want to be with our child and I want to be with you. You know that. You felt the chemistry between us from the first.’
‘You mean the sex?’ She breathed deep and he had the impression she had to force the words out. ‘People don’t marry for that. What other reason could you have?’
Damaso looked into those brilliant, guarded eyes and realisation slammed into him. He’d seen that yearning look before, years ago, when he’d broken off with a lover who’d begun to want too much.
Perhaps Marisa didn’t know it, but it was emotion she craved from him. Shunned by her family and her country, Marisa needed love.
A lead weight plummeted through his gut.
Marisa wanted the one thing he didn’t know how to give.
For a moment he thought of lying, trotting out the trite words that would salve her pain. But Damaso couldn’t do it. She’d see straight through the lie and convince herself it was for the worst possible reason.
Panic rocked him. He’d do so much for her. Anything except let her go.
He had nothing to give her except the truth.
Damaso reached for her hand and closed his fingers around it. Her other hand was still plastered against his chest. Did she notice how his heart raced?
‘You think I surround myself with beautiful things to escape my past?’ He drew a harsh breath and forced himself to go on, ignoring a lifetime’s instinct for privacy. He had to share what he’d hidden from the world or risk losing Marisa.
‘You could be right,’ he said eventually and heard her hiss of indrawn breath. Her hands twitched in his and he tightened his hold implacably, refusing to let her pull away. He stroked his thumb over hers where it rested on his chest.
‘I started with nothing but the clothes on my back.’ He grimaced. ‘I was determined to shake off the dust of what passed for my home as soon as I could. By sheer hard work and some very lucky breaks I succeeded and, believe me, I never once looked back with regret. As soon as I could, I surrounded myself with the trappings of success. Sharp clothes, swanky office, beautiful women.’