That was exactly what he’d wanted, because he’d never met a woman like her. ‘You like them?’
‘Like them?’ She shook her head, her expression bordering on dazed. ‘They’re fabulous. How could anyone not like them?’
‘Good, then you can wear them tonight.’
Was it his imagination or did she retreat a fraction?
‘Why, Damaso? Why the expensive gift?’
He stared down, willing her to accept. ‘You deserve to celebrate your first public exhibition. The cost is immaterial; you know I can afford it.’
‘Not my exhibition.’ Despite the doubt in her eyes, her lips curved slightly. ‘Tonight is about the kids’ photography.’
‘Not according to Silvio. From the way he talks, he has big plans for you.’ Damaso watched as delicate colour washed her cheeks. ‘As well as for your class.’
‘So it’s a congratulatory gift, because you think I should celebrate?’
Damaso hesitated, reading her anticipation. She wanted more but what could he say? That seeing her contentment and purpose had made him happier than he could ever remember ?
That he wanted to keep that and keep her?
That he wanted to put his ring on her finger and bind her to him?
He’d had enough of waiting and battled not to behave like an unreconstructed male chauvinist, forcing her to stay despite her doubts.
‘You’ve worked hard and achieved so much,’ he said at last. ‘You’re making a difference to those kids, giving them skills and confidence and using your connections to open up a new world to them.’
‘Really?’ It didn’t seem possible but Marisa’s eyes shone brighter.
He nodded, his throat closing as he saw how much his words meant. Marisa was so active and energetic, sometimes it was easy to forget the burden of doubt she struggled with.
‘As an up and coming photographer, you need to look glamorous at your premiere.’
‘Looking the part, then?’ Her eyes dropped and Damaso reached out and tilted her chin up. Her soft skin made his fingers slide wide, caressing her.
‘Far more than that, Marisa. I...’
She leaned towards him and he had the sudden overwhelming conviction she was waiting for him to say something deep, something about how he felt.
Damaso swallowed, knowing he was on dangerous ground.
She’d become a vital part of his future, her and the baby. They brightened his world in a way he’d never thought possible. Yet if he blurted that out her beautiful mouth would thin and she’d turn away.
‘I’m proud of you, Marisa. You’re a special woman and I’d be honoured if you’d wear my gift tonight.’
Something that might have been disappointment flickered in her eyes then she nodded, but her lips curved in a smile. Damaso assured himself he’d misread her.
‘Thank you. I’d like that,’ she said huskily.
He reached into the open box and took out the necklace, letting the fall of brilliant burnt-orange gems spill across his palm.
‘They remind me of you,’ he murmured, watching the light catch them. ‘Light and colour and exuberance, but with innate integrity.’ He looked up to find her wide gaze fixed not on the strands of gems but on him.
‘Really?’
He nodded and moved behind her, drawing the ends carefully together around her throat. ‘Absolutely.’ Quickly he fastened the clasp and drew her across to a full-length mirror. ‘They’re pure summer, just like you.’
‘What are the stones?’ She sounded awed, as well she might. A frisson ran through him at how perfect they looked on her—how perfect she looked, wearing his gift.
‘Imperial topaz, mined here in Brazil.’
Marisa lifted a hand to her throat then let it drop, her eyes wide as she stared at the necklace. From its wide topaz-and-diamond collar, separate strands of faceted topaz fell in an asymmetrical cluster to just above her cleavage. It was modern, sexy and ultra-feminine. Just like Marisa.
‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’ At least he could admit that truthfully.
Predictably she opened her mouth as if to protest, but Damaso reached around her and pressed a finger to her siren’s mouth.
‘Put the earrings on.’
Silently she complied.
‘And the bracelet.’ A moment later diamonds and topaz encircled her slim arm and Damaso wrapped his arms around her and drew her back against his chest, watching their reflections in the long mirror.
‘You like them? You’re happy?’
Marisa nodded silently, but her eyes glowed.
He told himself that was enough for tonight. He’d been right to hold the ring back instead of proposing. But time was running out. He refused to wait much longer to claim her.
* * *
Marisa’s cheeks ached from smiling. Ever since she and Damaso had stepped off the red carpet and into Silvio’s soaring studio, she’d been accepting congratulations for her work and for the youngsters she’d been mentoring.
Silvio had been brilliant with the kids, letting them bask in the positive reception their work received without letting them be overwhelmed. One success, he’d warned them, didn’t build a career. But hard work and application would.
Now, for the first time in what seemed hours, she found herself alone with Damaso amidst the buzzing, sophisticated crowd. His hand closed on hers and her heart took up a familiar, sultry beat as she looked into his gleaming eyes.
She was hyper-aware of the weight of his jewellery at her throat and wrist, a tangible proclamation of his ownership. That was one of the reasons she’d resisted accepting his gifts. He was a man who’d take a mile when offered an inch. She’d clung to her independence with the tenacity of a drowning man grabbing at flotsam as he went under for the last time.
Yet what was the point in pretending? It wasn’t the jewellery that branded her as Damaso’s but her feelings.
When he’d presented her with the exquisite pieces she’d been on tenterhooks, waiting for him to announce they were a symbol of what he felt for her. She’d hoped his feelings for her had matured miraculously through sexual attraction, admiration, liking and caring to...
A shiver rippled across her skin.
‘Come on,’ she urged before he could guess her thoughts. ‘There’s one piece you haven’t seen, at least not blown up to this size.’ Threading her fingers through his, she tugged him towards an inner room.
Damaso lowered his head, his mouth hovering near her ear, his breath warm on her skin. ‘The portrait of me?’
Marisa nodded and kept walking, the jittery, excited feeling in her stomach telling her she was in danger of revealing too much to this perceptive man.
They stopped on the threshold of the room and, as luck would have it, the spectators parted so they had an unhindered view.
The tingling began somewhere in her chest and spread out in ever-widening ripples just as it did every time she saw it. The photographer in her saw composition and light, focus and angle. The woman saw Damaso.
Not the Damaso the world was used to—the fiercely focused businessman—but a man she’d only just discovered. The slanting light traced his features lovingly in the black and white shot, revealing the broad brow, strong nose, the angle of cheekbone and jaw and the tiny lines at the corner of his eyes. But it did more. It captured him in a rare, unguarded moment, hunkering down with a dark-haired little boy, bent over a battered toy truck.
The man in the photo leant protectively close to the tot, as if to shield him from the football game that was a blur of action on the uneven dirt behind them. His eyes were on the boy and his expression...