Marisa swallowed. How had she ever wondered if Damaso would make a good father? It was all there in his face: the intense focus on the child; the protectiveness; the pleasure lurking at the corners of his firm mouth as he solemnly helped the boy fill the back of the truck with dirt scooped from the earth at their feet.
Damaso would make a wonderful father; she knew it in her bones. Since being with him her doubts about her ability to be a good mother had receded too. His praise and his trust did so much for her. His steady presence had even helped her to find a purpose.
‘Thank you for agreeing to let me hang this one.’ Her voice was husky and she had to work to counter the urge to press her palm to the tiny swell where her belly sheltered their child.
Beside her, Damaso shrugged. ‘You and Silvio were so adamant it had to be included. How could I refuse?’
‘I—’
‘How fortunate to find you here, princess.’
Marisa’s head jerked around at the interruption, her hackles rising at the deliberate emphasis on her title. Her stomach dropped as she recognised the country’s most notorious art critic, an older woman renowned for her venom rather than her eye for talent. They’d met at a high-profile event where they’d had opposing views on the merit of a young sculptor.
The woman’s cold, hazel eyes told Marisa she hadn’t forgotten, or forgiven.
‘Damaso.’ She turned. ‘Have you met—?’
‘I have indeed. How are you, Senhora Avila?’
‘Senhor Pires.’ The woman’s toothy smile made Marisa shiver. ‘You’re admiring the princess’s work?’ Again that emphasis on her title. ‘I hear Silvio is quite taken with his protégée.’ Her gimlet gaze and arch tone said she couldn’t see why. ‘That he’s even considering taking her on as an assistant!’
Fed up with being spoken about as if she wasn’t there, Marisa simply pasted a smile on her face. If this vulture wanted details, let her pump Silvio. Knowing how Silvio despised the woman, she wouldn’t get far.
When the silence lengthened the woman’s face tightened. ‘Of course, there are some who’d say social status is no replacement for real talent. But these days so much of the art scene is about crass commercialisation rather than true excellence. Anything novel sells.’
Her dismissive attitude scored at something dark inside Marisa. The belief that beneath her determined bravado her uncle had been right. That she had nothing of value to offer.
Dimly she was aware of Damaso squeezing her fingers.
She caught herself up. She’d let doubts undermine her too long. No more. She opened her mouth to respond but Damaso was quicker.
‘Personally I think anyone with real discernment only has to see these works to recognise an amazing talent.’ His tone was rich, dark chocolate coating a lethal blade. ‘As for milking social status, I don’t see any reference in the studio or the catalogue to the princess’s royal status.’
Beside her he loomed somehow taller, though she hadn’t seen him move. ‘I suspect those who gripe about social status are only hung up on it because they’re not happy with their own.’
Marisa bit back a gasp. It was the sort of thing she’d often longed to say but had never felt free to express.
‘Well!’ Senhora Avila stiffened as if she’d been slapped. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Damaso’s challenging stance. Finally she looked away, her gaze sliding to the photo.
‘I must say, Senhor Pires, this piece paints you in a new light. You look quite at home in that slum.’ Her eyes darted back to him, glittering with malice. ‘Could it be true, after all? The whisper that that’s where you came from? No one seems to know for sure.’
Marisa stepped forward, instinctively moving to block the woman’s venom. She knew how raw and real Damaso’s past was to him, even now. His hand pulled her back to his side and she leaned into him as his arm circled her shoulders.
‘I don’t see why my birthplace is noteworthy to someone whose interest purports to be in art.’ His tone lowered the temperature by several degrees. ‘It’s true I grew up in a favela. What of it? It wasn’t an auspicious start but it taught me a lot.’
He leaned towards the woman and Marisa saw her eyes widen. ‘I’m proud of what I’ve done with my life, Senhora Avila. What about you? Can you name something constructive you’ve done with yours?’
The critic mouthed something inarticulate and spun on her heel, scuttling away into the crowd beyond.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Marisa murmured. ‘She’ll blab to the whole world what she’s learned.’
‘Let her. I’m not ashamed of who I am.’ He turned her towards him, his gaze piercing, as if the glamorous throng around them didn’t exist. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course.’ Marisa stood straighter, still shaken by the force of anger that had welled when the woman had turned on Damaso.
Because Marisa loved him.
There, she’d admitted it, if only silently. She’d fought so hard against the truth, acknowledging it was a relief. Marisa hugged the knowledge to herself, excitement fizzing through her veins.
She felt as if she could take on the world.
‘You should have let me answer for myself. I’m not some dumb bimbo, you know.’
His mouth curled up at one corner. That smile should be outlawed for the way it made her insides melt.
‘You? A bimbo?’ He laughed and she had to fight the urge to lean closer. ‘As if.’ His expression sobered. ‘But you can’t ask me to stand by while that viper makes snide comments about the woman I intend to marry.’
Was it her imagination or did the crowd around her ripple in response to that low-voiced announcement?
‘Not here, Damaso!’ Suddenly she wanted more than anything to be alone with him. She longed for the privacy of his city penthouse or, even better, his island hideaway. ‘Let’s talk at home.’
The promise in his sultry stare sent her heart fluttering against her ribs. He looked like he wanted to devour her on the spot. Even his public assertion that he intended to marry her, something that would once have raised her ire, sent a thrill of excitement through her.
Yet it was another hour before they could leave, an hour of accolades that should have meant everything to her. Instead, Marisa was on edge, her mind reeling as she finally confronted her true feelings for Damaso. She wanted him...permanently.
The one thing she didn’t know was what he felt for her. He’d publicly revealed his past to deflect that critic’s spite. A past he’d once guarded jealously.
* * *
At last they were in the limo. Marisa couldn’t sit still. Adrenalin streamed through her body, making it impossible to relax. She wanted to blurt out her feelings but what would that achieve? He famously didn’t do relationships. Just marriage for the sake of his child.
But surely the way he’d stood up to that harpy meant something?
Something as impossible as him loving her?
The idea shimmered like a beacon in the distance, filling her heart with hope.
Even if he didn’t love her, Marisa couldn’t resist any longer. She’d marry him anyway. She’d never meet a better man than Damaso, or a man she cared about more.
She wanted to spend her life with him.
A weight slid off her shoulders as doubt was banished. She wanted love, she’d fight to get it, but she’d start small if she had to. Surely she could make him love her in time?