She was so engrossed in her thoughts she barely noticed him talking on his phone until he spoke to her.
‘It’s bad news, Marisa. A fire in the new Caribbean eco-resort.’
‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘They’re checking now. It’s too early to say. But I need to go there tonight.’
Marisa reached out and wrapped her hands around his tight fist. She knew how much worker safety meant to him and this new complex, due to open in weeks, had been the focus of his attention for so long.
‘Of course you should go. You’ve invested too much time and effort not to.’
‘I’ll be gone a week, probably more like two. You can come with me. I don’t like leaving you alone.’
‘I’ll hardly be alone.’ She shook her head. ‘You’d get more done without me and I have lots of work to do too, remember? Silvio and the kids are relying on me.’
Besides, it struck her that she had other unfinished business.
She’d used Damaso’s opposition as an excuse to stay away from her homeland. Yet increasingly she’d known she had to face her past just as Damaso had faced his.
Her past took the form of her uncle and the Bengarian court and press. Staying in Brazil, pretending the coronation wasn’t happening, felt too much like hiding, as if she was ashamed of who she was and what she’d done.
If she didn’t stand up to them, how could she hold her head high?
Marisa was determined to become the woman she wanted so badly to be—not just for herself but for Damaso and their child. For Stefan too. She’d make them proud.
She wanted to be strong the way Damaso was. The past was part of her, but she had to prove to herself she wasn’t cowed by it.
Besides, she had to be stronger now than ever before. Enough to take the chance and stay with a man who had never said he loved her and who might never say it.
Marisa swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fear crawling down her spine.
She’d go to the coronation, face her past and reconcile the two parts of her life. Maybe then she’d be the sort of woman Damaso could love.
‘Marisa? What is it? You have the strangest expression.’
She turned, her emotions welling unstoppably. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she urged. ‘Just go. I’ll be fine while you’re away. I’ll be busy.’
She needed to do this alone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HIS TWO WEEKS in the Caribbean had felt like two months. More.
Damaso jabbed the button for the penthouse and shoved his hand through his hair. He needed a haircut. He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble, and knew he should have shaved on the plane. But he’d still been working frantically, trying to get everything organised so he could come back a couple of days early.
He’d shave when he got to the apartment.
Except he knew once he saw Marisa his good intentions of sparing her delicate skin would fly out of the window. There would be no holding back.
He needed her now.
He needed her in ways he’d never needed a woman. His arms felt empty without her. He missed her smile, her sassy challenges, the sly way she teased him, the fearless way she stood up to him. He missed having her nearby, sharing the small stuff from their days he’d never thought important before he met her.
The doors opened and he strode into the apartment.
‘Marisa?’
Long strides took him past the vast sitting room to their bedroom suite. She wasn’t there. He headed back down the corridor.
‘Marisa?’
‘Senhor Pires.’ It was Beatriz, wiping her hands on an apron. ‘I didn’t expect you back yet.’
‘I changed my plans.’ He looked past her for Marisa. Surely she’d heard him by now. ‘Where is the princess?’
Beatriz stilled, her brows lifting. ‘She’s gone, Senhor.’ Damaso felt his blood turn sluggish, as if his heart had slowed. ‘Back to Bengaria for the coronation.’
Damaso rocked on his feet, absorbing the smack of shock. He’d spoken to Marisa daily and she’d said nothing about leaving.
Because she feared he’d stop her?
It was the only explanation.
That last night at the exhibition he’d mentioned marriage and she’d tried to hustle him away. Because she’d decided to leave him?
‘Senhor? Are you all right?’
Damaso shook his head, trying to stop the sick feeling surging through him. He reached out and splayed a hand against the wall, grateful for its solidity.
‘Can I get you—?’
‘Nothing,’ he croaked. ‘I don’t need anything.’
Except Marisa. Hell! It felt like the world crumbled beneath his feet.
Heedless of Beatriz’s concerned gaze, he stumbled back to the bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later Damaso slumped on the bed. He’d tried her phone but it was switched off. He’d checked his email—nothing. He’d even accessed her personal email, something he’d never before stooped to doing, and found nothing relevant.
There was no note, no message. Nothing except, in the drawer of her bedside table, a crumpled letter from her uncle. A letter demanding her presence for the coronation. A letter that spelled out the importance of Marisa returning to meet the man her uncle intended her to marry.
Bile rose in Damaso’s throat as his gut knotted.
She’d left him and gone to her uncle, the man she abhorred.
Because she’d rather marry some blue-blooded aristocrat than Damaso, a man without a family tree to his name? A man whose only pretensions to respectability had been bought with his phenomenal success. A man who still bore scars from his slum background.
He’d have sworn that didn’t matter to Marisa. But, if not that, then what?
Unless, like him, Marisa had doubts about his ability to be a father. To provide love.
How could you give what you’ve never known?
Fear gouged his belly, scraping at his deepest, most hidden self-doubt.
Something nudged his knee and he slanted his gaze down. That ragged mutt of Marisa’s leaned against him, its chin resting on his leg, its eyes soulful in its ugly face.
The dog’s coat felt surprisingly soft under his fingers. Its huge eyes narrowed to slits of pleasure as Damaso stroked one torn ear.
‘You miss her too, don’t you, Max?’
Strangely, it seemed completely natural to talk to the dog. It leaned close, its weight warm and comforting.
Surely she’d have taken the mutt if she’d intended leaving for good?
That shard of hope gave him strength.
‘Don’t fret.’ Damaso straightened his spine. ‘I’m going to get her back, whatever it takes.’ He refused to dwell on whether he spoke to reassure the dog or himself.
* * *
The cathedral was huge and impressive. Damaso barely gave it a glance as he stalked up the red carpet, ignoring the usher frantically trying to catch his attention.
The atmosphere was expectant and the air smelt of massed blooms, expensive scent and incense. Baroque organ music swelled, lending pomp to the occasion.
Damaso slowed, surveying the crowd. He saw uniforms and dark suits on the packed seats, clerical robes and women in designer dresses. But the hats the women wore obscured profiles and made it impossible to identify the wearers till they turned and stared.
‘Princess Marisa,’ he barked to the usher. ‘Where is she?’
‘The princess?’ The man’s gaze flicked nervously up the centre aisle to the front seats. Instantly Damaso strode away, leaving the goggling man behind.
Heads whipped around as he passed but he looked neither right nor left as he scanned the front rows. Pale blue, lemon, ivory, that light shade of brown women insisted on giving names like ‘beige’ or ‘taupe’. His stare rested on each woman then moved on, dismissing them in turn. White, pink, more pink, light grey. They were dressed expensively but sedately. Obviously there was a book of etiquette on what to wear for a coronation: expensive but subdued.