Damaso shifted his gaze to the other side of the aisle. Grey, black, and...deep sapphire-blue swirled with an orange so vivid it reminded him of the sun blazing on his island beach at sunset. He faltered, his heart pounding.
He’d found her.
Instead of a suit she wore a dress that left the golden skin of her arms bare. She looked like a ray of light amidst the sedate pastels. She moved her head and the jaunty concoction of orange on her golden hair caught the light. It looked saucy even from behind.
His pace lengthened till he stood at the end of the row and he caught the full impact of her outfit. Elegant, but subtly sexy in the way the fabric hugged her curves. At her throat she wore the magnificent topaz necklace and for a moment Damaso could only stare, wondering what it meant that she’d chosen to wear his gift to an event that would be televised to millions.
The murmurs became a ripple of sound around him. The usher had caught up and was whispering urgently about the correct seating.
Still Marisa didn’t turn. Her attention was on the man sitting on her far side. A man with a chiselled jaw, wide brow and face so picture-book handsome he didn’t look real. Or maybe that was because of the uniform he wore. His jacket was white with gold epaulets, a double row of golden buttons down the front, and he sported a broad sash of indigo that perfectly matched his eyes.
Damaso’s fists curled. Was this the man she was supposed to marry?
Far from spurning him, she was in deep conversation with the guy. He said something and she leaned closer, her hand on his sleeve.
Something tore wide open inside Damaso. Cold rage drenched him as his fists tightened.
‘Sir, really, if you come with me I’ll just—’
‘Not now.’ His voice was low, almost inaudible, but it had the quality of an animal growl. The usher jumped back and heads whipped round.
‘Damaso?’ Marisa’s eyes were wide and wondering.
She’d forgotten to remove her hand from Prince Charming’s sleeve and Damaso felt a wave of roiling fury rise up inside him.
* * *
Marisa stared up at the man blocking the aisle. Despite his formal clothes, his perfectly cut hair and clean-shaven face, there was something untamed about him.
Emotion leapt. A thrill of excitement, of pure delight that Damaso was here.
‘How did you get here?’ Cyrill wouldn’t have invited the father of her unborn child.
‘Does it matter?’ Damaso shrugged off a couple of ushers who were trying to lead him away. He looked broad and bold and impossibly dangerous, like a big jungle cat caged with a bunch of tabbies.
Silently she shook her head. No, it didn’t matter. All she cared about was the fact he was here. Her heart tilted and beat faster.
He held out his arm, palm up. ‘Come on.’
Marisa stared. ‘But the coronation! It’s due to begin in a couple of minutes.’
‘I’m not here for the coronation. I’m here for you.’
Her pulse fluttered high in her throat at the command and possessiveness in his voice. She prized her independence but his proprietorial attitude spoke to a primitive yearning within.
Behind her, women leaned close, fanning themselves.
‘Marisa?’ Alex spoke beside her. ‘Do you want me to deal with this?’
Before she could answer, Damaso stepped close, shoving aside an empty chair into the path of a uniformed man who’d reached to restrain him.
‘Marisa can speak for herself. She doesn’t need you.’ She’d never heard Damaso sound so threatening. His eyes flashed pure heat and there was violence in his expression.
‘Damaso. Please.’
‘Please what? Go away?’ Those hot eyes turned to her, scorching her skin and sending delicious chills rippling through her tummy. ‘Not a chance, querida. You don’t get rid of me so easily.’
‘It’s not a matter of getting rid—’
‘We need to talk, Marisa, now.’
‘After the ceremony.’ She gestured to the fallen chair. ‘I’m sure we could arrange for you...’
Damaso’s eyes cut to Alex and his look was downright ugly. ‘If you think I’m leaving you with him...’ He shook his head. ‘I know you don’t want to be here, Marisa. Don’t let them force you.’
Marisa frowned, trying to make sense of his attitude. Then Alex surged to his feet and so did Marisa, arm out to separate him from Damaso.
‘Stop this now,’ she hissed. ‘You’re making a scene, both of you. Everyone’s watching.’ Yet part of her revelled in Damaso’s single-mindedness.
‘Are you coming with me?’ His accent was thicker, enticing, like rich coffee laced with rum. It slid along her senses, beckoning.
‘Damaso, I don’t know what this is about but I—’
A swoop of movement caught the rest of the sentence in her throat. Next thing Marisa knew, she was in Damaso’s arms, held high against his chest. On her peripheral vision, she saw a television camera turn to focus on them. A babble of sound erupted.
‘Marisa.’ Low, urgent, Alex’s voice reached her. She turned her head and saw him just inches away, scowling, as if about to tackle Damaso. He had no idea she’d rather be in Damaso’s arms than anywhere. She groped for Alex’s hand, squeezing it quickly.
‘It’s okay, really,’ she whispered. ‘I’m fine.’ And then his hand slipped from hers as Damaso swung round, stalking through the protesting crowd to turn back up the long aisle.
Perhaps the tabloids were right—she was lost to all propriety. Rather than being outraged by Damaso’s scandalous behaviour, Marisa found herself thrilled at his masculine display of ownership. Hope rose.
He must care for her.
No man would behave so outrageously unless he cared. She was sure that was jealousy she’d seen glinting in the basilisk stare he’d given Alex.
‘You could just have phoned,’ she murmured, snuggling closer to his solid chest.
His firm stride faltered and he looked down at her. ‘Your phone was off.’ A ferocious scowl marred his brow and beneath it his eyes were shadowed by something that looked like doubt. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming.’
Marisa frowned and lifted her hand to his face. His skin was tight and hot.
‘I thought you’d follow me if I told you.’
His nostrils flared and his jaw set as he looked away and started moving again, shouldering his way through the clustering crowd. ‘You wanted to be alone to meet the man your uncle has arranged for you to marry.’
‘You know about that?’ To her amazement, she still had the capacity to feel shock.
‘Isn’t that why you came? To get engaged to some pretty-boy aristocrat who doesn’t give a damn who you really are? Who doesn’t even care you’re carrying another man’s baby?’
Marisa heard the gasps around them but only had eyes for Damaso. What she read in his face outweighed any annoyance she might have felt for his careless words. She read pain. The sort of pain that tore at the heart and shredded pride.
She should know. She’d seen the symptoms in her own face when she’d faced a future loving a man who cared only for their baby.
How it hurt to see Damaso suffering too.
His big body hummed with tension. His jaw was set so hard she wondered how he’d ever unclench it.
‘I won’t let you do it. He’s not the man for you, Marisa.’
‘I know.’ Her voice was so soft she thought at first he hadn’t heard. Then he juddered to a halt, his head jerking round. The intensity of that midnight gaze transfixed her.