Annie West - Damaso Claims His Heir

His mouth tightened. He was no woman’s easy prey.

But then he recalled the raw shock in her voice. She wasn’t playing coy with the doctor—that much was clear. She’d been speaking the truth about the date. If anything there’d been a tremor almost of fear in her voice at the thought of unplanned pregnancy.

A month and a day, she’d said. So precise. Which meant that if she was pregnant it was with Damaso’s baby.

Shock rooted him to the spot. He was always meticulous about protection. Inconceivable to think it had failed this time.

Even more inconceivable that he should have a child.

Alone almost from birth, and certainly for as long as he could remember, Damaso had turned what could have been weakness into his greatest strength—self-sufficiency. He had no one and needed no one. It had always been that way. He had no plans for that to change.

He plunged his hand through his hair, raking it back from his forehead. He should have had it cut but this last month he’d thrown himself into work with such single-minded focus there’d been no time for fripperies.

A month and a day. His gut churned.

A murmur of voices dragged his attention back to the other room. In two strides he was there, arm stretched out to open the door.

Then his arm fell as the unthinkable happened.

‘Ah, this confirms it, Your Highness. You’re going to have a baby.’

* * *

Marisa wrapped her arms around herself as she stared out at the remarkable view. The jagged peaks were topped with an icy covering that the setting sun turned to candy pink, soft peach, brilliant gold and every shade in between. Shadows of indigo lengthened like fingers reaching down the mountain towards her, beckoning.

Realisation struck that this was one invitation she couldn’t take up. No more climbing for her, no skydiving or white-water rafting if she was pregnant. All the activities she’d used to stave off the grimness of her life were forbidden.

For the hundredth time Marisa slipped her palm over her belly, wonderment filling her at the fact she was carrying another life inside her.

Could the doctor be wrong?

Marisa felt fine now, just a little wobbly and hollow. She didn’t feel as if she was carrying a baby.

She’d head to the city and have another test. After all, the kit wasn’t infallible.

Marisa didn’t know whether to hope it was a mistake or hope it wasn’t—she was too stunned to know how she felt.

One thing she was sure of, though—she wouldn’t be raising any baby of hers within sight of Bengaria’s royal palace. She’d protect it as fiercely as any lioness defending her cub.

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Marisa turned to find a smiling maid at the open door from the suite out to the private terrace where she sat. ‘I’ve brought herbal tea and the chef has baked some sesame-water crackers for you.’ She lifted a tray and Marisa caught the scent of fresh baking. Her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, worried about bringing on another bout of nausea.

‘I didn’t order anything.’

‘It’s with the hotel’s compliments, ma’am.’ The maid hesitated a moment then stepped out onto the terrace, putting her laden tray on a small table.

‘Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.’ Marisa eyed the delicate biscuits and felt a smile crack her tense features. The doctor must have organised this.

Leaving the edge of the balcony, she took a seat beside the table. An instant later the maid bustled back, this time with a lightweight rug.

‘It’s cooling down.’ She smiled. ‘If you’d like?’ She lifted the rug.

Silently Marisa nodded, feeling ridiculously choked as the downy rug woven in traditional local designs was tucked around her legs. How long since anyone had cossetted her? Even Stefan, who’d loved her, had never fussed over her.

She blinked and smiled as the maid poured scented, steaming tea and settled the plate of biscuits closer.

‘Is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?’

‘Nothing. Thank you.’ Her voice sounded scratchy, as if it came from a long distance. ‘Please thank the chef for me.’

Alone again, Marisa sipped the delicately flavoured tea and nibbled a cracker. It tasted divine. Or perhaps that was simply because her stomach didn’t rebel. She took another bite, crunching avidly.

She needed to make plans. First, a trip to Lima and another pregnancy test. Then... Her mind blanked at the thought of what came next.

She couldn’t bear to go back to her villa in Bengaria. The memories of Stefan were too strong and, besides, the villa belonged to the crown. Now Stefan had gone, it belonged to her uncle and she refused to live as his pensioner. He’d demand she reside in the palace where he could keep an eye on her. They’d had that argument before Stefan had been cold in his grave.

Marisa drew the rug close. She’d have to find a new home. She’d put off the decision for too long. But where? Bengaria was out. Every move she made there was reported and second-guessed. She’d lived in France, the United States and Switzerland as a student. But none were home.

Marisa sipped her tea and bit into another biscuit.

Fear scuttled through her. She knew nothing about being a mother and raising children. Her pregnancy would be turned into a royal circus if she wasn’t careful.

Well, she’d just deal with that when and if the time came, and hope she was more successful than in the past.

‘Marisa?’

Her head swung round at the sound of a fathoms-deep voice she’d never expected to hear again. Her fingers clenched around delicate bone china as her pulse catapulted.

It really was him, Damaso Pires, filling the doorway to her suite. He looked big and bold, his features drawn in hard, sharp lines that looked like they’d been honed in bronze. Glossy black hair flopped down across his brow and flirted with his collar, but did nothing to soften that remarkable face.

‘What are you doing here?’ She put the cup down with a clatter, her hand nerveless. ‘How did you get in?’

‘I knocked but there was no answer.’

Marisa lifted her chin, remembering the way he’d dumped her. ‘That usually means the person inside wants privacy.’

‘Don’t get up.’ He stepped onto the terrace, raising his hand, as if to prevent her moving.

She pushed the rug aside and stood, hoping he didn’t see her sway before finding her balance. The nausea really had knocked the stuffing out of her.

‘I repeat, Senhor Pires, why are you here?’ Marisa folded her arms. He might top her by more than a head but she knew how to stand up to encroaching men.

‘Senhor Pires?’ His brows drew together in a frown that made her think of some angry Inca god. ‘It’s a little late for formalities, don’t you think?’

‘I know,’ she said, stepping forward, surging anger getting the better of her, ‘that I’ve a right to privacy.’

Her stomach churned horribly as she remembered how he’d made her feel: an inch tall and cheap. She’d have thought she’d be used to it after a lifetime of not measuring up. But this man had wounded her more deeply because she’d been foolhardy enough to believe he was different.

He digested her words in silence, his expression unperturbed.

‘Well?’ Marisa tapped her foot, furious that her indignation was mixed with an unhealthy dollop of excitement. No matter how annoyed she was, there was no denying Damaso Pires was one fantastic looking man. And as a lover...

‘Let me guess. You discovered I was here and thought you’d look me up for old times’ sake.’ She drew a quick breath that lodged halfway to her lungs. ‘I’m afraid I’m not interested in a trip down memory lane. Or in continuing where we left off.’