Damaso Claims His Heir. Annie West

stared up at him, her eyes bright as lasers, and just as cutting. Damaso felt his cheeks redden, almost as if he blushed under her accusing stare.

      It was impossible, of course. Embarrassment was a luxury denied those who’d survived by scavenging off others’ refuse. Nothing fazed him, not even the shocked accusation in her glare. He didn’t care what others thought.

      Yet he looked away first.

      ‘I’d heard you were ill and came to see how you were.’

      ‘How very considerate.’ Her hands moved to her hips, pulling the fabric of her designer T-shirt taut over those delectable breasts. Belatedly, Damaso tore his gaze away, only to find himself staring at her flat stomach. She cradled his baby there. The shock of it dried his throat. He wanted to slip his hand beneath the drawstring of her loose trousers and press his palm to the softness of her belly.

      The snap of fingers in front of his face startled him.

      ‘Being the owner of this place doesn’t give you the right to pry into my private life.’

      ‘It was unintentional. I was coming to see you.’

      ‘That’s no excuse for spying on what is my affair.’

      ‘Hardly spying, Marisa.’ Her flashing eyes told him she disagreed. ‘And this affair affects both of us.’

      Colour streaked her cheekbones, making her look ridiculously young and vulnerable.

      He softened his voice. ‘We need to talk.’

      She shook her head, her bright hair slipping like spun gold across her dark shirt. With quick grace she turned and crossed the room to the vast windows framing the view of the Andes. She stood rigid, as if his presence pained her.

      ‘A month and a day, remember, Marisa? This is as much my business as yours.’

      She didn’t move, not so much as a muscle. Her unnatural stillness disturbed him.

      ‘When were you going to tell me?’

      Still she said nothing. Damaso’s skin tightened till it felt like hundreds of ants crawled over him.

      ‘Or weren’t you going to? Were you planning to get rid of it quietly with no one the wiser?’

      Damaso grimaced at the pungent sourness filling his mouth. Had she decided to get rid of his child?

      His child!

      He’d been stunned by the news he was to be a father. It had taken hours to come to grips with the fact he’d have a child—blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.

      For the first time in his life, he’d have family.

      The idea astounded him, scared him. He, who’d never expected to have a family of his own. Yet to his amazement part of him welcomed the idea.

      He didn’t know exactly how he expected this to play out. But one thing was absolutely certain: no child of his would be abandoned as he’d been.

      No child of his would grow up alone or neglected.

      It would know its father.

      It would be cared for.

      He, Damaso Pires, would make sure of that personally. The intensity of his determination was stronger than anything he’d known.

      He must have moved for he found himself behind Marisa. Her hair stirred with each breath he exhaled. His fingers flexed, as if to reach for her hips and pull her to him, or shake her into speech.

      ‘Say something!’ Damaso wasn’t used to being ignored, especially by women he’d known intimately. Especially when something as profoundly important as this lay between them.

      ‘What do you want me to say?’ When she turned, her eyes were wide and over-bright. ‘No, I hadn’t planned an abortion? No, I hadn’t decided when I’d tell you, if at all? I haven’t had time even to get my head around the idea of being pregnant.’

      She jabbed a finger into his sternum. ‘I don’t see this being as much your business as mine.’ Her finger stabbed again. ‘If I’m pregnant, I’ll be the one carrying this baby. I’ll be the one whose body and life and future will change irrevocably. Not you.’

      Her finger wobbled against his chest; her whole hand was shaking, Damaso realised. He wrapped his hand around hers but she tugged loose from his hold and backed away as if his touch contaminated her.

      Too late for that, my fine lady.

      * * *

      Marisa watched his harsh mouth curve in a smile that could only be described as feral. He looked dangerous and unpredictable, his eyes a black gleam that made her want to step back again. Instead she planted her feet.

      How had he turned the tables, so his intrusion on her privacy had become a litany of accusations against her? Enough was enough. She was tired of being bullied and judged.

      ‘Obviously you’ve had time to jump to all sorts of conclusions about this pregnancy, if there is one.’ She fixed him with a stony gaze.

      ‘You deny it?’ He scowled.

      ‘I reserve judgement until I’ve got a second opinion.’ She braced her hands on her hips, refusing to cower before his harsh expression. ‘But obviously you’ve gone beyond that stage.’

      ‘I have.’ His gaze dropped to her stomach and she felt a hot stirring inside as if he’d touched her there. Abruptly, his dark eyes locked on hers again. ‘There’s only one sensible option.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Of course.’ His brooding features tightened, a determined light in his eyes. ‘We’ll marry.’

CHAPTER FOUR

      MARISA COULDN’T PREVENT the ripple of laughter that slipped from her mouth.

      ‘Marry?’ She shook her head. Astonishment punctured the bubble of tension cramping her chest. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. I don’t even know you.’

      His downturned mouth and furrowed brow told her he didn’t appreciate her levity. Or maybe he didn’t like the panicked edge that see-sawed through her laughter.

      Marisa didn’t like it either. She sounded, and felt, too close to the edge.

      ‘You knew me well enough for us to create a baby together.’ His deep voice held a bite that eradicated the last of her semi-hysterical laughter. It brought her back to earth with a thump.

      ‘That’s not knowing. That’s sex.’

      He shrugged, lifting those broad shoulders she’d clung to through their night together. She’d dug her nails into his flesh as ecstasy had consumed her. She’d never wanted to let him go and had snuggled against his solid shoulder through the night.

      Until he’d made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with her.

      ‘You’ve changed your tune.’ Did he hear the echo of hurt in her tone? Marisa was beyond caring; she just knew she had to scotch this insanity.

      ‘That was before there was a child, princesa.’

      She stiffened. ‘There still may not be one. I won’t be sure till I’ve had another test. It could have been a false positive.’

      Damaso tilted his head, as if examining a curious specimen. ‘The idea of a child is so horrible to you?’

      ‘No!’ Marisa’s hand slipped to her stomach then, realising what she’d done, she dropped her arm to her side. ‘I just need to be sure.’

      He nodded. ‘Of course. And when we are sure, we’ll marry.’

      Marisa blinked. Why did talking to Damaso Pires feel like trying to make headway against a granite boulder?