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She was almost there when a sound stopped her.
Marisa turned her head and there, just to her right, was Damaso Pires, the big Brazilian she’d been avoiding since the trek had started. Something about the way he watched her with those knowing dark eyes always unsettled her, as if he saw right through what Stefan had dubbed her ‘party princess’ persona.
There was something else in Damaso’s gaze now. Something stern and compelling that for a moment reminded her of her uncle, the all-time expert in judgement and condemnation. Then, to her amazement, he smiled, the first genuine smile he’d given her.
Marisa grabbed at the cliff as energy arced through her body, leaving her tingling and shaky.
He was a different man with that grin.
Dark and broodingly laconic, he’d always had the presence and looks to draw attention. Marisa had surreptitiously watched the other women simper and show off and blatantly offer themselves to him.
But when he smiled! Heat slammed through her in the wake of a dazzling blast of raw attraction.
His dark hair was plastered to his skull, emphasising the masculine beauty of his bone structure. Tiny streams of water ran from his solid jaw down his strong throat.
It was only then that Marisa realised he wasn’t wearing a safety helmet.
It was the sort of thing Stefan would have done in one of his wilder moments. Did that explain the sudden tug of connection she felt?
The Brazilian jerked his head up and away from the falls, his ebony eyebrows rising questioningly.
Following his gesture, Marisa remembered Juan telling them about a lookout beyond the falls and a rough track that curved down from it to the valley floor.
She met those fathomless eyes again. This time their gleam didn’t disturb her. It beckoned. Her body zinged with unexpected pleasure, as if recognising an equal.
With a nod she began to clamber up and away from the sheer plunge of water. He climbed beside her, each movement precise and methodical, till in the end she had to make a conscious effort not to watch him. Weary now, Marisa needed all her concentration for the climb. The spurt of energy that had buoyed her had abated.
She was almost at the top, her vision limited to the next tiny hold, her breath ragged in her ears, when a hand appeared before her. Large, well-kept but callused, and bearing the silvery traces of old scars, it looked like a hand you could rely on.
Arching her neck, Marisa peered up and met liquid dark eyes. Again she felt that jolt of awareness as heat poured through her. Heat that had everything to do with the sizzle in Damaso Pires’s gaze as he stood above her on an outcrop of rock.
Marisa hesitated, wondering what it was about this man. He was different from the rest. More...real.
‘Take my hand.’
She should be used to that rich accent now. It was a week since she’d arrived in Brazil. But, teamed with Damaso’s dark, velvet voice, the sultry seduction of it made something clutch inside.
A quiver rippled through her. She ignored it and made herself reach for his hand, feeling it close hard around her fingers. His strength engulfed her. As she watched, his lips curved in a smile of pure satisfaction.
Awareness pulsed through their joined hands and Marisa knew something like anxiety as his expression sharpened. For a moment he looked almost possessive. Then he was hauling her up, not waiting for her to find the purchase of another foothold.
His display of macho strength shouldn’t have made her heart hammer. When she’d been in training she’d known plenty of strong, ultra-fit men.
But not one of them had made her feel as feminine and desirable as she did now, standing, grubby and out of breath, before this man.
His eyes held hers as he deftly undid her helmet and drew it away. The breeze riffled her damp hair, tugging strands across her face. She knew she looked a mess, but refused to primp. Instead she returned his stare, cataloguing achingly high cheekbones set aslant an arresting face of dark bronze, a long nose with more than a hint of the aquiline, a firm mouth, unsmiling now, and heavy-lidded eyes that looked as if they held untold secrets.
The way he looked at her, so intent, so direct, made her feel like he saw her—not the celebrity princess but the woman beneath, lost and alone.
No man had ever looked at her like that.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and her lips tingled. She swallowed hard, unprepared for the sexual need that swamped her as she inhaled his scent—clean, male sweat and something else—soap, perhaps—that reminded her of the sea.
‘Bem vinda, pequenina. Welcome, little one. I’m glad you decided to join me.’
* * *
She stood, looking up at him, her chin tilted, revealing the slender line of her pale throat. Her eyes, the purest azure he’d ever seen, held his, unblinking. And all the while his body tightened, impossibly aroused by the touch and sight of her.
How would she taste?
The question dried his mouth and set his libido spinning.
‘Is this the lookout Juan spoke of?’ She didn’t move away but slipped her hand from his as she turned to admire the view. It was stupendous, the sort of thing people travelled continents to experience. Yet Damaso suspected she used it as an excuse to avoid him.
Too late for that. He’d felt the throb of mutual awareness. He’d recognised desire in her eyes even as she’d clung like a limpet to the vertical rock.
There would be no more avoiding what was between them. The time for that was past.
‘What were you doing, over by the falls?’ The words shot out—an accusation he hadn’t intended to voice. But the memory of fear was a sharp tang on his tongue. It had sent him swarming up the cliff face without bothering with safety gear.
There’d been something about the way she’d climbed—a determination—as she’d headed for the exposed, most dangerous part of the cliff that had sent a chill scudding down his spine.
What had she been up to?
The shadowed, almost dazed look in her eyes when she’d turned to face him on the cliff had shot a premonition of danger through him. Growing up where he had, Damaso had a well-honed instinct for danger in all its forms. He hadn’t liked what he’d read in the princess’s eyes.
She shrugged. ‘Just looking.’ Her tone was off-hand, as if she hadn’t just risked her life on one of the country’s most notoriously treacherous climbs. ‘I remembered Juan talking about that boy’s dive into the pool.’
Anger stirred at her recklessness. Damaso opened his mouth to berate her then noticed the taut muscles in her neck and her rigid posture. She was like a guard on parade.
Or a princess deflecting impertinent questions?
She had a lot to learn if she thought he’d be so easily dismissed.
He lifted a hand and stroked long, golden strands from her cheek and back over her shoulder.
Her hair was as soft as he’d imagined.
She said nothing, didn’t even turn, but he watched with satisfaction as she swallowed.
‘The forest seems to go on for ever.’ Her voice had a husky quality that hadn’t been there before. Damaso smiled.
She was out of danger now and she was here with him. Why probe what she clearly didn’t want to talk about?
‘It would take days to walk out, and that’s if you didn’t get lost along the way.’ He couldn’t resist reaching out to sweep a phantom lock of hair off her cheek. Her skin was hot, flushed with exertion, and so soft he wanted to slide his fingers over all of her, learning her body by touch before testing it with his other senses.
A pulse throbbed at the base of her neck, like a butterfly trapped in a net.
Heat drove down through Damaso’s belly as he imagined licking that spot.
Her head jerked around and he was snared by her electric-blue gaze.
‘You know the forest well, Senhor Pires?’
She sounded like a courtier at a garden party, her tone light with just the right amount of polite interest. But the cool, society veneer merely emphasised the hot, sexy woman beneath. The fact she was dishevelled, like a woman just risen from her lover’s arms, added a piquant spice.
Damaso was burning up just looking at her.
And she knew it. It was there in her eyes.
Awareness sizzled between them.
‘No; I’m city bred, Your Highness. But I get out to the wilderness as often as I can.’ Damaso always allowed himself one break a year, though he took his vacation checking out one of his far-flung companies. This year it was an upmarket adventure-travel company.
He had a feeling the adventure was just about to start.
‘Marisa, please. “Highness” sounds so inflated.’ A spark of humour gleamed in her bright eyes. It notched the heat in his belly even higher.
‘Marisa, then.’ He liked the sound of it on his tongue, feminine and intriguing. ‘And I’m Damaso.’
‘I don’t know South America well, Damaso.’ She paused on his name and a shiver of anticipation raced under his skin. Would she sound so cool and composed when he held her naked beneath him? He didn’t know which he’d prefer, that or the sound of her voice husky with pleasure. ‘I haven’t visited many of the cities.’ She reached out and picked a leaf off his open collar. The back of her fingers brushed his neck and his breath stalled.
A tiny smile played at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes told him the lingering touch had been deliberate. Siren!
‘My birthplace isn’t on anyone’s must-see list.’ Now there was an understatement.
‘You surprise me. I hear you’re something of a legend in business circles. Surely they’ll be putting up a sign saying “Damaso Pires was born here”?’
He plucked a twig from her hair and twirled it between his fingers. No need to tell her no one had any idea where exactly he’d been born, or whether there’d even been a roof for protection.
‘Ah, but I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.’
She blinked, her mouth thinning for an infinitesimal moment, so that he wondered if he’d blundered in some way. Then she shrugged and smiled and he lost his train of thought when she took the twig from his fingers, her hand deliberately caressing his. That light touch drew his skin tight across his bones as lust flared.
‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she smiled from under veiled eyes as if sharing a salacious secret. ‘But silver spoons aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’
With a quick twist of the wrist he captured her hand in his. Silence throbbed between them, a silence heavy with unspoken promise. Something kindled in her eyes. She returned his hungry look, not resorting to coyness.
‘I like the way you face challenges head-on,’ he found himself admitting, then frowned. Usually he measured his words carefully. They didn’t just shoot out.
‘I like the fact you don’t care about my social status.’
Her hand shifted in his hold, her thumb stroking his. It pleased him that she didn’t pretend disinterest, or lunge at him desperately. The sense of a delicate balance between them added a delicious tension to the moment.
‘It’s not your title I’m interested in, Marisa.’ Her name tasted even better the second time. Damaso leaned forward, eager for the taste of her on his tongue, then stopped himself. This wasn’t the place.
‘You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.’ She planted her palm on his shirt and his heart leapt into overdrive. It felt as if she’d branded him.
Tension screwed his body tight. He wanted her now and, given the way her fingers splayed possessively on him, her lips parting with her quickened breathing, she felt the same.
He wanted to take her here, hard and fast and triumphantly. Except instinct told him he’d need more than one quick taste to satisfy this craving.
How had he resisted her for a whole week?
‘Perhaps you could tell me on the way back down exactly what you are interested in, Damaso.’
He snagged her hand in his again and turned her towards the rough track leading away from the cliff. Her fingers linked with his, shooting erotic pleasure through him that felt in some strange way almost innocent. How long since he’d simply held a woman’s hand?
* * *
Marisa towel-dried her hair while looking out at her private courtyard in the luxurious eco-resort. A bevy of butterflies danced through the lush leaves.
She tried to focus on how she’d capture them on film but all she could think about was Damaso Pires. The feel of his hand enclosing hers as they’d clambered down the track. The wrench of loss when he’d let her go as they’d approached the others. The way his burning gaze had stripped her bare.
No wonder she’d avoided him.
But now she craved him. She, who’d learned to distrust desire!
Yet this was something new. With Damaso Pires she sensed a link, a feeling almost of recognition, that she’d never experienced. It reminded her a little of the very different bond she’d shared with Stefan.
Marisa shook her head. Was grief clouding her thoughts?
Physical exertion, even danger, didn’t ease her pain. Since Stefan’s death she’d been shrouded in grey nothingness, till Damaso had reached out to her. Could she do it? Give herself to a stranger? Excitement and fear shivered through her. Despite what the world believed, Marisa wasn’t the voracious sexpot the press portrayed.
Then she remembered how she’d felt trading words with him, their bodies communicating in subtle hints and responses as ancient as sex itself.
She’d felt happy. Excited. That aching feeling of isolation had fled. She’d felt alive.
A knock sounded on her door, reverberating through her hollow stomach. Second thoughts crowded in, old hurts. Marisa glanced in the mirror. Barefoot, damp hair slicked back from a face devoid of make-up, she looked as far from a princess as you could get.
Did he want the real woman, not the royal? She wavered on the brink of cowardice, of wanting to pretend she hadn’t heard him. She’d taken chances on men before and been disappointed. More, she’d been eviscerated by their callous selfishness.
The knock came again and she jumped.
She had to face this.
With Damaso, for the first time in years, she dared risk herself again. That tantalising link between them was so intense, so profound. She wanted to trust him. She wanted desperately not to be alone anymore.
Her heart pounded as she opened the door. He filled the space before her, leaning against one raised arm. His eyes looked black and hungry in the early-evening light. Her stomach swooped.
With a single stride he entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him, eyes holding hers.
‘Querida.’ The word caressed her as his gaze ate her up. If he was disappointed she hadn’t dressed up, he didn’t show it. If anything his eyes glowed warm with approval. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’
‘Have you?’ She stood straighter.
‘How could I?’ His smile was lop-sided, the most devastating thing she’d ever seen. Then one large palm cupped her cheek and he stepped close. His head lowered and the world faded away.
