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Beyond the massive windows the vista was stunning as the setting sun turned the jagged Andean peaks and their snowy mantle a glowing peach-gold. Below, even the turquoise surface of the glacier-fed river was gilded in the last rays of light.
‘Your suite is this way, sir.’ The manager gestured Damaso and his secretary forward.
‘I’ll find it myself, thanks.’ Damaso’s eyes remained fixed on the remarkable view.
‘If you’re sure, sir.’ The manager paused. ‘Your luggage has been taken ahead.’
Damaso nodded dismissal to both men and headed into the main lounge. Something about the stillness and the feeling of being up above the bustle of the world drew him. Not surprising, given he’d worked like the devil for the last month, his schedule even more overloaded than usual.
Yet, no matter how frenetic his days or how short his nights, Damaso hadn’t found his usual pleasure in managing and building his far-flung empire.
Something niggled at him. A sense of dissatisfaction he hadn’t the time or inclination to identify.
He looked around, surprised to find the vast room empty. Turning, he strolled towards a door through which came the hum of voices. The bar was this way. Perhaps he’d have a drink before dinner. He had a full night ahead with his laptop before tomorrow’s inspection and meetings.
Laughter greeted him as he stepped across the threshold, halting him mid-stride. Rich laughter, infectious and appealing. It coiled through his belly and wrapped tight around his lungs.
His pulse gave a hard thump then took off.
He knew that laugh.
Damaso’s neck prickled as if delicate fingers brushed his nape, trailing languidly and drawing his skin tight with shivering awareness.
Marisa.
There she was, her golden hair spilling around her shoulders, her smile pure invitation to the men crowded close. Her eyes danced as she spoke, as she leaned towards them as if sharing some confidence. Damaso couldn’t hear what she said over the thunder of blood pounding in his ears.
But there was nothing wrong with his eyes. They traced the black dress that hugged her sinuous curves. The hemline hovered high above her knees, making the most of the contrast between sparkly black stretch fabric and shapely legs that would make grown men sit up and beg.
He should know. He’d spent hours exploring those legs along with every inch of her delectable body. Everything about her had enthralled him, even the long, curving sweep of her spine had been delicious. Was delicious.
A wave of energy surged through him. He found himself stepping forward until his brain clicked into gear. Did he mean to stalk across and rip her away from her slavering fans? What then? Throw her over his shoulder and take her to his room?
A resounding yes echoed through his whole being.
That stopped him in his tracks.
There’d been a reason he’d left her so abruptly a month before.
Left? He’d run as fast as he could.
It had nothing to do with business commitments and everything to do with the unprecedented things she’d made him feel. Not just desire and satiation, but something far bigger.
He’d got out of her bed with every intention of returning to it then had realised for the first time in his life there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
The idea was utterly foreign and completely unnerving.
That was when he’d decided to order a helicopter back to the city. Not his finest moment. Even with his date-them-then-dump-them reputation, he usually displayed far more finesse in leaving a lover.
Even now part of him regretted leaving her after just one night. What they’d shared had been amazing.
Marisa’s gurgle of laughter floated in his ears. Damaso swung round and walked back the way he’d come.
Once was enough with any woman. This...reaction to Princess Marisa of Bengaria was an anomaly. He didn’t do relationships. He couldn’t. Nothing would ever change that.
He strode up the stairs and along a wide corridor to the owner’s suite.
She was nothing to him. Just another party girl. Had she even gone home after the rainforest vacation? Probably not. She was probably whiling away a couple of months in exclusive resorts at her nation’s expense while trying out some new lovers along the way.
His teeth ground together and his pace picked up.
* * *
There was a tap on the conference-room door before a concerned-looking staff member entered.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ Her eyes shifted from the manager to Damaso, his secretary and the other senior staff at the large table.
‘Yes?’ the manager asked.
She shut the door behind her. ‘One of the guests has been taken ill on the slopes. They’re coming back now.’
‘Ill, not an accident?’ Damaso heard the note of worry in the manager’s voice. Illness was one thing; an accident under the supervision of the lodge’s staff was another.
‘It sounds like altitude sickness. She only arrived yesterday.’
‘She?’ Damaso surprised himself by interrupting.
‘Yes, sir.’ The woman twisted her hands together, turning back to her boss. ‘That’s why I thought you should know. It’s Princess Marisa.’
‘You’ve called a doctor?’ Damaso found himself standing, his fists braced on the table.
‘Don’t worry, there’s one on staff,’ the manager assured him. ‘Only the best for our clients, as you know.’
Of course. That was what set Damaso’s hotels apart—attention to detail and the best possible services.
‘The doctor will be with her as soon as she arrives,’ the manager assured Damaso, nodding dismissal to the staff member, who backed out of the door.
Damaso forced himself to sit but his focus was shot. For the next half hour he struggled to concentrate on profits, projections and the inevitable glitches that arose with any new enterprise. Finally he gave up.
‘I have something to attend to,’ he said as he stood and excused himself from the meeting. ‘You carry on.’
He knew he was behaving inexplicably. Since when did Damaso Pires delegate anything he could do himself? Especially when he’d crossed the continent to take these meetings personally.
Five minutes later he was stalking down a quiet corridor, following a nervous maid.
‘This is the princess’s suite, sir.’ She gestured to the double doors with their intricately carved rock-crystal handles. Tentatively she knocked but there was no answer.
Damaso reached for the door and found it unlocked. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘I’m a friend of the princess.’ Ignoring her doubtful gaze, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
‘Friend’ hardly described his relationship with Marisa. They didn’t have a relationship. Yet curiously he hadn’t been able to concentrate on the business that had brought him here till he checked on her himself.
The sitting room was empty but on the far side another set of double doors was ajar. He heard the murmur of a woman’s voice followed by the deeper tones of a man.
‘Is it possible you’re pregnant?’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a5cf6c0f-d2df-5348-817e-3b966cd4d422)
‘NO!’ THE WORD jerked out in shock. ‘I’m not pregnant.’ Still shivery from nausea, Marisa squinted up at the doctor.
Her? A mother? Why would she bring a child into the world when she couldn’t get her own life on track?
She could just imagine her uncle’s horror: impulsive, unreliable Marisa who frittered her time away with unsuitable interests rather than knuckling down to the role she was born to. Not that he had faith in her ability to perform that role.
‘You’re absolutely certain?’ The doctor’s gaze penetrated and she felt herself blush as she hadn’t since she’d been a teen.
She waved one hand airily. ‘Technically, I suppose it’s possible.’ She drew a slow breath, trying to ease her cramped lungs as images she’d fought hard and long to obliterate replayed in her head. ‘But it was just one night.’
‘One night is all it takes,’ the doctor murmured.
Marisa shook her head. ‘Not this time. I mean we...he used a condom. Condoms.’ The blush in her cheeks burned like fire. Not from admitting she’d been with a man; after all, she was twenty-five.
No, the scorching fire in her face and belly came from the memory of how many condoms they’d gone through—just how insatiable they’d been for each other. Until Damaso had said he wanted nothing more to do with her.
‘Condoms aren’t a hundred per cent effective, you know.’ The doctor paused. ‘You’re not using any other contraceptive?’
‘No.’ Marisa’s mouth twisted. All those years on the Pill while she’d been in training and now... Should she have kept taking it?
‘Forgive me for asking but how long ago was this night you’re talking about?’
‘Just over a month ago. A month and a day, to be exact.’ Her voice sounded ridiculously husky. She cleared her throat, telling herself to get a grip. Her periods weren’t regular—the time lapse meant nothing. ‘But I’ve had no other symptoms. Surely I would have? It has to be altitude sickness. That’s what the guide thought.’
Even now the room swooped around her when she moved.
The doctor shrugged. ‘It could be. On the other hand, your nausea and tiredness could indicate something else. It’s best we rule out the possibility.’ He delved into his bag and held something out to her. ‘Go on, it won’t bite. It’s a simple pregnancy test.’
Marisa opened her mouth to argue but she was too wrung out to fight. The sooner she proved him wrong, the sooner he’d give her something to make her feel better.
Reluctantly she took the kit and headed to the bathroom.
* * *
Damaso stood unmoving, staring blindly at the sunlight pouring across the richly carpeted floor.
He didn’t know what stunned him more—the possibility of Marisa being pregnant, or the fact he’d been her only recent lover.
When he’d left her in the rainforest he’d expected her to find someone else to warm her bed. The way she’d teased those guys in the bar just last night—pouting and showing off that taut, delectable body—he’d been certain she’d ended the night with a man.
If the press was to be believed, she had no scruples about sharing herself around.
Yet she’d been so certain there’d only been him.
That was why Damaso had stayed where he was during the conversation. Eavesdropping wasn’t his style, but he was no fool. His wealth made him a target for fortune hunters. It had seemed wiser to wait and hear what she admitted to the doctor in case she tried to bring a paternity suit.
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.
