LITMIR.BIZ

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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

      ‘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

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