world was terminally grey, except in those moments when the agony of grief and loneliness grew piercingly vivid. Those moments when Marisa faced the enormity of her loss.
People said the pain eased with time but Marisa didn’t believe it. Half of her had been ripped away, leaving a yawning void that nothing could fill.
The pounding of the falls, like the pulse of a giant animal, melded with the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat. It beckoned her, the way Stefan had time and again. When she closed her eyes she could almost hear the teasing lilt in his voice. Come on, Rissa. Don’t tell me you’re scared.
No, she wasn’t scared of anything, except the vast aloneness that engulfed her now Stefan was gone.
Without thought she began climbing towards the tiny ledge beside the fall, taking her time on the treacherously wet rock.
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
