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Talos Claims His Virgin
Michelle Smart
Prince’s scandalous night with the innocent…Talos Kalliakis, the youngest Prince of Agon, has found the perfect gift for King Astraeus’s Jubilee Gala – the talents of exquisite violinist Amalie Cartwright. This warrior Prince crossed Europe to find his perfect candidate, and he won’t take no for an answer!But rumour has it that Amalie won’t perform, and now Talos has her hidden away in his villa…where sources suggest he’s claimed the most private of performances. With tensions running high, surely it can’t be long before they start changing their tune…to the royal wedding march!


Prince’s scandalous night with the innocent
Talos Kalliakis, the youngest Prince of Agon, has found the perfect gift for King Astraeus’s jubilee gala—the talents of exquisite violinist Amalie Cartwright. The warrior prince crossed Europe to find his perfect candidate, and he won’t take no for an answer!
But rumor has it that Amalie won’t perform, and now Talos has her hidden away in his villa, where sources suggest he’s claimed the most private of performances. With tensions running high, surely it can’t be long before they start changing their tune…to the royal wedding march!
‘You feel naked?’ Talos asked evenly.
He, more than anyone, knew how the imagination could run amok—how the fear of the unknown could be so much worse than reality. He also knew how he could help Amalie take the first step to overcome it.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
The strange distance Amalie had seen settle over him dissipated. His attention on her was focused and strong.
‘Then there is only one solution. You must be naked.’
‘What …?’
But her solitary word hardly made it past her vocal cords. Talos had leant forward and pulled his shoes and socks off.
What was he doing?
His hands went to his shirt. Before she could comprehend what she was seeing, he’d deftly undone all the buttons.
‘What are you doing?’
He got to his feet.
If she hadn’t already pressed herself against the wall she would have taken a step back. She would have turned and run.
But there was nowhere for her to run to—not without getting past him first.
You are formally invited to the Jubilee Gala of His Majesty King Astraeus of Agon as he commemorates 50 years on the throne.
Join us as we celebrate
The Kalliakis Crown (#ulink_bd2e103a-db8c-564e-ab43-1c60a0a48385)
Royal by birth, ruthless by nature
This warrior nation’s fierce Princes—Talos, Theseus and Helios—each have their own special gift to give their grandfather, the King. But none of them is expecting the three women who challenge their plans … and steal their hearts!
Discover the passion behind the palace doors … watch as destinies are forged … and get swept up in a torrent of emotion in this powerful new trilogy by Michelle Smart!
Don’t miss
Talos Claims His Virgin December 2015
Theseus Discovers His Heir January 2016
Helios Crowns His Mistress February 2016
Talos Claims His Virgin
Michelle Smart

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
MICHELLE SMART’s love affair with books started when she was a baby, when she would cuddle them in her cot. A voracious reader of all genres, she found her love of romance established when she stumbled across her first Mills & Boon book at the age of twelve. She’s been reading (and writing) them ever since. Michelle lives in Northamptonshire with her husband and two young Smarties.
This book is dedicated to Amalie, who’s been on this journey with me every step of the way. xxx
Contents
Cover (#u61dd5903-323d-58e0-9440-63a1ae3ad332)
Back Cover Text (#u1f6d38ef-5522-5603-9ae3-5a411de130c1)
Introduction (#u5d4bd684-1abd-5af8-9a25-1301012f6586)
The Kalliakis Crown (#u28481639-e22f-58d1-b98f-e1f45dcd6225)
Title Page (#u2916b0c3-f7c5-5473-a413-8c842fa7831c)
About the Author (#u85457fcd-725e-5e92-831f-a17c9996e684)
Dedication (#u1f623128-592f-5e37-9bad-cbd44cff205b)
CHAPTER ONE (#u1e984a45-5a5c-5b33-8743-d338fccc4ca7)
CHAPTER TWO (#u9f4b1d44-4295-5d93-ad96-b0180f978e24)
CHAPTER THREE (#u33bab422-2e28-5f38-838e-226ded333923)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u4cfa46ca-f031-53d3-b5a6-8d5de0debab1)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_36f51e48-bbd4-59fa-b0af-84a84f1d3363)
TALOS KALLIAKIS DIPPED his head and rubbed the nape of his neck. The consultant’s words had cut through to his marrow.
Looking back up to stare at his two brothers, he read the sorrow on their faces.
Astraeus Kalliakis—the King of Agon, their grandfather—was dying.
Helios, the eldest of the three brothers and heir to the throne, folded his arms and took a visible deep breath before breaking the silence. ‘We need to bring the Jubilee celebrations forward.’
The whole of Agon was gearing up to celebrate Astraeus’s fifty years on the throne. Everything was planned for the end of summer, six months away. The consultant oncologist had said in no uncertain terms he wouldn’t last that long.
Talos cleared his throat before speaking. His vocal cords had never felt so raw. ‘I suggest we concentrate on the Jubilee Gala and cancel the rest of the celebrations—they’re all superfluous. Let’s make the gala a true celebration of his life.’
‘Agreed,’ said Theseus, the middle brother, nodding. ‘We should set the date for April—three months from now. It will be a push, but between us and the courtiers we can do it and do it well.’
Any later and there was every possibility their grandfather would not be there for it. Two months of intense chemotherapy would buy him time and shrink the tumours riddling his organs. But they would not cure him. It was too late for that.
Two months later
Talos Kalliakis headed through the back of the theatre that housed the Orchestre National de Paris, noting the faded, peeling wallpaper, the threadbare carpet that had to be older than his thirty-three years, the water-stained ceiling... No wonder the building was on the verge of being condemned. Of all the orchestral homes he’d visited in the past two months, the facilities here were by far the worst.
But he wasn’t here for the facilities. He’d come here on a whim, when he’d been left disappointed by the violinists from all of France’s other major orchestras, as he’d been left underwhelmed by those from the major orchestras of Greece, Italy, Spain and England.
Time was running out.
What he had assumed would be a simple task had turned into a marathon of endurance.
All he wanted to find was that one special musician, someone who could stroke a bow over the bridge of their violin and make his heart soar the way his grandmother had when she’d been alive. He would never claim to have a musical ear, but he was certain that when he heard it he would know.
The chosen violinist would be rewarded with the honour of playing his grandmother’s final composition, accompanied by his or her own orchestra, at his grandfather’s Jubilee Gala.
At that moment approximately a dozen Orchestre National de Paris violinists were lining up, ready to audition for him.
He just wanted it to be over.
The weak, impatient part of himself told him to settle on anyone. Everyone who had auditioned for him thus far had been professional, note-perfect, the sounds coming from their wooden instruments a delight to anyone’s ear. But they hadn’t been a delight to his heart, and for once in his life he knew he had to select the right person based on his heart, not his head.
For his grandfather’s Jubilee Gala he wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept anything or anyone but the best. His grandfather deserved no less. His grandmother’s memory deserved no less.
Flanked by the orchestra directors, an assistant and his own translator, they turned single file down a particularly narrow corridor. It was like being in an indoor, dank version of the glorious maze in the Agon palace gardens.
The violinists were lined up backstage; the rest of the musicians sat in the auditorium. He would already be seated at the front of the auditorium himself if roadworks hadn’t forced his driver to detour to the back of the theatre rather than drop him at the front.
His mind filled with the dozen other things he needed to be getting on with that he’d had to let slip these past two months. A qualified lawyer, he oversaw all sales, mergers and buyouts with regard to the business empire he’d forged with his two brothers. He didn’t always use his legal skills to get his own way.
Theseus, the middle Kalliakis brother, had identified an internet start-up seeking investment. If projections were correct, they would quadruple their investment in less than two months. Talos, though, had suspicions about the owners...
His thoughts about unscrupulous techies were cut away when a faint sound drifted out of a door to his left.
He paused, raising a hand in a request for silence.
His ears strained and he rested his head against the door.
There it was.
The only piece of classical music he knew by name.
A lump formed in his throat—a lump that grew with each passing beat.
Wanting to hear more clearly, but not wanting to disturb the violinist, he turned the handle carefully and pressed the door open.
An inch was enough to bring the solemn yet haunting music to life.
His chest filled, bittersweet memories engulfing him.
He’d been seven years old when his parents had died. The nights that had followed, before his brothers had been flown back from their English boarding school—he’d been only a year away from joining them there—had left him inconsolable.
Queen Rhea Kalliakis, the grandmother he’d adored, had soothed him the only way she knew how. She’d come into his room, sat on the edge of his bed and played the ‘Méditation’ from Jules Massenet’s Thaïs.
He hadn’t thought about this particular piece of music for over twenty-five years.
The tempo was different from the way his grandmother had played it, slower, but the effect was the same. Painful and yet soothing, like balm on a wound, seeping through his skin to heal him from the inside out.
This one had it—the special, elusive it.
‘That is the one,’ he said, addressing the orchestra directors collectively. His translator made the translation in French for them.
The sharp-faced woman to his left looked at him with a searching expression, as if judging whether he was serious, until her eyes lit up and, in her excitement, she flung the door open.
There, in the corner of the room, her violin still under her chin but her bow flailing in her right hand, stood a tall, lithe girl—woman. She had the distinct look of a rabbit caught in the headlights of a speeding car.
* * *
It was those eyes.
She had never seen anything like them before, nor such intensity.
The way they had fixed on her... Like lasers. Trapping her.
Amalie shivered to think of them.
She shivered again when she stepped out of the theatre exit and into the slushy car park. Keeping a firm grip on her violin case—she really needed to get the strap fixed—she tugged her red-and-grey striped beanie hat over her ears.
A long black car with darkened windows entered the car park and crunched its way through the snow to pull up beside her.
The back door opened and a giant got out.
It took a beat before her brain comprehended that it wasn’t a giant but Talos Kalliakis.
Intense, striking eyes—were they brown?—fixed on her for the second time in an hour. The effect was as terrifying and giddying the second time around. More so.
When the door of the practice room had swung open and she’d seen all those faces staring at her she’d wanted to shrink into a corner. She hadn’t signed up for the audition, but had been told to attend in case the orchestra as a whole was needed. She’d happily hidden away from the action in the room behind the auditorium; there, but not actually present.
Those eyes...
They had rested on her for so long she’d felt as if she’d been stuck in a time capsule. Then they had moved from her face and, without a bonjour or au revoir, he’d disappeared.
There hadn’t been time for her to appreciate the sheer size of the man.
She was tall for a woman—five foot eight. But Talos towered over her, a mass of height and muscle that not even his winter attire could hide.
Her mouth ran dry.
He wore his thick ebony hair slightly too long, messy at the front and curling over the collar of his long black trench coat. Dark stubble, also thick, abounded over his square jawline.
Despite the expensive cut of his clothing, right down to what were clearly handmade shoes, he had a feral air about him, as if he should be swinging through vines in a jungle whilst simultaneously banging his chest.
He looked dangerous. Wildly dangerous. The scar on his right eyebrow, which seemed to divide it into two, only added to this sense.
He also looked full of purpose.
He took the few steps towards her with long strides, an outstretched hand and an unsmiling face. ‘Amalie Cartwright, it is a pleasure to meet you,’ he said in perfect English.
How did he know she was bilingual?
God but the man was enormous. He had to be a good six and a half feet. Easily.
Swallowing frantically to moisten her mouth, Amalie switched her violin case to her left hand and extended her right to him. It was immediately engulfed in his strong, darkly bronzed hand. It was like being consumed by a giant paw. Even through the wool of her gloves she could feel the heat from his uncovered hand.
‘Monsieur Kalliakis,’ she murmured in response.
She tugged her hand free and hugged it around her violin case.
‘I require your attention. Please, get in the car,’ he said.
I require your attention? If she hadn’t been so unsettled by him and the deepness of his voice—a low bass both throaty and rich that matched his appearance perfectly—she would have been tempted to laugh at his formality.
With a start she remembered he was a prince. Royalty. Should she curtsey or something? He’d disappeared from the practice room before they could be formally introduced.
She cleared her throat and took a tiny step back. ‘My apologies, monsieur, but I don’t believe there is anything for us to discuss.’
‘I assure you there is. Get in the car. It is too cold to have this discussion out here.’
He spoke as only a man used to throwing his weight around could.
‘Is this about the solo? I did explain to your assistant earlier that I have a prior engagement for the gala weekend and won’t be able to attend. My apologies if the message never reached you.’
The assistant, a middle-aged man with an air of implacability about him, had been unable to hide his shock when she’d said she couldn’t do it. The orchestra directors had simply stared at her with pleading eyes.
‘The message did reach me—which is why I turned back from the airport and returned here, so I could discuss the matter with you directly.’
His displeasure was obvious, as if it were her fault his plans had been ruined.
‘You will need to cancel your engagement. I wish for you to play at my grandfather’s gala.’
‘I wish I could as well,’ she lied. A lifetime of dealing with forceful personalities had prepared her well for this moment. No personality came more forceful than her mother’s. ‘But, no. It is not something I can get out of.’
His brow furrowed in the manner of someone who had never had the word no uttered within his earshot. ‘You do realise who my grandfather is and what a huge opportunity this is for your career?’
‘Yes, he is the King of Agon—and I do understand what a great honour it is to be selected to play for him—’
‘And the majority of the world’s great statesmen who will be there—’
‘But there are many other violinists in this orchestra,’ she continued, speaking over him as if he had not just interrupted. ‘If you audition them, as you had planned, you will find most are far more talented than me.’
Of course she knew what a huge event the gala was going to be. Her fellow musicians had spoken about little else for weeks. Every orchestra in Europe had been alerted to the fact that Prince Talos Kalliakis was searching for a solo violinist. When it had been confirmed yesterday that he was coming to audition the violinists at the Orchestre National de Paris there had been an immediate mass exodus as every female musician in the orchestra had headed to Paris’s beauty parlours for highlights and waxing and all other manner of preening.
The three Princes of Agon were considered Europe’s most eligible bachelors. And the most handsome.
Amalie had known she wouldn’t audition, so hadn’t bothered to join the exodus.
If she’d known for a second that Talos had been listening at the door to her practice she would have hit as many bum notes as she could without sounding like a screeching cat.
There was no way—no way in the world—she could stand on the stage at the Jubilee Gala and play for the world. No way. She couldn’t. The mere thought of it was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat.
The chill of the wind was picking up. She scrunched her toes inside her cold boots, which were getting wetter by the second as the icy snow seeped through the tiny seams and spread to her socks. The back of Talos’s car looked very snug and warm. Not that she would find out for herself. The chill in his eyes perfectly matched the weather whipping around them.
‘Excuse me, monsieur, but I need to go home. We have a concert tonight and I have to be back here in a few hours. Good luck finding your soloist.’
The hardness of his features softened by the slightest of margins, but his eyes—she’d been right, they were brown: a light, almost transparent brown, with the blackest of rims—remained hard.
‘We will talk again on Monday, despinis. Until then I suggest you think hard about what you are giving up by refusing to take the solo.’
‘Monday is our day off. I will be in on Tuesday, if you wish to speak to me then, but there will be nothing for us to talk about.’
He inclined his head. ‘We shall see. Oh—and when we next meet you may address me by my formal title: Your Highness.’
This time her lips tugged into a smile—one she had no control over. ‘But, monsieur, this is France. A republic. Even when we had a royal family, male heirs to the throne were addressed by the title of “Monsieur”, so I am addressing you correctly. And I feel I should remind you of what happened to those who boasted of having royal blood—they had their heads chopped off.’
* * *
Amalie took her seat on the stage, in the second row from the back, nicely encased amongst the orchestra’s other second violins. Exactly where she liked to be. Hidden from the spotlight.
While she waited for Sebastien Cassel, their guest conductor, to make his indication for them to start she felt a prickling on her skin.
Casting her eyes out into the auditorium, she saw the projected ticket sales had been correct. She doubted they were even at half capacity.
How much longer could this go on?
Paris was a city of culture. It had accommodated and celebrated its orchestras for centuries. But the other orchestras weren’t housed in a flea pit like the Théâtre de la Musique; a glorified music hall. Once, it had been full of pomp and glory. Years of neglect and underinvestment had left it teetering perilously, almost into the red.
A large figure in the stalls to her right, in the most expensive seats in the house, made her blink and look twice. Even as she squinted to focus more clearly the thumping of her heart told her who the figure was and explained the prickling sensation on her skin.
Immediately her thoughts flickered to Prince Talos. There was something about that man and the danger he exuded that made her want to run faster than if a thousand spotlights had been aimed at her. His breathtaking physical power, that gorgeous face with the scar slashing through the eyebrow, the voice that had made her blood thicken into treacle...
Juliette, the violinist she sat next to, dug a sharp elbow into her side.
Sebastien was peering at them, his baton raised.
Amalie forced her eyes to the score before her and positioned herself, praying for her fingers to work.
Being at the back of the eighty-strong number of musicians usually made her feel invisible—just another head in the crowd, with the spotlight well and truly away from her. She couldn’t bear having the spotlight pointed at her, had actively avoided it since the age of twelve. More than that: she had cowered from it.
She couldn’t see him clearly—indeed, she didn’t even know for certain that it was him sitting in the stalls—but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone in the audience had their eyes fixed firmly on her.
* * *
Talos watched the evening unfold. The orchestra was a professional unit and played with a panache even the most musically illiterate could appreciate.
But he wasn’t there to listen.
Once the concert had finished he had a meeting with the owner of this ramshackle building.
He’d originally planned to take his jet back to Agon and visit his grandfather, relieved that his two-month search for a violinist was over. Amalie Cartwright’s belligerence had put paid to that.
Looking at her now, the fingers of her left hand flying over the strings of her violin, he could not believe her rudeness. Her thin, pretty face, with a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her straight nose, gave the illusion of someone dainty, fragile, an image compounded by a form so slender one could be forgiven for worrying about her being blown over in a breeze. She had the elegance so many Parisian women came by with seemingly no effort. He’d seen that earlier, even when her rich brown hair had been hidden under the hat she’d worn to keep the chill in the air at bay.
But looks could be deceiving.
She’d dismissed performing the solo at his grandfather’s gala and, by extension, had insulted the Kalliakis name. And her jibe about the French royal family having their heads removed had been a step too far.
Amalie Cartwright would take the solo. He would make sure of it.
And what Talos Kalliakis wanted, he got. Always.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_988bac84-0ead-5060-91d8-0bd6c604a8ba)
AMALIE BURIED HER HEAD under the pillow and ignored the ringing of her doorbell. She wasn’t expecting any visitors or a delivery. Her French mother wouldn’t dream of turning up unannounced so early in the morning—anything earlier than midday she considered to be the middle of the night—and her English father was on tour in South America. Whoever it was could come back another time.
Whoever it was clearly had no intention of coming back another time.
The ringing continued, now accompanied by the banging of fists.
Cursing in English and French, she scrambled out of bed, shrugged a thick robe over her pyjama-clad body and, still cursing, hurried down the stairs to open the front door.
‘Good morning, despinis.’
And with those words Talos Kalliakis brushed past her and entered her home.
‘What the...? Excuse me—you can’t just let yourself in,’ she said, rushing after him while he swept through her narrow house as if he owned it.
‘I told you I would be speaking with you today.’
His tone was neutral, as if he were oblivious to her natural shock and anger.
‘And I told you this is my day off. I would like you to leave.’
He stepped into the kitchen. ‘After we have spoken.’
To reiterate his point he set his briefcase on the floor, removed his long black trench coat, which he placed on the back of a chair at her small kitchen table, and sat himself down.
‘What are you doing? I didn’t invite you in—if you want to speak to me you will have to wait until tomorrow.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I will take ten minutes of your time and then I will leave. What we need to discuss will not take long.’
Amalie bit into her cheek and forced her mind to calm. Panicked thinking would not help. ‘This is my home and you are trespassing. Leave now or I will call the police.’
He didn’t need to know that her mobile phone was currently atop her bedside table.
‘Call them.’ He shrugged his huge shoulders, the linen of his black shirt rippling with the movement. ‘By the time they get here we will have concluded our conversation.’
She eyed him warily, afraid to blink, and rubbed her hands up her arms, backing away, trapping herself against the wall. What could she use as a weapon?
This man was a stranger and the most physically imposing man she had met in her life. The scar that slashed through his eyebrow only compounded the danger he oozed. If he were to...
She wouldn’t be able to defend herself using her own strength. It would be like a field mouse fighting a panther.
His top lip curved with distaste. ‘You have no need to worry for your safety—I am not an animal. I am here to talk, not to assault you.’
Would the panther tell the field mouse he intended to eat her? Of course not. He would insist it was the last thing on his mind and then, when the little field mouse got close enough...snap!
Staring into his striking eyes, she saw that, although cold, they contained no threat. A tiny fraction of her fear vanished.
This man would not harm her. Not physically, at any rate.
She dropped her gaze and rubbed her eyes, which had become sore from all that non-blinking.
‘Okay. Ten minutes. But you should have called first. You didn’t have to barge your way into my home when I was still sleeping.’
An awareness crept through her bones. While he was freshly showered, shaved—minimal stubble today—and dressed, she was in old cotton pyjamas and a dressing gown, and suffering from a severe case of bed hair. Talk about putting her at an immediate disadvantage.
He looked at his watch. ‘It is ten a.m. A reasonable time to call on someone on a Monday morning.’
To her utter mortification, she could feel her skin heat. It might not be his problem that she’d had hardly any sleep, but it was certainly his fault.
No matter how hard she’d tried to block him from her mind, every time she’d closed her eyes his face had swum into her vision. Two nights of his arrogant face—there, right behind her eyelids. His arrogant, handsome face. Shockingly, devilishly handsome.
‘This is my day off, monsieur. How I choose to spend it is my business.’ Her mouth had run so dry her words came out as a croak. ‘I need a coffee.’
‘I take mine black.’
She didn’t answer, just stepped to the other side of the kitchen and pressed the button on the coffee machine she had set before she went to bed. It kicked into action.
‘Have you thought any more about the solo?’ he asked as she removed two mugs from the mug tree.
‘I told you—there’s nothing for me to think about. I’m busy that weekend.’ She heaped a spoonful of sugar into one of the mugs.
‘I was afraid that would be your answer.’
His tone was akin to a teacher disappointed with his star pupil’s exam results. Something about his tone made the hairs on her arms rise in warning.
Water started to drip through the filter and into the pot, drip by hot drip, the aroma of fresh coffee filling the air.
‘I am going to appeal to your better nature,’ Talos said, staring at Amalie, whose attention was still held by the slowly falling coffee.
She turned her head a touch. ‘Oh?’
‘My grandmother was a composer and musician.’
A short pause. ‘Rhea Kalliakis...’
‘You have heard of her?’
‘I doubt there’s a violinist alive who hasn’t. She composed the most beautiful pieces.’
A sharp pang ran through him to know that this woman appreciated his grandmother’s talents. Amalie couldn’t know it, but her simple appreciation only served to harden his resolve that she was the perfect musician for the role. She was the only musician.
‘She completed her final composition two days before her death.’
She turned from the coffee pot to face him.
Amalie Cartwright had the most beautiful almond-shaped eyes, he noted, not for the first time. The colour reminded him of the green sapphire ring his mother had worn.
That ring now lay in the Agon palace safe, where it had rested for the past twenty-six years, waiting for the day when Helios selected a suitable bride to take guardianship of it. After their grandfather’s diagnosis, that day would be coming much sooner than Helios had wanted or expected. Helios needed to marry and produce an heir.
The last time Talos had seen the ring his mother had been fighting off his father. Two hours later the pair of them had been dead.
He cast his mind away from that cataclysmic night and back to the present. Back to Amalie Cartwright—the one person who could do justice to Rhea Kalliakis’s final composition and with it, bring comfort to a dying man. A dying king.
‘Is that the piece you wish to have played at your grandfather’s gala?’
‘Yes. In the five years since her death we have kept the score secure and allowed no one to play it. Now we—my brothers and I—believe it is the right time for the world to hear it. And at what better occasion than my grandfather’s Jubilee Gala? I believe you are the person to play it.’
He deliberately made no mention of his grandfather’s diagnosis. No news of his condition had been released to the public at large and nor would it be until after the gala—by decree from King Astraeus, his grandfather, himself.
Amalie poured the freshly brewed coffee into the mugs, added milk to her own, then brought them to the table and took the seat opposite him.
‘I think it is a wonderful thing you are doing,’ she said, speaking in measured tones. ‘There isn’t another violinist alive who wouldn’t be honoured to be called upon to do it. But I am sorry, monsieur, that person cannot be me.’
‘Why not?’
‘I told you. I have a prior engagement.’
He fixed her with his stare. ‘I will double the appearance fee. Twenty thousand euros.’
‘No.’
‘Fifty thousand. And that’s my final offer.’
‘No.’
Talos knew his stare could be intimidating, more so than his sheer physicality. He’d performed this stare numerous times in front of a mirror, looking to see what it was that others saw, but had never recognised what it might be. Whatever it was, one throw of that look was enough to ensure he got his own way. The only people immune to it were his brothers and grandparents. Indeed, whenever his grandmother had seen him ‘pull that face’, as she had referred to it, she’d clipped his ear—but only hard enough to sting.
He missed her every day.
But apart from those members of his family he had never met anyone immune to his stare. Until now.
From Amalie there was not so much as a flicker, just a shake of her head and her long hair, which was in dire need of a good brush, falling into her eyes. She swiped it away.
Talos sighed, shook his head regretfully and rubbed his chin, making a great show of disappointment.
Amalie cradled her mug and took a sip of the hot coffee, willing her nerves to stay hidden from his piercing gaze.
All her life she’d had to deal with huge personalities and even huger egos. It had taught her the importance of keeping her emotions tucked away. If the enemy—and at that very moment Talos was an enemy to her, she could feel it—detected any weakness then they would pounce. Never make it easy for them. Never give them the advantage.
She had never found it so hard to remain passive. Never. Not since she’d been twelve and the nerves she’d fought so hard to contain had taken control of her. The fear and humiliation she’d experienced on that occasion felt as strong today as they had then.
But there was something about this man that did things to her; to her mind, to her senses. Inside her belly, a cauldron bubbled.
Talos reached for his briefcase, and for one tiny moment she thought she had won and that he would leave. Except then he placed it on the table and opened it.
‘I have tried appealing to your better nature. I have tried appealing to your greed. I have given you numerous chances to accept the easy way...’ He removed a sheaf of papers and held them up for her to see. ‘These are the deeds to the Théâtre de la Musique. You are welcome to read through them. You will see they confirm me as the new owner.’
Stunned into silence, all Amalie could do was shake her head.
‘Would you like to read them?’
She continued shaking her head, staring from the documents in his hand to his unsmiling face.
‘How is it possible?’ she whispered, trying to comprehend what this could mean—for her, for the orchestra...
‘I put my offer in on Saturday evening. The purchase was completed an hour ago.’
‘But how is this possible?’ she repeated. ‘This is France. The home of bureaucracy and red tape.’
‘Money and power talk.’
He placed the deeds back in his briefcase and leaned forward, bringing his face to within inches of hers. Any closer and she’d be able to feel his breath on her face. ‘I am a prince. I have money—a lot of it—and I have power. A lot of it. You would be wise to remember that.’
Then he leant back in his chair and drank his coffee, all the while his laser eyes burned into her.
She squeezed her mug, suddenly terrified to lose her grip on it. The implications were forming an orderly queue in her brain.
‘Now I am the owner of the theatre I am wondering what I will do with the building and the orchestra it houses. You see, the previous owner was so struck with greed at the amount I offered he made no stipulations for the sale...’ He drained the last of his coffee and pushed his mug away so it rested against hers. ‘Take the solo, despinis, and I will throw so much money at the theatre the crowds will come flocking back and your orchestra will be the toast of Paris. Refuse and I will turn it into a hotel.’
The jostling in her brain stopped. The implications came loud and clear, with clanging bells and ringing sirens.
‘You’re blackmailing me,’ she said starkly. ‘You’re actually trying to blackmail me.’
He shrugged indifferently and pushed his chair back. ‘Call it what you will.’
‘I call it blackmail. And blackmail is illegal.’
‘Tell it to the police.’ He displayed his white teeth. ‘However, before you call them I should advise you that I have diplomatic immunity.’
‘That is low.’
‘I can and will go even lower. You see, little songbird, I have the power to ensure you never play the violin professionally again. I can blacken your name, and the names of all those you play with, so that no orchestra—not even a provincial amateur one—would touch you.’
The bubbling cauldron moved from her belly to her head, her brain feeling as if it were boiling with poison. Never had she felt such hate towards another human.
‘Get out of my house.’
‘Worry not, little songbird, I am ready to leave now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I will return in six hours. You can give me your considered answer then.’
Her consideredanswer?
He was threatening to destroy her career, and the careers of her friends and colleagues, and he wanted her consideredanswer?
The cauldron toppled, sending a surge of fire pulsing through her, bringing her to her feet and to his side. Even with him seated and Amalie on her feet the physical imbalance between them was all too apparent. Fear and anger collided in her and she grabbed his arm, as if the force of her will could drag him to his feet and out of her home.
‘I said get out of my house!’ she shouted, pulling at him, uncaring that holding his arm was akin to holding a steel boulder. ‘I don’t care if you’re a stupid prince or about your stupid diplomatic immunity—get out!’
With reflexes that would put a cat to shame, Talos yanked her wrists together and pinned the pair of them inside one of his giant hands.
‘So you do have fire under that pale skin,’ he murmured. ‘I did wonder.’
‘Let go of me right now,’ she demanded, panic pulsing through her which only increased when he twisted—pirouetted—her around to sit on his lap, keeping a firm hold on her wrists.
Instinct made her lift her leg and kick back at him. The heel of her bare foot connected with his shin, the pain lancing through her immediate.
For Talos, she might as well have been a toddler doing their worst. He gave absolutely no reaction to her kick other than to wrap his free arm around her waist to secure her to him, ensnaring her even more effectively.
‘I feel that hurt you more than it did me,’ he said, holding her trapped hands up to examine them. ‘Such elegant fingers... Now, are you going to be a good girl and behave yourself if I let you go?’
‘If you call me a good girl again I’ll...’
‘What? Kick me again?’
She bucked, but it was a futile gesture. It was like being trapped in steel.
Except it wasn’t steel. It was solid man. And his fingers were digging not unpleasantly into the side of her waist.
‘You’re scaring me.’ It was part truth. Something was scaring her. Terrifying her.
‘I know, and I apologise. I will let you go when you assure me that you have your emotions under control and will not lash out at me again.’
Strangely, the deep, rough timbre of his voice had the desired effect, calming her enough to stop her struggling against him.
Clamping her lips together, she forced herself to breathe, and as she did so she inhaled a darkly masculine scent. His scent.
She swallowed the moisture that filled her mouth, suddenly aware of his breath, hot in her hair. Every one of her senses was heightened.
She couldn’t choke another breath in. Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it echo in her ears. And in the silence that ensued she felt Talos’s huge form stiffen too, from the strong thighs she was sat upon to the giant hands holding her in their snare.
She could no longer hear or feel his breath.
The only sound in her ears was the thrumming of her blood.
And then he released her hands and pushed her to her feet.
On legs that trembled, she shot to the other side of the kitchen.
Now she could breathe, but her breaths were ragged, her chest hurting with the exertion.
For his part, Talos calmly shrugged his muscular arms into his trench coat, wrapped his navy scarf around his neck and clasped his briefcase.
‘Six hours, despinis. I will respect your decision—but know that should your answer continue to be negative the consequences will be real and immediate.’
* * *
Amalie’s phone vibrated.
She pounced on it. ‘Maman?’
‘Chérie, I have found out some things.’
That was typical of her mother—getting straight to the point. There didn’t exist a sliver of silence that her mother’s voice couldn’t fill.
‘I could not reach Pierre directly.’
She sounded put out—as if Pierre Gaskin should have been holding on to his phone on the remote chance that Colette Barthez, the most famous classical singer in the world, deigned to call him.
‘But I spoke to his charming assistant, who told me he arrived late to the office this morning, gave every employee five hundred euros and said he was taking the next three months off. He was last seen setting his satnav to take him to Charles de Gaulle,’ she added, referring to France’s largest airport.
‘So it looks as if he has sold it, then,’ Amalie murmured.
Only two weeks ago Pierre Gaskin—the owner or, as she now firmly believed, the former owner of the Théâtre de la Musique—had been struggling to pay the heating bill for the place.
‘It looks that way, chérie. So tell me,’ her mother went on, ‘why has Prince Talos brought the theatre? I didn’t know he was a patron of the arts.’
‘No idea,’ she answered, her skin prickling at the mention of his name. She kneaded her brow, aware that this must be something like her tenth lie of the weekend.
What a mess.
She hadn’t told her mother anything of what had happened that weekend—she didn’t have the strength to handle her reaction on top of everything else—had only asked her to use her contacts to see if there was any truth that the theatre had been sold to Talos Kalliakis.
Now she had the answer.
Talos hadn’t been bluffing. But then she hadn’t really thought he had been, had turned to her mother only out of a futile sense of having to do something rather than any real hope.
‘I knew his father, Prince Lelantos...’
Her mother’s voice took on a dreamlike quality. It was a sound Amalie recognised, having been her mother’s confidante of the heart since the age of twelve.
‘I sang for him once. He was such a...’ she scrambled for the right word ‘...man!’
‘Maman, I need to go now.’
‘Of course, chérie. If you meet Prince Talos again, send him my regards.’
‘I will.’
Turning her phone off and placing it on the table, Amalie drew her hands down her face.
There was only one thing left that she could do. She was going to have to tell Talos Kalliakis the truth.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_d779323a-a893-5744-8903-12345246d51d)
WHEN TALOS PUNCHED his finger to the bell of Amalie’s front door he knew she must have been waiting for him. She pulled the door open before his hand was back by his side.
She stared at him impassively, as if what had occurred between them earlier had never happened. As if she hadn’t lost her calm veneer.
Without a word being exchanged, he followed her into the kitchen.
On the table lay a tray of pastries and two plates. A pot of coffee had just finished percolating. Amalie was dressed for her part, having donned a pair of black jeans that hugged her slender frame and a silver scoop-necked top. Her straight dark hair had been brushed back into a loose bun at the nape of her slender neck. She wore no make-up, and the freckles across her nose were vivid in the harsh light beaming from above them.
It was clear to him that she had seen reason. And why on earth would she not? She was a professional musician. He shouldn’t have to resort to blackmail.
Time was running out. For the gala. For his grandfather. The chemotherapy he was undergoing had weakened him badly. There were days when he couldn’t leave his bed—barely had the strength to retch into a bucket. Other days Talos found him in good spirits, happy to sit outside and enjoy the Agon sunshine in the sprawling palace gardens.
Talos remembered again that he had planned to return home after the auditions on Saturday and spend the rest of the weekend with his grandfather. Instead he’d been compelled to force through—and quickly—the purchase of that awful Parisian building. And for what? Because the only professional violinist he’d found capable of doing justice to his grandmother’s final composition was playing hardball.
No one played hardball with Talos Kalliakis. No one. To find this slender thing standing up to him...
But she had seen reason. That was all that mattered now.
He allowed himself a smile at his victory, and sat in the chair he’d vacated only six hours before.
Defeat had never crossed his mind. It was regrettable that he’d had to resort to blackmail to get his own way but time was of the essence. The Jubilee was only a month away. There was still time for her to learn the piece to performance standard and for her orchestra to learn the accompanying music. He wanted them note-perfect before they took to the palace stage.
Amalie’s arm brushed against his as she placed a mug in front of him. He found his attention caught by her fingers, as it had been earlier, when he’d had them trapped in his hand. It was the nails at the end of those long, elegant fingers that had really struck him. The nails of her left hand were short and blunt. The nails of her right hand were much longer and shapely. He’d puzzled over those nails all day...over what they reminded him of.
He’d also puzzled over the reaction that had swept through him when he’d pinned her to his lap after her anger had rushed to the surface.
Talos was a man who enjoyed the company of beautiful women. And beautiful women liked him. Women he didn’t know would catch his eye and hold it for a beat too long. When they learned who he was their gazes would stay fixed, suggestion and invitation ringing from them.
Never had he met a woman who so obviously disliked him. Never had he met anyone—man or woman—outside his immediate family who would deny him anything he wanted.
Amalie Cartwright was a pretty woman in her own unique way. The defiant attitude she’d displayed towards him infuriated and intrigued him in equal measure.
What, he wondered, would it be like to light the fire he’d glimpsed that morning in a more intimate setting?
What would it take to twist that fire and anger into passion?
He had felt the shift in her when her whole body had stilled and her breath had shortened and then stopped. The same time his own breath had stopped. One moment he’d been staring at her fingers with bemusement, the next his body had been filled with an awareness so strong it had knocked the air out of him.
He’d never experienced a reaction like it.
And now, watching her take the same seat as she had that morning, he could feel that awareness stirring within him again.
The following month held infinite possibilities...
‘Monsieur,’ she said once she had settled herself down and placed her green gaze on him, ‘earlier you appealed to my better nature—’
‘Which you disregarded,’ he interjected.
She bowed her head in acknowledgement. ‘I had my reasons, which I am going to share with you in the hope of appealing to your better nature.’
He regarded her carefully but kept silent, waiting for her to speak her mind. Surely she wasn’t trying another angle to turn the solo down?
‘I’m sorry but I lied to you—I do not have a prior engagement on the gala weekend.’ She gnawed on her bottom lip before continuing. ‘I suffer from stage fright.’
The idea was so ludicrous Talos shook his head in disbelief and laughed.
‘You?’ he said, not bothering to hide his incredulity. ‘You—the daughter of Colette Barthez and Julian Cartwright—suffer from stage fright?’
‘You know who I am?’
‘I know exactly who you are.’ He folded his arms, his brief, incredulous mirth evaporating. ‘I made it my business to know.’
He caught a flash of truculence in those green eyes, the first sign that the calm façade she wore was nothing but a front.
‘Your French mother is the most successful mezzo-soprano in the world. I admit I hadn’t heard of your father before today, but I understand he is a famous English violinist. I also learned that your father once played at Carnegie Hall with my grandmother, when he was first establishing himself.’
He leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands.
‘You were a noted child prodigy until the age of twelve, when your parents removed you from the spotlight so you could concentrate on your education. You became a professional musician at the age of twenty, when you joined the ranks of the Orchestre National de Paris as a second violin—a position you still hold five years on.’
She shrugged, but her face remained taut. ‘What you have described is something any person with access to the internet could find out in thirty seconds. My parents didn’t remove me from the spotlight because of my education—that is what my mother told the press, because she couldn’t bear the shame of having a daughter unable to perform in public.’
‘If you are “unable to perform in public”, how do you explain the fact that you perform in public at least once a week with your orchestra?’
‘I’m a second violin. I sit at the back of the orchestra. We have an average of eighty musicians playing at any given performance. The audience’s eyes are not on me but on the collective orchestra. It’s two different things. If I play at your grandfather’s gala everyone’s eyes will be on me and I will freeze. It will bring humiliation to me, to my mother—and to your grandfather. Is that what you want? To have the world’s eyes witness your star performer frozen on stage, unable to play a note?’
The only person who wouldn’t be ashamed of her was her father. She might have referred to it as a joint decision by her parents, but in truth it had been her father who’d gone against her mother’s wishes and pulled her out of the spotlight. He’d been the one to assure her that it was okay to play just for the love of the music, even if it was only in the privacy of her own bedroom.
Talos’s eyes narrowed, a shrewd expression emanating from them. ‘How do I know you aren’t lying to me right now?’
‘I...’
‘By your own admission you lied about being busy on the gala weekend.’
‘It was a lie of necessity.’
‘No lie is necessary. If you can’t handle eyes on you when you play, how were you able to join the orchestra in the first place?’
‘It was a blind audition. Everyone who applied had to play behind a screen so there could be no bias. And, before you ask, of course I practise and rehearse amongst my colleagues, But that is a world away from standing up on a stage and feeling hundreds of eyes staring at you.’
He shook his head slowly, his light brown eyes unreadable. ‘I am in two minds here. Either you are speaking the truth or you are telling another lie.’
‘I am speaking the truth. You need to find another soloist.’
‘I think not. Nerves and stage fright are things that can be overcome, but finding another soloist who can do justice to my grandmother’s final composition is a different matter.’
Never mind that time had almost run out. He could spend the rest of his life searching and not find anyone whose playing touched him the way Amalie’s had in those few minutes he had listened to her.
Talos had never settled for second best in his life and he wasn’t about to start now.
‘What do you know about my island?’ he asked her.
She looked confused at the change of direction. ‘Not much. It’s near Crete, isn’t it?’
‘Crete is our nearest neighbour. Like the Cretans, we are descended from the Minoans. Throughout the centuries Agon has been attacked by the Romans, the Ottomans and the Venetians—to name a few. We repelled them all. Only the Venetians managed to occupy us, and just for a short period. My people, under the leadership of the warrior Ares Patakis, of whom I am a direct descendent, rose against the occupiers and expelled them from our land. No other nation has occupied our shores since. History tells our story. Agonites will not be oppressed or repressed. We will fight until our last breath for our freedom.’
He paused to take a sip of his coffee. He had to hand it to her: she had excellent taste.
‘You are probably wondering why I am telling you all this,’ he said.
‘I am trying to understand the relevance,’ she admitted thoughtfully.
‘It is to give you an awareness of the stock that I, my family and our people come from. We are fighters. There isn’t an Agonite alive who would back down in the face of adversity. Stage fright? Nerves? Those are issues to be fought and conquered. And with my help you will conquer them.’
Amalie could imagine it only too well. Talos Kalliakis ready for battle, stripped to nothing but iron battle gear, spear in hand. He would be at the front of any fight.
It was her bad fortune that he had chosen to fight her.
But her stage fright wasn’t a fight. It was just a part of her, something she had long ago accepted.
Her life was nice and cosy. Simple. No drama, no histrionics. She refused to allow the tempestuousness of her childhood seep its way into her adult life.
‘I have arranged with your directors for you to come to Agon in a couple of days and to stay until the gala. Your orchestra will start rehearsals immediately and fly out a week before the gala so you can rehearse with them.’
Her pledge to be amiable evaporated. ‘Excuse me, but you’ve done what?’
‘It will give you a month in Agon to acclimatise...’
‘I don’t need to acclimatise. Agon is hardly the middle of a desert.’
‘It will also give you a month to prepare yourself perfectly for the solo,’ he continued, ignoring her interruption, although his eyes flashed another warning at her. ‘No distractions.’
‘But...’
‘Your stage fright is something that will be overcome,’ he said, with all the assurance of a man who had never been struck with anything as weak as nerves. ‘I will see to it personally.’
He stopped speaking, leaving a pause she knew she was supposed to fill, but all she could think was how badly she wanted to throw something at him, to curse this hateful man who was attempting to destroy the comfortable, quiet life she had made for herself away from the spotlight.
‘Despinis?’
She looked up to find those laser eyes striking through her again, as if he could reach right in and see what she was thinking.
‘Do you accept the solo?’ His voice hardened to granite. ‘Or do I have to make one hundred musicians redundant? Do I have to destroy one hundred careers, including your own? Have no doubt—I will do it. I will destroy you all.’
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to extinguish the panic clawing at her throat.
She believed him. This was no idle threat. He could destroy her career. She had no idea how he would do it, she knew only that he could.
If she didn’t loathe him so much she would wonder why he was prepared to take such dark measures to get her agreement. As it was, she couldn’t give a flying viola as to his reasons.
If she didn’t comply he would take away the only thing she could do.
But how could she agree to do it? The last time she’d performed solo she’d been surrounded by her parents’ arty friends—musicians, actors, writers, singers. She’d humiliated herself and her mother in front of every one of them. How could she stand on a stage with dignitaries and heads of state watching her and not be shredded by the same nerves? That was if she even made it on to the stage.
The one time she’d tried after the awful incident had left her hospitalised. And what she remembered most clearly about that dreadful time was her father’s fury at her mother for forcing her. He’d accused her of selfishness and of using their only child as a toy.
A lump formed in Amalie’s throat as she recalled them separating mere weeks later, her father gaining primary custody of her.
She was lucky, though. If times got really hard she knew she could rely on both her parents to bail her out. She would never go hungry. She would never lose her home. Her colleagues weren’t all so fortunate. Not many of them were blessed with wealthy parents.
She thought of kindly Juliette, who was seven months pregnant with her third child. Of Louis, who only last week had booked a bank-breaking holiday with his family to Australia. Grumbling Giles, who moaned every month when his mortgage payment was taken from his account...
All those musicians, all those office workers...
All unaware that their jobs, security and reputations hung in the balance.
She stared at Talos, willing him to feel every ounce of her hate.
‘Yes, I’ll come. But the consequences are something you will have to live with.’
* * *
Amalie gazed out of the window and got her first glimpse of Agon. As the plane made its descent she stared transfixed as golden beaches emerged alongside swathes of green, high mountains and built-up areas of pristine white buildings... And then they touched down, bouncing along the runway before coming to a final smooth stop.
Keeping a firm grip on her violin, she followed her fellow business-class passengers out and down the metal stairs. After the slushy iciness of Paris in March, the temperate heat was a welcome delight.
From the economy section bounded excited children and frazzled parents, there to take advantage of the sunshine Agon was blessed with, where spring and summer came earlier than to its nearest neighbour, Crete. She hadn’t considered that she would be going to an island famed as a holiday destination for families and historical buffs alike. In her head she’d thought of Agon as a prison—as dark and dangerous as the man who had summoned her there.
Amalie had travelled to over thirty countries in her life, but never had she been in an airport as fresh and welcoming as the one in Agon. Going through Arrivals was quick; her luggage arriving on the conveyor belt even quicker.
A man waited in the exit lounge, holding up her name on a specially laminated board. Polite introductions out of the way, he took the trolley holding her luggage from her and led the way out to a long, black car parked in what was clearly the prime space of the whole car park.
Everything was proceeding exactly as had been stated in the clipped email Talos’s private secretary had sent to her the day before. It had contained a detailed itinerary, from the time a car would be collecting her from her house all the way through to her estimated time of arrival at the villa that would be her home for the next month.
As the chauffeur navigated the roads she was able to take further stock of the island. Other than expecting it to be as dangerous as the youngest of its princes, she’d had no preconceptions. She was glad. Talos Kalliakis might be a demon sent to her from Hades, but his island was stunning.
Mementoes of Agon’s early Greek heritage were everywhere, from the architecture to the road signs in the same common language. But Agon was now a sovereign island, autonomous in its rule. The thing that struck her most starkly was how clean everything was, from the well-maintained roads to the buildings and homes they drove past. When they went past a harbour she craned her neck to look more closely at the rows of white yachts stationed there—some of them as large as cruise liners.
Soon they were away from the town and winding higher into the hills and mountains. Her mouth dropped open when she caught her first glimpse of the palace, standing proudly on a hill much in the same way as the ancient Greeks had built their most sacred monuments. Enormous and sprawling, it had a Middle Eastern flavour to it, as if it had been built for a great sultan centuries ago.
But it wasn’t to the palace that she was headed. No sooner had it left her sight than the chauffeur slowed down, pausing while a wrought-iron gate inched open, then drove up to a villa so large it could have been a hotel. Up the drive he took them, and then round to the back of the villa’s grounds, travelling for another mile until he came to a much smaller dwelling at the edge of the extensive villa’s garden—a generously sized white stone cottage.
An elderly man, with a shock of white hair flapping in the breeze above a large bald spot, came out of the front door to greet them.
‘Good evening, despinis,’ he said warmly. ‘I am Kostas.’
Explaining that he ran the main villa for His Highness Prince Talos, he showed her around the cottage that would be her home for the month. The small kitchen was well stocked and a daily delivery of fresh fruit, breads and dairy products would be brought to her. If she wished to eat her meals in the main villa she only had to pick up the phone and let them know; likewise if she wished to have meals delivered to the cottage.
‘The villa has a gym, a swimming pool, and spa facilities you are welcome to use whenever you wish,’ he said before he left. ‘There are also a number of cars you can use if you wish to travel anywhere, or we can arrange for a driver to take you.’
So Talos didn’t intend to keep her prisoner in the cottage? That was handy to know.
She’d envisaged him collecting her from the airport, locking her in a cold dungeon and refusing to let her out until she was note-perfect with his grandmother’s composition and all her demons had been banished.
Thinking about it sent a tremor racing up her spine.
She wondered what great psychiatrist Talos would employ to ‘fix’ her. She would laugh if the whole thing didn’t terrify her so much. Whoever he employed had better get a move on. She had exactly four weeks and two days until she had to stand on the stage for the King of Agon’s Jubilee Gala. In those thirty days she had to learn an entirely new composition, her orchestra had to learn the accompanying score, and she had to overcome the nerves that had paralysed her for over half her lifetime.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f08c41ba-bec1-570f-99e6-7e18b2017f0a)
THE MORNING CAME, crisp and blue. After a quick shower Amalie donned her favourite black jeans and a plum shirt, then made herself a simple breakfast, which she took out to eat on her private veranda. As she ate yogurt and honey, and sipped at strong coffee—she’d been delighted to find a brand-new state-of-the-art coffee machine, with enough pods to last her a year—she relaxed into a wicker chair and let the cool breeze brush over her. After all the bustle of Paris it felt wonderful to simply be.
If she closed off her mind she could forget why she was there...pretend she was on some kind of holiday.
Her tranquillity didn’t last long.
After going back inside to try another of the coffee-machine pods—this time opting for the mocha—she came back onto the veranda to find Talos sitting on her vacated chair, helping himself to the cubes of melon she’d cut up.
‘Good morning, little songbird,’ he said with a flash of straight white teeth.
Today he was dressed casually, in baggy khaki canvas trousers, black boots and a long-sleeved V-necked grey top. He was unshaven and his hair looked as if it had been tamed with little more than the palm of a hand. As she leaned over the table to place her mug down she caught his freshly showered scent.
‘Is that for me?’ he asked, nodding at the mug in her shaking hand.
She shrugged, affecting nonchalance at his unexpected appearance. ‘If you don’t mind sharing my germs.’
‘I’m sure a beautiful woman like you doesn’t have anything so nasty as germs.’
She raised a suspicious eyebrow, shivering as his deep bass voice reverberated through her skin, before turning back into the cottage, glad of an excuse to escape for a moment and gather herself. Placing a new pod in the machine, she willed her racing heart to still.
He’d startled her with his presence, that was all. She’d received an email from his private secretary the evening before, while eating the light evening meal she’d prepared for herself, stating that the score would be brought to her at the cottage mid-morning. There had been nothing mentioned about the Prince himself bothering to join her. Indeed, once she’d realised she wasn’t staying in the palace she’d hoped not to see him again.
When she went back outside he was cradling the mug, an expression of distaste wrinkling his face. ‘What is this?’
‘Mocha.’
‘It is disgusting.’
‘Don’t drink it, then.’
‘I won’t.’ He placed it on the table and gave it a shove with his fingers to move it away from him. He nodded at her fresh cup. ‘What’s that one?’
‘Mocha—to replace the one you kidnapped. If you want something different, the coffee machine’s in the kitchen.’ The contract she’d signed had said nothing about making coffee for him.
That evil contract...
She dragged her thoughts away before her brain could rage anew. If she allowed herself to fume over the unfairness, her wits would be dulled, and she already knew to her bitter cost that she needed her wits about her when dealing with this man.
As she sat herself in the vacant chair, unsubtly moving it away from his side, Talos reached for an apple from the plate of fruit she’d brought out with her. Removing a stumpy metal object from his trouser pocket, he pressed a button on the side and a blade at least five inches long unfolded. The snap it made jolted her.
Talos noticed her flinch. ‘Does my knife bother you?’
‘Not at all. Did you get that little thing when you were a Boy Scout?’
Her dismissive tone grated on him more than it should have. She grated on him more than she should.
‘This little thing?’ He swivelled the chair, narrowed his eyes and flicked his wrist. The knife sliced through the air, landing point-first in the cherry tree standing a good ten feet from them, embedding itself in the trunk.
He didn’t bother hiding his satisfaction. ‘That little thing was a present from my grandfather when I graduated from Sandhurst.’
‘I’m impressed,’ she said flatly. ‘I always thought Sandhurst was for gentlemen.’
Was that yet another insult?
‘Was there a reason you came to see me other than to massacre a defenceless tree?’ she asked.
He got to his feet. ‘I’ve brought the score to you.’
He strode to the cherry tree, gripped the handle of the knife and pulled it out. This knife was a badge of honour—the mark of becoming a man, a replacement for the Swiss Army penknife each Kalliakis prince had been given on his tenth birthday. There was an apple tree in the palace gardens whose trunk still bore the scars of the three young Princes’ attempts at target practice two decades before.
Back at the table, aware of wary sapphire eyes watching his every movement, he wiped the blade on his trousers, then picked up his selected apple and proceeded to peel it, as had been his intention when he’d first removed the knife from his pocket. The trick was to peel it in one single movement before the white of the inside started to brown—a relic from his childhood, when his father would peel an apple before slicing it and eating the chunks, and something he in turn had learned from his father. Of course Talos’s father hadn’t lived long enough to see any of his sons master it.
Carrying a knife was a habit all the Kalliakis men shared. Talos had no idea what had compelled him to throw it at the tree.
Had he been trying to get a rise out of her?
Never had he been in the company of anyone, let alone a woman, to whom his presence was so clearly unwelcome. People wanted his company. They sought it, they yearned to keep it. No one treated him with indifference.
And yet this woman did.
Other than that spark of fire in her home, when he’d played his trump card, she’d remained cool and poised in all their dealings, her body language giving nothing away. Only now, as he pushed the large binder that contained the solo towards her, did she show any emotion, her eyes flickering, her breath sharpening.
‘Is this it?’ she asked, opening the binder to peer at what lay inside.
‘You look as if you’re afraid to touch it.’
‘I’ve never held anything made by a royal hand.’
He studied her, curiosity driving through him. ‘You look respectfully towards a sheet of music, yet show no respect towards me, a prince of this land.’
‘Respect is earned, monsieur, and you have done nothing to earn mine.’
Why wasn’t she scared of him?
‘On this island our people respect the royal family. It comes as automatically as breathing.’
‘Did you use brute force to gain it? Or do you prefer simple blackmail?’
‘Five hundred years ago it was considered treason to show insolence towards a member of the Agon royal family.’
‘If that law were still in force now I bet your subjects’ numbers would be zero.’
‘The law was brought in by the senate, out of gratitude to my family for keeping this island safe from our enemies. My ancestors were the ones to abolish it.’
‘I bet your subjects partied long into the night when it was abolished.’
‘Do not underestimate the people of this island, despinis,’ he said, his ire rising at her flippant attitude. ‘Agonites are not and never will be subjects. This is not a dictatorship. The Kalliakis family members remain the island’s figureheads by overwhelming popular consent. Our blood is their blood—their blood is our blood. They will celebrate my grandfather’s Jubilee Gala with as much enthusiasm as if they were attending a party for their own grandfather.’
Her pale cheeks were tinged with a light pinkness. She swallowed. ‘I didn’t mean to insult your family, monsieur.’
He bowed his head in acceptance of her apology.
‘Only you.’
‘Only me?’
Her sapphire eyes sparked, but there was no light in them. ‘I only meant to insult you.’
‘If the palace dungeons hadn’t been turned into a tourist attraction I would have you thrown into them.’
‘And it’s comments like that which make me happy to insult you. You blackmail me into coming here, you threaten my career and the careers of my friends, and you make me sign a contract including a penalty for my not performing at your grandfather’s gala: the immediate disbandment of the Orchestre National de Paris... So, yes, I will happily take any opportunity I can to insult you.’
He stretched out his long legs and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It’s comments like that which make me wonder...’
Her face scrunched up in a question.
‘You see, little songbird, I wonder how a woman who professes to have stage fright so bad she cannot stand on a stage and play the instrument she was born to play has the nerve to show such disrespect to me. Do I not frighten you?’
She paused a beat before answering. ‘You are certainly imposing.’
‘That is not an answer.’
‘The only thing that frightens me is the thought of standing on the stage for your grandfather’s gala.’ A lie, she knew, but Amalie would sooner stand on the stage naked than admit that she was terrified of him. Or terrified of something about him. The darkness. His darkness.
‘Then I suggest you start learning the music for it.’ He rose to his feet, his dark features set in an impenetrable mask. ‘I will collect you at seven this evening and you can fill me in on your feelings for it.’
‘Collect me for what?’
‘Your first session in overcoming your stage fright.’
‘Right.’
She bit her lip. Strangely, she’d envisaged Talos bringing an army of shrinks to her. That was what her mother had done during Amalie’s scheduled visits after her parents’ divorce. Anything would have been better than Colette Barthez’s daughter being photographed at the door of a psychiatrist’s office. The press wouldn’t have been able to do anything with the pictures, or print any story about it, her mother had seen to that, but secrets had a way of not remaining secret once more people knew about them.
‘Wear something sporty.’
‘Sporty?’ she asked blankly.
‘I’m taking you to my gym.’
She rubbed at an eyebrow. ‘I’m confused. Why would we see a shrink at your gym?’
‘I never said anything about a shrink.’
‘You did.’
‘No, little songbird, I said I would help you overcome your stage fright.’
‘I didn’t think you meant it literally.’ For the first time in her life she understood what aghast meant. She was aghast. ‘You don’t really mean that you’re planning to fix me?’
He gazed down at her, unsmiling. ‘Have you undertaken professional help before?’
‘My mother wheeled out every psychiatrist she could get in France and England.’
‘And none of them were able to help you.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘You have a huge amount of spirit in your blood. It is a matter of harnessing it to your advantage. I will teach you to fight through your nerves and conquer them.’
‘But...’
‘Seven o’clock. Be ready.’
He strode away, his huge form relaxed. Too relaxed. So relaxed it infuriated her even more, turning her fear and anger up to a boil. Without thinking, she reached for a piece of discarded apple core and threw it at him. Unbelievably, it hit the back of his neck.
He turned around slowly, then crouched down to pick up the offending weapon, which he looked at briefly before fixing his eyes on her. Even with the distance between them the darkness in those eyes was unmistakable. As was the danger.
Amalie gulped in air, her lungs closing around it and refusing to let go.
Do I not frighten you...?
Frightened didn’t even begin to describe the terror racing through her blood at that moment—a terror that increased with each long step he took back towards her.
Fighting with everything she possessed to keep herself collected, she refused to turn away from his black gaze.
It wasn’t until he loomed over her, his stare piercing right through her, that she felt rather than saw the swirl flickering in it.
‘You should be careful, little songbird. A lesser man than me might take the throwing of an apple core as some kind of mating ritual.’
His deep, rough voice was pitched low with an underlying playfulness that scared her almost more than anything else.
The thing that terrified her the most was the beating of her heart, so loud she was certain he must be able to hear it. Not the staccato beat of terror but the raging thrum of awareness.
He was so close she could see the individual stalks of stubble across his strong jawline, the flare of his nostrils, and the silver hue of the scar lancing his eyebrow. Her hand rose, as if a magnet had burrowed under her skin and was being drawn to reach up and touch his face...
Before she’d raised it more than a couple of inches, Talos leaned closer and whispered directly into her ear. ‘I think I do frighten you. But not in the same way I frighten others.’
With that enigmatic comment he straightened, stepped away from her, nodded a goodbye, and then headed back to his villa.
Only when he was a good fifteen paces away did her lungs relax enough to expel the stale air, and the remnants of his woody, musky smell took its place, hitting her right in the sinuses, then spreading through her as if her body was consuming it.
* * *
If Amalie’s long-sleeved white top that covered her bottom and her dark blue leggings strayed too far from the ‘sporty’ brief he’d given her, Talos made no mention of it when she opened her door to him at precisely seven that evening. He did, however, stare at the flat canvas shoes on her feet.
‘Do you not have any proper trainers?’
‘No.’
He gave a sound like a grunt.
‘I’m not really into exercise,’ she admitted.
‘You are for the next thirty days.’
‘I find it boring.’
‘That’s because you’re not doing it right.’
It was like arguing with a plank. Except a plank would be more responsive to her argument.
But a plank wouldn’t evoke such an immediate reaction within her. Or prevent her lungs from working properly.
For his part, Talos was dressed in dark grey sports pants that fitted his long, muscular legs perfectly, and a black T-shirt that stretched across his chest, showcasing his broad warrior-like athleticism.
The stubble she remembered from the morning was even thicker now...
It was like gazing at a pure shot of testosterone. The femininity right in her core responded to it, a slow ache burning in her belly, her heart racing to a thrum with one look.
He walked her to his car; a black Maserati that even in the dusk of early evening gleamed. She stepped into the passenger side, the scent of leather filling her senses.
She’d never known anyone fill the interior of a car the way Talos did. Beside him she felt strangely fragile, as if she were made of porcelain rather than flesh and blood.
She blinked the strange thought away and knotted her fingers together, silently praying the journey would be short.
‘How did you find the composition?’ he asked after a few minutes of silence.
‘Beautiful.’
It was the only word she could summon. For five hours she had worked her way through the piece, bar by bar, section by section. She was a long way from mastering it, or understanding all its intricacies, but already the underlying melody had made itself known and had her hooked.
‘You are certain you will be ready to perform it in a month’s time?’
Opportunity suddenly presented itself to her gift-wrapped. ‘A composition of this complexity could take me months to master. You would do far better to employ a soloist who can get a quicker handle on it.’
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke there was an amused tinge to his voice. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, I think you do. I remind you, despinis, that you signed a contract.’
‘And you said you would get me help.’
‘I said I would help you and that is what I am doing.’
He brought the car to a stop at the front of a large cream building and faced her. Even in the dark she could see the menace on his features.
‘I will accept no excuses. You will learn the composition and you will play it at the gala and you will do it justice. If you fail in any of those conditions then I will impose the contracted penalty.’
He didn’t have to elaborate any further. The ‘contracted penalty’ meant turning the theatre into a hotel and causing the disbandment of the orchestra. That penalty loomed large in her mind: the threat to ruin every member of the orchestra’s reputation...her own most especially.
‘Understand, though,’ he continued, ‘that I am a man of my word. I said I would ensure that you are mentally fit to get on the stage and play, and that is what I will do. Starting now.’
He got out of the car and opened the boot, pulling out a black sports bag. ‘Follow me.’
Not having any choice, she followed him into the building.
The first thing that hit her was the smell.
She’d never been in a men’s locker room before, but this was exactly what she’d imagined it would smell like: sweat and testosterone.
The second thing to hit her was the noise.
The third thing was the sight of a man with a flat nose, standing behind the reception desk at the entrance, spotting Talos and getting straight to his feet, a huge grin spreading over his face.
The two men greeted each other with bumped fists and a babble of Greek that ended with Talos giving the man a hearty slap on the back before indicating to Amalie to follow him. As they walked away she couldn’t help but notice the blatant adoration on the flat-nosed man’s face. Not a romantic adoration—she’d witnessed that enough times from her mother to know what it looked like—but more a look of reverence.
Past the reception area, they slipped through a door and entered the most enormous room.
Silently she took it all in: the square ring in the corner, the huge blue mats laid out in a square in another, the punching bags dangling at seemingly random places...
‘Is this a boxing gym?’
He raised a hefty shoulder. ‘I’ve boxed since my childhood.’
‘I can’t box!’
He gazed down at her hands. ‘No. You can’t. Throwing a punch at even the softest target has the danger of breaking a finger.’

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