‘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.’

She hadn’t thought of that—had been too busy thinking that she’d never hit anyone or anything in her life and had always considered boxing to be the most barbaric of sports. It was fitting to learn that it was Talos’s sport of choice. Her encounters with him were the closest she’d ever come to actually hitting someone.

He pointed to the corner with the blue mats. A tall, athletic blonde woman was chatting to a handful of men and women, all decked out in proper sports gear. ‘That is Melina, one of the instructors here. I’ve signed you up for her kickboxing workout.’

Amalie sighed. ‘How is enduring a kickboxing workout supposed to make me mentally fit for the stage?’

Without warning he placed his hands on her shoulders and twisted her around, so her back was to him. His thumbs pressed into the spot between her shoulder blades.

‘You are rife with tension,’ he said.

‘Of course I am. I’m here under duress.’

She tried to duck out from his hold but his grip was too strong. He was too strong. His thumbs felt huge as they pressed up the nape of her neck. And warm. And surprisingly gentle, despite the strength behind them.

‘The workout will help relieve tension and fire up your endorphins.’ He laughed—a deep rumble that vibrated through her pores—and released his hold on her. ‘All you will do is kick and punch into the air. If it helps, you can pretend I’m standing in front of you, receiving it all.’

She turned back to face him. ‘That will help.’

The glimmer of humour left him. ‘Your aggression needs an outlet.’

‘I’m not aggressive!’ At least she never had been before. Talos brought something out in her that, while not violent in the sense she’d always associated aggression with, made her feel as if a ferocity had been awoken within her, one that only reared up when she was with him. Or thinking about him. Or dreaming about him...

This workout might just prove to be a blessing after all.

‘Maybe not, but the tension you have within you comes from somewhere...’

‘That’ll be from being here with you,’ she grumbled.

‘And once you have learned to expel it your mind will be calmer.’

‘What about my body? I haven’t exercised in for ever.’

His eyes swept up and down her body, taking in every part of her. It felt like a critical assessment of her physique and she squirmed under it. She waited for his verbal assessment but it never came.

‘I will introduce you to Melina,’ he said, striding away to the growing crowd around the instructor.

Melina’s eyes gleamed when she spotted Talos, then narrowed slightly when she caught sight of Amalie, hanging back a little behind him.

Introductions were made and then Talos left them to it, heading to the ring in the corner, where a sparring bout had just started between two teenage boys. After a quick conversation with their trainer, Simeon, he left the main hall and went into the adjoining gym to start his own workout. He might spar later with Simeon, but first he wanted to warm his body up and get his muscles moving.

It felt as if it had been an age since he’d worked out, although it had only been one day.

Moving through the equipment, following the routine that had served him well since his army days, he found his concentration levels weren’t as sharp as usual. Through the glass wall dividing the gym from the main hall he could see the kickboxing workout underway, and noted how Amalie had placed herself at the back of the pack, how self-conscious her movements were.

He didn’t usually enjoy using the treadmill, but today he stayed on it for longer than normal, watching her. The warm-up was over and the session had begun in earnest. As the session progressed her movements went from tentative to a little less so. He could see the concentration on her face as she tried to copy what everyone around her was doing—the way she pivoted on the heel of her left foot before throwing an imaginary hook, the way she put her fists by her face, shifted her weight to her right foot, then brought her left knee up to her chest before kicking out.

She had an excellent centre of gravity, he noted. And for someone who professed to never exercise, her body was delectable, the leggings and long T-shirt she wore showing off her slender form to perfection.

She must have sensed his eyes upon her, for suddenly her gaze was on him, a scowl forming on her pretty face.

He didn’t normally find a woman’s anger cute, but with Amalie it was like being glared at by a harmless kitten.

Harmless kitten or not, the jabs and kicks she gave from that moment on brought to mind the image of a wildcat. She cut through the air with one particularly vicious right hook and he knew with deep certainty that it was his face she’d imagined her fist connecting with.

He reached for his towel and wiped his brow, inhaling deeply, trying to control the burn seeping through him. Watching Amalie work out had a strange hypnotic quality to it—as if she had magical powers pulling his attention to her.

It was time to take his attention elsewhere.

He was at the punching bags when her workout finished. He kept his focus on the bag before him, aware of her approach.

He would have been aware of her even if she hadn’t cleared her throat to announce her presence by his side. Tendrils of sensation prickled his skin, and when he turned his attention from the punching bag to her, saw the dampness of her hair and the heightened colour of her cheeks, all he could think about was how she would look under the flames of passion.

‘What did you think?’ he asked.

Something resembling a smile spread across her face. ‘Once I focused and imagined all my punches connecting with your face and all my kicks hitting your abdomen, it was great.’

He laughed. ‘And how do you feel now?’

She considered the question, her lips pouting. ‘I feel...good.’

‘Is this the point where I say I told you so?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Are we going to be here much longer? Only I could really do with a shower. And something to eat.’

An image flashed into his mind of her standing naked under hot running water.

‘There are showers here, with everything you need.’

‘But then I’ll have to change back into these sweaty things.’

‘We have a selection of gym wear on sale too—I did say you would need suitable clothes to work out in. Choose some—and get yourself a decent pair of training shoes.’

‘I haven’t got any money on me.’

‘Not a problem.’ He looked over her head and beckoned someone.

A slight young girl of no more than sixteen appeared. Talos said something to her, then addressed Amalie again. ‘This is Tessa. She will take you to our clothes store and then show you where the ladies’ showers are. I’ll meet you upstairs in the café when you’re done.’

As soon as they’d headed off he focused back on the punching bag, trying to put aside the images of her naked that insisted on staying at the forefront of his mind.

He threw a particularly hard upper cut at the bag.

This was a singularly unique position he’d put himself in.

Amalie was incredibly desirable. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was, but it was as if she had some kind of aura that seeped into his skin and set a charge off inside him. Everything felt so much more heightened. He felt an awareness not only of her but also the chemical components that were making him feel off the scale. Put simply: being with her made him feel as sexy as hell.

Under any other circumstances he wouldn’t hesitate to seduce her. Just imagining those long limbs wrapped around him put him on the path to arousal.

Her awareness of him was strong too—as starkly obvious as her loathing. Lust and loathing... An explosive combination.

But these were not normal circumstances. He had to get her mentally prepared to take on the biggest solo of her life. It was the whole reason she was there. Something told him she wasn’t the type of woman to go for the casual affairs he insisted on. Throwing sex into the mix could be like throwing a match into a situation that was already combustible.

He threw one last punch, then took a seat on the bench and, breathing heavily, undid the wraps around his hands, which he always put on even if only sparring with the punching bag. Experience had taught him how brittle the bones in the human hand were. The pain of breakage was negligible, but unless the hand was rested enough to allow the bones to heal it wouldn’t set properly, and the boxer would be unable to punch at full power.

Resting a broken hand was as frustrating as desiring a beautiful woman, knowing she desired you too, but knowing you couldn’t ever act on it.

CHAPTER FIVE

DESPITE THE LATENESS of the evening, the café upstairs was busy. Amalie had found a small table against the wall, where she could wait for Talos. Aware of the curious glances being thrown her way she pretended to examine the menu.

Testosterone abounded in the café. The vast majority of the patrons were male, all of them muscular, a fair few displaying broken noses and scarred faces. But their muscular physiques were dwarfed when Talos entered the room.

He spotted her immediately, and as he made his way over people stopped him to shake hands or bump fists.

She was glad his attention was taken, if only for a few moments. She pressed a hand to her chest and inhaled as much air into her tight lungs as she could get. The green sports pants and matching T-shirt she’d taken from the gym’s sports clothing outlet suddenly felt very close against her skin. Constricting.

He’d changed into a pair of tight-fitting black jeans and a navy blue T-shirt, and had his sports bag slung over his shoulder.

He was a mountain man, and whatever he wore only emphasised his muscularity. Whether he was in a business suit, workout gear or something casual, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he would be equally at home with nothing but a loin cloth wrapped around his waist.

‘I thought subjects were supposed to kneel before royalty,’ she said when he finally joined her.

A smirk appeared on his lips. ‘If you want to get on your knees before me, I won’t complain.’

She glared at him.

He settled his huge frame onto the chair opposite her. ‘You have to admit your comment was an open invitation.’

‘Only to someone with a dirty mind...’ she said, but her voice trailed into a mumble as the imagery his comment provoked, startling and vivid, sent a pulse searing through her blood strong enough to make her entire face burn.

The fresh scent of his shower gel and the woody musk of his aftershave played under her nose, filling her senses. He still hadn’t shaved, his stubble thick and covering his jawline in its entirety.

Certain she’d handed him another gold-plated open invitation, she cast her eyes down before he had a chance to read what was in them.

Instead of the expected quip, he asked in an amused tone, ‘What would you like to order?’

As he spoke, he folded his arms onto the table, his biceps bulging with the motion. She should have stayed looking at his face.

Since when did blatant machismo testosterone do it for her?

The male musicians she worked with—especially her fellow violinists—were, on the whole, sensitive creatures physically and emotionally. There were always exceptions to the rule, such as Philippe, one of the Orchestre National de Paris’s trombone players. Philippe was blond, buff and handsome, and he flirted openly with any woman who caught his eye. He was rumoured to have bedded half the female musicians in the orchestra.

But not Amalie, who found his overt masculinity a complete turn-off. The few boyfriends she’d had had been slight, unthreatening men, with gentle natures and a deep appreciation of music. Their evenings together had been spent discussing all things to do with music and the arts in general, with the bedroom not even an afterthought.

So why did Talos, whose physique and masculinity were ten times as potent as anything Philippe could even dream of having, make her feel all hot and squidgy just to look at him? None of her boyfriends had made her feel like he did—as if she wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes off.

‘I don’t read Greek,’ she answered, dragging her vocal cords into working order. ‘I wouldn’t know what to choose.’

‘We don’t serve traditional Greek fare here,’ he said. ‘It’s mostly high-carb and high-protein foods like pasta and steak.’

‘Do they have burgers?’

He grinned.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘After a hard workout I go for a burger every time.’

‘With cheese?’

‘It’s not right without the cheese.’

‘And chips?’

‘It wouldn’t be a complete meal without them.’

‘Cheeseburger and chips for me, then, please.’

‘Drink?’