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
