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
