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.
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
