ignition. He’d barely cleared his villa before he turned the car back and turned the engine off.
He imagined her cottage, in the distance, hidden from where he sat by dense trees. He imagined her waiting by the door for him, dressed in the tight-fitting sweats that showed off her slender curves. Imagined the welcoming kiss she would give him, her enthusiasm, as if they’d been parted for weeks rather than a few hours.
Since she’d played for him in the bedroom she’d had no problem with him being around while she practised his grandmother’s piece. The problem was that her orchestra had arrived a couple of days ago and proper rehearsals for the gala had begun. Amalie had taken to the stage for the first rehearsal and frozen.
Today he’d been there to witness it for himself—and this time she’d played it to the end, but only by keeping her terror-filled eyes on him. She’d visibly trembled throughout, and the notes she’d played had been tense and short—nothing like the flowing, dreamlike melody she achieved when they were alone.
Her obvious distress felt like sharpened barbs in his heart.
It was too soon for her. Maybe if the gala were in a couple of months, or even weeks, there would be time but it was only four days away. She knew her part perfectly, and the orchestra knew theirs, but what use was that when she couldn’t get her fingers to work?
And he, arrogant bastard that he was, had forced this nightmare on her, believing that some fighting spirit could cure half a lifetime of severe stage fright.
There was no way to fix it in time, not without putting her through an enormous amount of distress.
Tomorrow she would dine with his grandfather. Talos had invited himself along as well and hadn’t liked the look in his grandfather’s eyes when he’d suggested he come. It had been far too knowing.
Amalie’s solo was the one performance of the whole gala that his grandfather was looking forward to. He might have to miss large chunks of the ceremony, but he had told Talos only yesterday that he would sooner be in his coffin than miss her performance.
Swallowing the acrid bile in his throat, Talos dug his phone out of his pocket and called her. ‘I’m going to have to give tonight a miss,’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘Something’s come up.’
‘Are you all right?’ The concern in her voice was plain.
He didn’t want her concern. He didn’t deserve it. The only thing he deserved was a dozen punches to his gut for forcing this nightmare on her.
‘I’m busy with work, that’s all. I’ll try and catch up with you later.’
He blew out a breath of stale air as he disconnected his phone and tried to clamp down on the emotions raging through him, the feeling that his whole life was converging in a tipping point over which he had no control.
* * *
Amalie stepped through the trees surrounding her cottage and gazed at the villa in the distance. The moonless night was dark, but the white building glowed brilliantly under the stars.
It took her ten minutes to cross the land and reach it, and by the time she knocked on the front door her heart was thundering at a rate of knots, her hands clammy. She’d never been inside Talos’s villa before. It occurred to her that she’d never been invited. His villa was very much his private sanctuary. Kept apart from her.
All evening she’d been waiting for another call from him or a knock on the cottage door. Something was wrong, and had been for the past couple of days. There was an unbreachable distance between them.
She knew he was worried about the gala. She was too. Terrified about it. They’d both had such confidence that she was ready to play in public, but that confidence had been a deception. Her nerves were winning the war. She’d just about managed to scrape through the rehearsal earlier, when she’d had his face to focus on, but her shaking fingers had prevented any hint of musicality.
Was that the reason for his distance?
Frustration and disappointment with her?
The maid who opened the door recognised her and welcomed her in with a smile. As neither spoke the other’s language, the maid beckoned Amalie to follow her.
The interior of the villa was as fresh and modern as the palace was old and medieval, but with a definite nod to Agon’s Minoan ancestry; Greek sculptures and artwork adorned the walls.
After leading her down a wide flight of marble stairs and through a large door the maid stopped and pointed at another closed door, gave a quick bow, and disappeared back up the stairs, leaving Amalie on her own.
Heart in her mouth, she tapped on the door. When there was no answer she rapped again, louder, pressing her ear to it. She heard nothing. She chewed her lips before deciding to turn the handle. She pushed the door ajar and peered through the crack, pushing it wide open when she realised this was Talos’s personal gym.
Weight-lifting equipment, a treadmill and a rowing machine—items she wouldn’t have known one from the other a month ago—were lined up against the mirrored wall opposite the doorway. Through the same mirror she caught sight of a blur and turned to the left.
There he was, oblivious to her presence, thrashing the living daylights out of a punching bag.
She knew she should call out to him, let him know she was there, but she was captivated by what she saw.
All he wore was a pair of black shorts. His feet were bare, his hands gloveless. She winced to imagine the damage he could be doing to his fingers, her chest constricting as she realised something must be seriously wrong for him to forgo the gloves he always insisted on. Only the week before she’d seen him admonish a teenager for daring to hit a basic pad without gloves. A punching bag was a much harder target.
All the same, she was mesmerised by the energy he exuded.
This was Talos stripped back, in all his graceful, powerful glory.
Sweat dripped off him, his muscles rippled, his punches were hard and merciless—as if he were imagining the punching bag as a living target, a foe to be destroyed.
He was in pain. She knew that as surely as she knew her own name. His pain was in every one of his punches.
He must have caught sight of her in the mirror, for he suddenly stopped and spun around. Breathing heavily, he stared at her disbelievingly, his throat moving, his jaw clenched.
Her lips parted to apologise for the intrusion—and it was an intrusion—but the words stuck in her throat.
Not taking his eyes off her, Talos reached for a towel and wiped his face and chest, then dropped it to the floor and prowled over to stand before her.
His chest was rising and falling in rapid motion, and his nostrils flared before his mouth came crashing down on hers and she was pushed back against the wall.
His kisses were hungry, the kisses of a starving man. His powerful strength was something she’d always been hugely aware of, but until that moment she’d never appreciated the restraint he displayed around her. Now, holding her upright against the wall with one arm, he gripped her hip with his free hand and pulled her tight against him, before loosening his grip to slide his hand down her thigh to the hem of her short
