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.
CHAPTER TWO
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 the...? Excuse me—you can’t just let yourself in,’ she said, rushing after him while he swept through her narrow house as if he owned it.
‘I told you I would be speaking with you today.’
His tone was neutral, as if he were oblivious to her natural shock and anger.
‘And I told you this is my day off. I would like you to leave.’
He stepped into the kitchen. ‘After we have spoken.’
To reiterate his point he set his briefcase on the floor, removed his long black trench coat, which he placed on the back of a chair at her small kitchen table, and sat himself down.
‘What are you doing? I didn’t invite you in—if you want to speak to me you will have to wait until tomorrow.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I will take ten minutes of your time and then I will leave. What we need to discuss will not take long.’
Amalie bit into her cheek and forced her mind to calm. Panicked thinking would not help. ‘This is my home and you are trespassing. Leave now or I will call the police.’
He didn’t need to know that her mobile phone was currently atop her bedside table.
‘Call them.’ He shrugged his huge shoulders, the linen of his black shirt rippling with the movement. ‘By the time they get here we will have concluded our conversation.’
She eyed him warily, afraid to blink, and rubbed her hands up her arms, backing away, trapping herself against the wall. What could she use as a weapon?
This man was a stranger and the most physically imposing man she had met in her life. The scar that slashed through his eyebrow only compounded the danger he oozed. If he were to...
She wouldn’t be able to defend herself using her own strength. It would be like a field mouse fighting a panther.
His top lip curved with distaste. ‘You have no need to worry for your safety—I am not an animal. I am here to talk, not to assault you.’
Would the panther tell the field mouse he intended to eat her? Of course not. He would insist it was the last thing on his mind and then, when the little field mouse got close enough...snap!
Staring into his striking eyes, she saw that, although cold, they contained no threat. A tiny fraction of her fear vanished.
This man would not harm her. Not physically, at any rate.
She dropped her gaze and rubbed her eyes,
which had become sore from all that non-blinking.
‘Okay. Ten minutes. But you should have called first. You didn’t have to barge your way into my home when I was still sleeping.’
An awareness crept through her bones. While he was freshly showered, shaved—minimal stubble today—and dressed, she was in old cotton pyjamas and a dressing gown, and suffering from a severe case of bed hair. Talk about putting her at an immediate disadvantage.
He looked at his watch. ‘It is ten a.m. A reasonable time to call on someone on a Monday morning.’
To her utter mortification, she could feel her skin heat. It might not be his problem that she’d had hardly any sleep, but it was certainly his fault.
No matter how hard she’d tried to block him from her mind, every time she’d closed her eyes his face had swum into her vision. Two nights of his arrogant face—there, right behind her eyelids. His arrogant, handsome face. Shockingly, devilishly handsome.
‘This is my day off, monsieur. How I choose to spend it is my business.’ Her mouth had run so dry her words came out as a croak. ‘I need a coffee.’
‘I 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 red tape.’
‘Money and power talk.’
He placed the deeds back in his briefcase and leaned forward, bringing his face to within inches of hers. Any closer and she’d be able to feel his breath on her face. ‘I a
m a prince. I have money—a lot of it—and I have power. A lot of it. You would be wise to remember that.’
Then he leant back in his chair and drank his coffee, all the while his laser eyes burned into her.
She squeezed her mug, suddenly terrified to lose her grip on it. The implications were forming an orderly queue in her brain.
‘Now I am the owner of the theatre I am wondering what I will do with the building and the orchestra it houses. You see, the previous owner was so struck with greed at the amount I offered he made no stipulations for the sale...’ He drained the last of his coffee and pushed his mug away so it rested against hers. ‘Take the solo, despinis, and I will throw so much money at the theatre the crowds will come flocking back and your orchestra will be the toast of Paris. Refuse and I will turn it into a hotel.’
The jostling in her brain stopped. The implications came loud and clear, with clanging bells and ringing sirens.
‘You’re blackmailing me,’ she said starkly. ‘You’re actually trying to blackmail me.’
He shrugged indifferently and pushed his chair back. ‘Call it what you will.’
‘I call it blackmail. And blackmail is illegal.’
‘Tell it to the police.’ He displayed his white teeth. ‘However, before you call them I should advise you that I have diplomatic immunity.’
‘That is low.’
‘I can and will go even lower. You see, little songbird, I have the power to ensure you never play the violin professionally again. I can blacken your name, and the names of all those you play with, so that no orchestra—not even a provincial amateur one—would touch you.’
The bubbling cauldron moved from her belly to her head, her brain feeling as if it were boiling with poison. Never had she felt such hate towards another human.
‘Get out of my house.’
‘Worry not, little songbird, I am ready to leave now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I will return in six hours. You can give me your considered answer then.’
Talos Claims His Virgin Page 2
