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‘If the palace dungeons hadn’t been turned into a tourist attraction I would have you thrown into them.’
‘And it’s comments like that which make me happy to insult you. You blackmail me into coming here, you threaten my career and the careers of my friends, and you make me sign a contract including a penalty for my not performing at your grandfather’s gala: the immediate disbandment of the Orchestre National de Paris... So, yes, I will happily take any opportunity I can to insult you.’
He stretched out his long legs and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It’s comments like that which make me wonder...’
Her face scrunched up in a question.
‘You see, little songbird, I wonder how a woman who professes to have stage fright so bad she cannot stand on a stage and play the instrument she was born to play has the nerve to show such disrespect to me. Do I not frighten you?’
She paused a beat before answering. ‘You are certainly imposing.’
‘That is not an answer.’
‘The only thing that frightens me is the thought of standing on the stage for your grandfather’s gala.’ A lie, she knew, but Amalie would sooner stand on the stage naked than admit that she was terrified of him. Or terrified of something about him. The darkness. His darkness.
‘Then I suggest you start learning the music for it.’ He rose to his feet, his dark features set in an impenetrable mask. ‘I will collect you at seven this evening and you can fill me in on your feelings for it.’
‘Collect me for what?’
‘Your first session in overcoming your stage fright.’
‘Right.’
She bit her lip. Strangely, she’d envisaged Talos bringing an army of shrinks to her. That was what her mother had done during Amalie’s scheduled visits after her parents’ divorce. Anything would have been better than Colette Barthez’s daughter being photographed at the door of a psychiatrist’s office. The press wouldn’t have been able to do anything with the pictures, or print any story about it, her mother had seen to that, but secrets had a way of not remaining secret once more people knew about them.
‘Wear something sporty.’
‘Sporty?’ she asked blankly.
‘I’m taking you to my gym.’
She rubbed at an eyebrow. ‘I’m confused. Why would we see a shrink at your gym?’
‘I never said anything about a shrink.’
‘You did.’
‘No, little songbird, I said I would help you overcome your stage fright.’
‘I didn’t think you meant it literally.’ For the first time in her life she understood what aghast meant. She was aghast. ‘You don’t really mean that you’re planning to fix me?’
He gazed down at her, unsmiling. ‘Have you undertaken professional help before?’
‘My 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.
