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But these were not normal circumstances. He had to get her mentally prepared to take on the biggest solo of her life. It was the whole reason she was there. Something told him she wasn’t the type of woman to go for the casual affairs he insisted on. Throwing sex into the mix could be like throwing a match into a situation that was already combustible.
He threw one last punch, then took a seat on the bench and, breathing heavily, undid the wraps around his hands, which he always put on even if only sparring with the punching bag. Experience had taught him how brittle the bones in the human hand were. The pain of breakage was negligible, but unless the hand was rested enough to allow the bones to heal it wouldn’t set properly, and the boxer would be unable to punch at full power.
Resting a broken hand was as frustrating as desiring a beautiful woman, knowing she desired you too, but knowing you couldn’t ever act on it.
CHAPTER FIVE
DESPITE THE LATENESS of the evening, the café upstairs was busy. Amalie had found a small table against the wall, where she could wait for Talos. Aware of the curious glances being thrown her way she pretended to examine the menu.
Testosterone abounded in the café. The vast majority of the patrons were male, all of them muscular, a fair few displaying broken noses and scarred faces. But their muscular physiques were dwarfed when Talos entered the room.
He spotted her immediately, and as he made his way over people stopped him to shake hands or bump fists.
She was glad his attention was taken, if only for a few moments. She pressed a hand to her chest and inhaled as much air into her tight lungs as she could get. The green sports pants and matching T-shirt she’d taken from the gym’s sports clothing outlet suddenly felt very close against her skin. Constricting.
He’d changed into a pair of tight-fitting black jeans and a navy blue T-shirt, and had his sports bag slung over his shoulder.
He was a mountain man, and whatever he wore only emphasised his muscularity. Whether he was in a business suit, workout gear or something casual, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he would be equally at home with nothing but a loin cloth wrapped around his waist.
‘I thought subjects were supposed to kneel before royalty,’ she said when he finally joined her.
A smirk appeared on his lips. ‘If you want to get on your knees before me, I won’t complain.’
She glared at him.
He settled his huge frame onto the chair opposite her. ‘You have to admit your comment was an open invitation.’
‘Only to someone with a dirty mind...’ she said, but her voice trailed into a mumble as the imagery his comment provoked, startling and vivid, sent a pulse searing through her blood strong enough to make her entire face burn.
The fresh scent of his shower gel and the woody musk of his aftershave played under her nose, filling her senses. He still hadn’t shaved, his stubble thick and covering his jawline in its entirety.
Certain she’d handed him another gold-plated open invitation, she cast her eyes down before he had a chance to read what was in them.
Instead of the expected quip, he asked in an amused tone, ‘What would you like to order?’
As he spoke, he folded his arms onto the table, his biceps bulging with the motion. She should have stayed looking at his face.
Since when did blatant machismo testosterone do it for her?
The male musicians she worked with—especially her fellow violinists—were, on the whole, sensitive creatures physically and emotionally. There were always exceptions to the rule, such as Philippe, one of the Orchestre National de Paris’s trombone players. Philippe was blond, buff and handsome, and he flirted openly with any woman who caught his eye. He was rumoured to have bedded half the female musicians in the orchestra.
But not Amalie, who found his overt masculinity a complete turn-off. The few boyfriends she’d had had been slight, unthreatening men, with gentle natures and a deep appreciation of music. Their evenings together had been spent discussing all things to do with music and the arts in general, with the bedroom not even an afterthought.
So why did Talos, whose physique and masculinity were ten times as potent as anything Philippe could even dream of having, make her feel all hot and squidgy just to look at him? None of her boyfriends had made her feel like he did—as if she wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes off.
‘I don’t read Greek,’ she answered, dragging her vocal cords into working order. ‘I wouldn’t know what to choose.’
