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To hell with the traditional hold, he thought, placing his right hand on her back and resting his fingers on the bare flesh above the lining of the dress.
She felt exquisite.
Soon they were swirling around the room, the enchantment on her face making all the ridiculous ballroom-dancing lessons he and his brothers had been subjected to in their teenage years worthwhile—something he had never thought would happen.
Amalie felt as if she’d stepped into heaven. She’d never waltzed before but it didn’t matter; Talos guided her around the dance floor with a tenderness and grace that was as unexpected as it was heavenly.
She had never felt so feminine before either, the security of his arms something she would savour and relish.
The original gap between them when they’d started dancing had closed, and suddenly she was very much aware their bodies were pressed together.
Releasing her grip on his bicep, she smoothed her hand up to clasp the nape of his neck, glad a slower waltz was now being played, one that allowed her time to do nothing but gaze up into his eyes. Her legs followed his lead with no thought.
The heels she wore elevated her enough that her breasts pressed against his chest, his abdomen against the base of her stomach, but to her intense frustration she couldn’t feel him anywhere other than on her back, where his hand rested, his heat scorching her skin in the most wonderful way imaginable.
‘Your brothers seem nice,’ she said, frantic to cut through the tension between them before she was forced into something drastic—like dragging him away.
‘They’re good men,’ he agreed, his gaze not dropping from hers.
‘What did you mean earlier, when I asked if they had dates and you said that was the whole purpose of the evening?’
He laughed lightly. ‘It is time for Helios to end his bachelor days. He is hoping that tonight he will meet someone suitable.’
‘Someone suitable? For marriage?’
‘Yes. A woman of royal blood.’
‘That sounds clinical.’
‘He is heir to the throne.’
His fingers were making the same circles on her back that he’d made on her thigh, but this time she could actually feel it. And it felt wonderful.
‘It is traditional for the heir to marry a woman of royal descent.’
‘Is there a reason why he’s looking for a bride now?’ She thought of their absent grandfather, the King, and wondered if there was more to his illness than Talos was letting on.
‘He’s of the right age.’
She felt his muscles ripple as he lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
‘He wants to be young enough to enjoy his children.’
‘If you marry, will it have to be someone of royal descent too?’ As she asked the question a strange clenching gripped her heart.
‘No.’
‘So if you marry it will be for love?’
His lips twisted into a mocking grin. ‘If I marry it will be because someone has placed a gun to my head.’
‘Marriage is a piece of paper. It doesn’t mean anything.’
Love was the state she’d always feared—not a commitment so easily broken it wasn’t worth the paper it was signed on. It was passionate love that made fools of people. A piece of paper could dissolve a marriage into nothing, but a severed heart never fully healed.
‘It means a lot if you’re a member of the Kalliakis royal family. Divorce is forbidden.’
That’s fine, she thought. I don’t want to marry you. All I want is to touch you. Everywhere.
That was why she would be safe from the threat of a severed heart. Her passion for Talos was purely physical. When she returned to Paris her heart wouldn’t feel a thing, would only skip at memories of being with him.
‘Is divorce forbidden for everyone on your island?’
‘Only members of the royal family,’ he murmured.
‘And are you allowed lovers? Before you marry?’ she added, dropping her voice even lower.
His eyes were a blaze of molten lava, his strong nose flaring, his jaw clenched. ‘If I want a lover no decree is going to stop me.’
Nothing and no one could stop this man doing anything he wanted.
The thought should appal her, but it didn’t—not when the thought of allowing him to do whatever he wanted was so strong she dug her nails into his neck to stop her fingers yanking at her dress so she could press her bare skin to him. Her desperation to feel him was matched only by her desperation for him to feel her.
A finger tapped her shoulder. It was the British Prince. ‘May I have the next dance?’
