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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.
