She must have sensed his eyes upon her, for suddenly her gaze was on him, a scowl forming on her pretty face.
He didn’t normally find a woman’s anger cute, but with Amalie it was like being glared at by a harmless kitten.
Harmless kitten or not, the jabs and kicks she gave from that moment on brought to mind the image of a wildcat. She cut through the air with one particularly vicious right hook and he knew with deep certainty that it was his face she’d imagined her fist connecting with.
He reached for his towel and wiped his brow, inhaling deeply, trying to control the burn seeping through him. Watching Amalie work out had a strange hypnotic quality to it—as if she had magical powers pulling his attention to her.
It was time to take his attention elsewhere.
He was at the punching bags when her workout finished. He kept his focus on the bag before him, aware of her approach.
He would have been aware of her even if she hadn’t cleared her throat to announce her presence by his side. Tendrils of sensation prickled his skin, and when he turned his attention from the punching bag to her, saw the dampness of her hair and the heightened colour of her cheeks, all he could think about was how she would look under the flames of passion.
‘What did you think?’ he asked.
Something resembling a smile spread across her face. ‘Once I focused and imagined all my punches connecting with your face and all my kicks hitting your abdomen, it was great.’
He laughed. ‘And how do you feel now?’
She considered the question, her lips pouting. ‘I feel...good.’
‘Is this the point where I say I told you so?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Are we going to be here much longer? Only I could really do with a shower. And something to eat.’
An image flashed into his mind of her standing naked under hot running water.
‘There are showers here, with everything you need.’
‘But then I’ll have to change back into these sweaty things.’
‘We have a selection of gym wear on sale too—I did say you would need suitable clothes to work out in. Choose some—and get yourself a decent pair of training shoes.’
‘I haven’t got any money on me.’
‘Not a problem.’ He looked over her head and beckoned someone.
A slight young girl of no more than sixteen appeared. Talos said something to her, then addressed Amalie again. ‘This is Tessa. She will take you to our clothes store and then show you where the ladies’ showers are. I’ll meet you upstairs in the café when you’re done.’
As soon as they’d headed off he focused back on the punching bag, trying to put aside the images of her naked that insisted on staying at the forefront of his mind.
He threw a particularly hard upper cut at the bag.
This was a singularly unique position he’d put himself in.
Amalie was incredibly desirable. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was, but it was as if she had some kind of aura that seeped into his skin and set a charge off inside him. Everything felt so much more heightened. He felt an awareness not only of her but also the chemical components that were making him feel off the scale. Put simply: being with her made him feel as sexy as hell.
Under any other circumstances he wouldn’t hesitate to seduce her. Just imagining those long limbs wrapped around him put him on the path to arousal.
Her awareness of him was strong too—as starkly obvious as her loathing. Lust and loathing... An explosive combination.
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.
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