‘Like a migraine,’ she answered with a roll of her eyes, turning back into the cottage and leaving him to shut the door and follow her in, his low laughter at her quip reverberating through her.
‘Have you had a good week?’ he asked, stepping into the living room.
‘It’s been very peaceful, thank you. And yours?’
‘Incredibly boring.’
‘That’ll teach you to be a lawyer.’
Today he actually looked lawyerly. Well, more like Tarzan dressed up as a lawyer, the crisp white shirt, open at the neck, rippling over his muscular chest, and charcoal trousers emphasising the length and power of his thighs. No matter what he wore he would still emit enough testosterone to fill a dozen buckets.
‘It’s a living,’ he said, deadpan.
She couldn’t help it. She laughed. She doubted Talos Kalliakis had needed to work a single day in his life.
‘What does a man have to do to get a coffee round here?’ he asked.
‘Go to the kitchen and work the coffee machine.’
‘But I am royalty. I shouldn’t be expected to make my own coffee.’
‘I’ll have a mocha while you’re there,’ she said, only just stopping herself throwing a wink at him.
His irreverence was contagious.
His nose wrinkled. ‘I have serious doubts about your taste, knowing you drink that muck.’
She had serious doubts about her taste too. Always she’d steered herself in the direction of safe, dependable men, those with whom she could have a nice, safe, dependable life.
There was nothing safe about Talos.
That little fact didn’t stop her thinking about him constantly.
It didn’t stop her heart from hammering at a prestissimo pace by virtue of just being under the same roof as him.
Luckily he took himself off to the kitchen, allowing her a few minutes to compose herself. When he returned, carrying their coffees, she’d put her violin away and sat herself in an armchair.
He placed their cups on the table and sprawled onto the sofa. ‘I hear you’ve been going to the gym every day.’
‘I was under orders, remember?’
He grinned. ‘Melina thinks it is a shame you can’t actually fight someone in a kickboxing match.’
Likely Melina would volunteer herself for that honour. Whilst not unfriendly, there was a definite coolness in the instructor’s attitude towards her.
‘I enjoy it,’ she admitted.
The atmosphere at Talos’s gym was different from anything she’d experienced before. There was a real collective feel about it, with everyone there prepared to help everyone else. Yes, there were some big egos, but it was a different kind of egotism from the sort she was used to in the classical music world—earthier, somehow. Considering she was one of the only women there, she never felt threatened, and she didn’t think it was because everyone knew she was Talos’s guest. The atmosphere of the gym itself engendered respect in all its patrons.
‘Good. And how are you getting on with the score?’
‘Well...I think.’
He quirked his scarred brow. ‘You think?’
‘I have no way of knowing if I’m playing it as your grandmother intended.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘My interpretation of the tempo she played it at might be different from her interpretation.’
He shrugged. ‘You played the “Méditation” from Thaïs at a slower tempo than she played it, but it sounded equally beautiful.’
Talos noted the colour flush over her face, the flash of embarrassed pride that darted from her eyes.
He sat forward and rested his arms on his thighs. ‘It is time for you to play for me.’
Her colour faded as quickly as it had appeared. She seemed to cower in her seat.
‘I did say I would listen to you play today.’
She brightened. ‘I’ve recorded myself playing it. You can listen to that.’
He cocked his head and sighed theatrically. ‘I can see that working well at the gala—we’ll introduce our star soloist and wheel on a tape recorder with a wig.’
She spluttered a sound of nervous laughter.
He softened his voice, wanting to put her at ease. ‘It is only you and me. It doesn’t matter how many mistakes you make—all that matters is that today you play for me.’
There were three weeks and one day until the gala.
Judging by the terror vibrating off Amalie’s frame, he would need every one of them.
He’d spent the four days in New York getting as much work done as he could, organising his staff and generally ensuring that he’d need to do minimal travelling until the gala was over. The business was being neglected by all three Kalliakis princes but what alternative did they have? All of them wanted to spend as much time with their grandfather as they could, to be there when he was having a good spell and craving their company. They were fortunate that their staff were the best of the best and could run much of the business with minimum input from them.
This trip away had been different from any other. He was always impatient to spend as much time on Agon as he could, but during this trip he’d found himself thinking of home far more frequently than normal. Thinking of her in his little guest cottage. He’d arrived back early yesterday evening and the temptation to pay her an immediate visit had shocked him with its intensity.
He’d resisted and headed to the palace. There, he’d shared a meal with his brothers, both of whom had been in foul tempers and had declined to answer any questions about their respective bad moods. Both had excused themselves the moment they’d finished eating. Shrugging his shoulders at their odd behaviour, Talos had sought out his grandfather, spending a pleasant couple of hours playing chess with him until a sudden bout of tiredness had forced his grandfather to call a halt.
It unnerved him how quickly his grandfather could fall into exhaustion—one minute sitting upright, laughing, holding a conversation; the next his chin drooping, his eyes struggling to stay open, his speech slurring...
Talos could feel the time ebbing away. He could see it too. He’d only been four days in New York and his grandfather had lost even more weight, the large, vital man now a shadow of his former self.
The woman before him had the power to make his grandfather’s last days the sweetest they could be. She could bring his beloved Rhea’s final composition to life. She was the only person in the world who could do it justice.
He watched Amalie struggle for composure, feeling a strange tugging in his chest when she visibly forced herself to her feet and over to the baby grand piano, where she’d left her violin.
Not looking at him, she removed it from its case and fiddled with the strings, tuning them as his grandmother had always done before playing for him.
Moving her music stand behind the piano, as if she were using the piano for protection, she arranged the sheets of music until she was satisfied with how they stood, then rested her violin under her chin.
About to hit the first note, she halted, bow upright, and stared at him. ‘I’ve almost memorised it. I won’t need the sheet music when I do the gala.’