Talos Claims His Virgin. Michelle Smart

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘There isn’t another violinist alive who wouldn’t be honoured to be called upon to do it. But I am sorry, monsieur, that person cannot be me.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘I told you. I have a prior engagement.’

      He fixed her with his stare. ‘I will double the appearance fee. Twenty thousand euros.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Fifty thousand. And that’s my final offer.’

      ‘No.’

      Talos knew his stare could be intimidating, more so than his sheer physicality. He’d performed this stare numerous times in front of a mirror, looking to see what it was that others saw, but had never recognised what it might be. Whatever it was, one throw of that look was enough to ensure he got his own way. The only people immune to it were his brothers and grandparents. Indeed, whenever his grandmother had seen him ‘pull that face’, as she had referred to it, she’d clipped his ear—but only hard enough to sting.

      He missed her every day.

      But apart from those members of his family he had never met anyone immune to his stare. Until now.

      From Amalie there was not so much as a flicker, just a shake of her head and her long hair, which was in dire need of a good brush, falling into her eyes. She swiped it away.

      Talos sighed, shook his head regretfully and rubbed his chin, making a great show of disappointment.

      Amalie cradled her mug and took a sip of the hot coffee, willing her nerves to stay hidden from his piercing gaze.

      All her life she’d had to deal with huge personalities and even huger egos. It had taught her the importance of keeping her emotions tucked away. If the enemy—and at that very moment Talos was an enemy to her, she could feel it—detected any weakness then they would pounce. Never make it easy for them. Never give them the advantage.

      She had never found it so hard to remain passive. Never. Not since she’d been twelve and the nerves she’d fought so hard to contain had taken control of her. The fear and humiliation she’d experienced on that occasion felt as strong today as they had then.

      But there was something about this man that did things to her; to her mind, to her senses. Inside her belly, a cauldron bubbled.

      Talos reached for his briefcase, and for one tiny moment she thought she had won and that he would leave. Except then he placed it on the table and opened it.

      ‘I have tried appealing to your better nature. I have tried appealing to your greed. I have given you numerous chances to accept the easy way...’ He removed a sheaf of papers and held them up for her to see. ‘These are the deeds to the Théâtre de la Musique. You are welcome to read through them. You will see they confirm me as the new owner.’

      Stunned into silence, all Amalie could do was shake her head.

      ‘Would you like to read them?’

      She continued shaking her head, staring from the documents in his hand to his unsmiling face.

      ‘How is it possible?’ she whispered, trying to comprehend what this could mean—for her, for the orchestra...

      ‘I put my offer in on Saturday evening. The purchase was completed an hour ago.’

      ‘But how is this possible?’ she repeated. ‘This is France. The home of bureaucracy and red tape.’

      ‘Money and power talk.’

      He placed the deeds back in his briefcase and leaned forward, bringing his face to within inches of hers. Any closer and she’d be able to feel his breath on her face. ‘I am a prince. I have money—a lot of it—and I have power. A lot of it. You would be wise to remember that.’

      Then he leant back in his chair and drank his coffee, all the while his laser eyes burned into her.

      She squeezed her mug, suddenly terrified to lose her grip on it. The implications were forming an orderly queue in her brain.

      ‘Now I am the owner of the theatre I am wondering what I will do with the building and the orchestra it houses. You see, the previous owner was so struck with greed at the amount I offered he made no stipulations for the sale...’ He drained the last of his coffee and pushed his mug away so it rested against hers. ‘Take the solo, despinis, and I will throw so much money at the theatre the crowds will come flocking back and your orchestra will be the toast of Paris. Refuse and I will turn it into a hotel.’

      The jostling in her brain stopped. The implications came loud and clear, with clanging bells and ringing sirens.

      ‘You’re blackmailing me,’ she said starkly. ‘You’re actually trying to blackmail me.’

      He shrugged indifferently and pushed his chair back. ‘Call it what you will.’

      ‘I call it blackmail. And blackmail is illegal.’

      ‘Tell it to the police.’ He displayed his white teeth. ‘However, before you call them I should advise you that I have diplomatic immunity.’

      ‘That is low.’

      ‘I can and will go even lower. You see, little songbird, I have the power to ensure you never play the violin professionally again. I can blacken your name, and the names of all those you play with, so that no orchestra—not even a provincial amateur one—would touch you.’

      The bubbling cauldron moved from her belly to her head, her brain feeling as if it were boiling with poison. Never had she felt such hate towards another human.

      ‘Get out of my house.’

      ‘Worry not, little songbird, I am ready to leave now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I will return in six hours. You can give me your considered answer then.’

      Her considered answer?

      He was threatening to destroy her career, and the careers of her friends and colleagues, and he wanted her considered answer?

      The cauldron toppled, sending a surge of fire pulsing through her, bringing her to her feet and to his side. Even with him seated and Amalie on her feet the physical imbalance between them was all too apparent. Fear and anger collided in her and she grabbed his arm, as if the force of her will could drag him to his feet and out of her home.

      ‘I said get out of my house!’ she shouted, pulling at him, uncaring that holding his arm was akin to holding a steel boulder. ‘I don’t care if you’re a stupid prince or about your stupid diplomatic immunity—get out!’

      With reflexes that would put a cat to shame, Talos yanked her wrists together and pinned the pair of them inside one of his giant hands.

      ‘So you do have fire under that pale skin,’ he murmured. ‘I did wonder.’

      ‘Let go of me right now,’ she demanded, panic pulsing through her which only increased when he twisted—pirouetted—her around to sit on his lap, keeping a firm hold on her wrists.

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