Talos Claims His Virgin. Michelle Smart

her the most was the beating of her heart, so loud she was certain he must be able to hear it. Not the staccato beat of terror but the raging thrum of awareness.

      He was so close she could see the individual stalks of stubble across his strong jawline, the flare of his nostrils, and the silver hue of the scar lancing his eyebrow. Her hand rose, as if a magnet had burrowed under her skin and was being drawn to reach up and touch his face...

      Before she’d raised it more than a couple of inches, Talos leaned closer and whispered directly into her ear. ‘I think I do frighten you. But not in the same way I frighten others.’

      With that enigmatic comment he straightened, stepped away from her, nodded a goodbye, and then headed back to his villa.

      Only when he was a good fifteen paces away did her lungs relax enough to expel the stale air, and the remnants of his woody, musky smell took its place, hitting her right in the sinuses, then spreading through her as if her body was consuming it.

      * * *

      If Amalie’s long-sleeved white top that covered her bottom and her dark blue leggings strayed too far from the ‘sporty’ brief he’d given her, Talos made no mention of it when she opened her door to him at precisely seven that evening. He did, however, stare at the flat canvas shoes on her feet.

      ‘Do you not have any proper trainers?’

      ‘No.’

      He gave a sound like a grunt.

      ‘I’m not really into exercise,’ she admitted.

      ‘You are for the next thirty days.’

      ‘I find it boring.’

      ‘That’s because you’re not doing it right.’

      It was like arguing with a plank. Except a plank would be more responsive to her argument.

      But a plank wouldn’t evoke such an immediate reaction within her. Or prevent her lungs from working properly.

      For his part, Talos was dressed in dark grey sports pants that fitted his long, muscular legs perfectly, and a black T-shirt that stretched across his chest, showcasing his broad warrior-like athleticism.

      The stubble she remembered from the morning was even thicker now...

      It was like gazing at a pure shot of testosterone. The femininity right in her core responded to it, a slow ache burning in her belly, her heart racing to a thrum with one look.

      He walked her to his car; a black Maserati that even in the dusk of early evening gleamed. She stepped into the passenger side, the scent of leather filling her senses.

      She’d never known anyone fill the interior of a car the way Talos did. Beside him she felt strangely fragile, as if she were made of porcelain rather than flesh and blood.

      She blinked the strange thought away and knotted her fingers together, silently praying the journey would be short.

      ‘How did you find the composition?’ he asked after a few minutes of silence.

      ‘Beautiful.’

      It was the only word she could summon. For five hours she had worked her way through the piece, bar by bar, section by section. She was a long way from mastering it, or understanding all its intricacies, but already the underlying melody had made itself known and had her hooked.

      ‘You are certain you will be ready to perform it in a month’s time?’

      Opportunity suddenly presented itself to her gift-wrapped. ‘A composition of this complexity could take me months to master. You would do far better to employ a soloist who can get a quicker handle on it.’

      He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke there was an amused tinge to his voice. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

      ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘Oh, I think you do. I remind you, despinis, that you signed a contract.’

      ‘And you said you would get me help.’

      ‘I said I would help you and that is what I am doing.’

      He brought the car to a stop at the front of a large cream building and faced her. Even in the dark she could see the menace on his features.

      ‘I will accept no excuses. You will learn the composition and you will play it at the gala and you will do it justice. If you fail in any of those conditions then I will impose the contracted penalty.’

      He didn’t have to elaborate any further. The ‘contracted penalty’ meant turning the theatre into a hotel and causing the disbandment of the orchestra. That penalty loomed large in her mind: the threat to ruin every member of the orchestra’s reputation...her own most especially.

      ‘Understand, though,’ he continued, ‘that I am a man of my word. I said I would ensure that you are mentally fit to get on the stage and play, and that is what I will do. Starting now.’

      He got out of the car and opened the boot, pulling out a black sports bag. ‘Follow me.’

      Not having any choice, she followed him into the building.

      The first thing that hit her was the smell.

      She’d never been in a men’s locker room before, but this was exactly what she’d imagined it would smell like: sweat and testosterone.

      The second thing to hit her was the noise.

      The third thing was the sight of a man with a flat nose, standing behind the reception desk at the entrance, spotting Talos and getting straight to his feet, a huge grin spreading over his face.

      The two men greeted each other with bumped fists and a babble of Greek that ended with Talos giving the man a hearty slap on the back before indicating to Amalie to follow him. As they walked away she couldn’t help but notice the blatant adoration on the flat-nosed man’s face. Not a romantic adoration—she’d witnessed that enough times from her mother to know what it looked like—but more a look of reverence.

      Past the reception area, they slipped through a door and entered the most enormous room.

      Silently she took it all in: the square ring in the corner, the huge blue mats laid out in a square in another, the punching bags dangling at seemingly random places...

      ‘Is this a boxing gym?’

      He raised a hefty shoulder. ‘I’ve boxed since my childhood.’

      ‘I can’t box!’

      He gazed down at her hands. ‘No. You can’t. Throwing a punch at even the softest target has the danger of breaking a finger.’