Modern Romance December 2015 Books 5-8 - Kate Walker Mills & Boon Series Collections

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she felt at learning differently.

      ‘Okay,’ she answered, determined to mask the emotion.

      It wasn’t as if they were going on a proper date or anything, she reminded herself. She was simply his ‘plus one’ for the evening.

      ‘Are you happy with your dress?’ he asked.

      On Monday Amalie had been driven by a member of Talos’s staff to a pretty beachside house and introduced to an elegant elderly woman called Natalia. Natalia had measured every inch of her, clearly seizing her up as she did so. Then she had sat at her desk and sketched, spending less time than it took for Amalie to finish a coffee before she’d ripped the piece of paper off the pad and held out the rough but strangely intricate design to her.

      ‘This is your dress,’ she had said, with calm authority.

      Amalie had left the house twenty minutes later with more excitement running through her veins than she had ever experienced before. She’d been to plenty of high-society parties in her lifetime, but never to a royal ball. And she was to wear a dress like nothing she had worn in her life. Natalia’s vision had been so compelling and assured that she had rolled along with it, swept up in the designer’s vision.

      It was strange and unnerving to think she was to be the guest of a prince. She no longer thought of Talos in that light. Only as a man...

      ‘Natalia is bringing it tomorrow so she can help me into it.’ The dress fastening was definitely a two-person job. If the designer hadn’t been coming to her Amalie would have had to find someone else to help her fasten it. She might have had to ask Talos to hook it for her...

      He nodded his approval.

      Dressed, Talos ran his fingers through his hair in what looked to Amalie like a futile attempt on his behalf to tame it.

      There was nothing tameable about this man.

      ‘Until tomorrow, little songbird,’ he said, before letting himself out of the cottage.

      Only when all the energy that followed him like a cloud had dissipated from the room did Amalie dare breathe properly.

      With shaky legs she sat on the piano bench and pressed her face to the cool wood.

      Maybe if she sat there for long enough the compulsion to chase after him and throw herself at him would dissipate too.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      THE BLACK LIMOUSINE drove over a bridge and through a long archway before coming to a stop in a vast courtyard at the front of the palace.

      Her heart fluttering madly beneath her ribs, Amalie stared in awe, just as she’d been gaping since she’d caught her first glimpse of it, magnificent and gleaming under the last red embers of the setting sun.

      The driver opened the door for her and held out an arm, which she accepted gratefully. She had never worn heels so high. She had never felt so...elegant.

      That’s what wearing the most beautiful bespoke dress in creation does for you.

      Still gaping, she stared up. The palace was so vast she had to make one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turns to see from one side to the next. Although vastly different in style, its romanticism rivalled France’s beautiful Baroque palaces. Its architecture was a mixture of styles she’d seen throughout Europe and North Africa, forming its own unique and deeply beautiful style that resembled a great sultan’s palace with gothic undertones.

      Two dozen wide curved steps led up to a high-arched ornate entrance, where two footmen dressed in purple-and-gold livery with yellow sashes stood. She climbed the steps towards them, thinking that this was surely what Cinderella had felt like. After studiously checking her official invitation, another footman stepped forward to escort her into the palace itself.

      First they entered a reception room so vast her entire cottage would fit inside it—roof and all, with room to spare—then walked through to another room where a group of footmen were being given last-minute instructions by a man who wore a red sash over his livery.

      ‘Am I the first to arrive?’ she asked her escort, who unfortunately spoke as much French and English as she spoke Greek—none at all.

      It wasn’t just the footmen being given instructions or the lack of other guests that made her think she was the first. Scores of waiting staff were also being given a last-minute briefing, many straightening clothing and smoothing down hair. She could feel their eyes on her, and their muted curiosity over the strange woman who had clearly arrived too early.

      As she was led into another room—narrower, but much longer than the first reception room—staff carrying trays of champagne were lining up along the walls, beneath a gallery of portraits. At the far end were three tall figures dressed in black, deep in conversation.

      Amalie’s heart gave a funny jump, then set off at an alarming rate that increased with every step she took towards them. Her escort by her side, she concentrated on keeping her feet moving, one in front of the other.

      Suddenly Talos turned his head and met her gaze, his eyes widening with such dumbstruck appreciation that her pulse couldn’t help but soar. It was a look men so often threw at her beautiful mother, but never at her. But then, Amalie had never felt beautiful before. Tonight, thanks to the hairstylist and beautician Natalia had brought along with her when she’d arrived at the cottage to dress her, she did. She felt like a princess.

      And Talos...

      Talos looked every inch the Prince.

      Like the two men beside him, who matched him in height and colouring, he wore a black tuxedo with a purple bowtie and sash that matched the livery of the palace footmen, and black shoes that gleamed in the same manner as his eyes. For the first time since she’d met him she saw him freshly shaved.

      She’d thought the rugged Talos, the man she was getting to know, was as sexy a man as she could ever meet. The princely Talos had lost none of his edge and the wolfish predatory air was still very much there. Not even the expensive dinner jacket could diminish his essential masculinity. He still looked like a man capable of throwing a woman over his huge shoulder and carrying her to a large nomad-style tent to pleasure her in a dozen different ways before she had time to draw breath.

      Amalie drew in her own breath as molten heat pooled low inside her at the thought of Talos pleasuring her...

      Judging from the look in his eyes, something similar was running through his mind.

      He strode over to greet her, enveloping her hand in his before leaning down to kiss her on each cheek.

      Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, her senses completely filled with his scent and the feel of his lips against her skin.

      ‘Little songbird, you are beautiful,’ he whispered into her ear, his deep, gravelly voice sending her heart beating so fast it felt as if it would jump out of her chest. ‘Let me introduce you to my brothers,’ he said while she strove valiantly for composure. ‘Helios, Theseus—this is my guest for the evening: Amalie Cartwright.’

      Theseus nodded and smiled. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’

      ‘And you,’ she murmured in reply.

      Helios extended his hand to her, his dark eyes studying her. ‘I understand you are playing our grandmother’s composition at the gala?’

      Her cheeks flushing, she nodded and accepted his hand. Suddenly she realised that this was the heir to the throne she was standing before, and bent her knees in a clumsy form of curtsy.

      Helios laughed, but not unkindly, before putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her on each cheek. ‘You are my brother’s guest—please, do not stand on ceremony.’

      ‘I’m surprised she even tried,’ Talos drawled, slipping an arm around her waist and placing a giant hand on her hip.

      Dear

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