The Russian's Ultimatum
Michelle Smart
He’ll make her an offer…Pascha Virshilas is on the brink of securing personal redemption when Emily Richardson breaks into his office and steals private company documents. And then she has the gall to blackmail him into clearing her father’s name!She can’t refuse!But Pascha has his own terms. He’ll keep his side of the bargain, but the enticing Emily must accompany him to his private island—the only place he can ensure her silence. But in the midst of a tropical storm the wind blows aside suspicions and secrets to reveal something much more dangerous: lust!Praise for The Russian's Ultimatum"This Caribbean island-set romance is enchanting. The hacking/thieving heroine and control-freak hero’s seemingly implausible romance is remedied by their beautifully meshing personalities." - 4.5* RT Book Review“A well-conceived, fast-moving plot and appealing, sympathetic hero and heroine make this a great read” – Janet Schneider, NetGalley
Only with the greatest effort did Pascha keep his features still.
Emily's brown eyes held his as if in challenge before her lips—amazing lips, like a heart tugged out at the sides—curved upwards. Her eyes remained cold. She leaned forward.
‘It is obvious this buy-out is important to you and that you need to keep it a secret. I suggest we make a deal. If you agree to withdraw the threat of legal action against my father I will keep my mouth shut about the Plushenko deal.’
Pascha's fingers tightened on the document in his grasp. ‘You think you can blackmail me?’
She raised her shoulders in a sign of nonchalance. ‘You may call it blackmail, but I like to think of it as us making a deal.’
If the Plushenko deal fell through his legacy would be gone.
And so would Pascha's last chance at redemption.
Could he trust her?
Beneath her collected exterior lurked wildness. It echoed in the flickers of light emitting from her dark eyes. He could feel it.
MICHELLE SMART’S love affair with books began as a baby, when she would cuddle them in her cot. This love for all things wordy has never left her. A voracious reader of all genres, she found her love of romance cemented at the age of twelve, when she came across her first Mills & Boon
book. That book sparked a seed and, although she didn't have the words to explain it then, she knew she had discovered something special—that a book had the capacity to make her heart beat as if she were falling in love.
When not reading, or pretending to do the housework, Michelle loves nothing more than creating worlds of her own, featuring handsome, brooding heroes and the sparkly, feisty women who can melt their frozen hearts. She hopes her books can make her readers’ hearts beat a little faster too. Michelle lives in Northamptonshire with her own hero and their two young sons.
The Russian’s Ultimatum
Michelle Smart
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my wonderful parents and their equally wonderful spouses.
Contents
Cover (#u143e113c-03ed-5853-8378-139e423e6434)
Introduction (#u1b0d5eac-4255-510c-a206-9d886ddc9588)
About the Author (#uc16349d4-01be-52ce-a488-27a7c785d5fc)
Title Page (#ub646943f-785d-50ed-bacd-5100909d646a)
Dedication (#u01077c7d-272d-5e16-8080-1661cd4d896e)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_061876df-3b1b-5649-83eb-55e21c2e135a)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_828bb8ec-2d84-5d53-8b27-ae1d9eb13e36)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_d2ce4bac-6e0e-5a2d-b1d6-66055fe8d844)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f91ec9aa-104c-5221-8a1c-9a3e1cce62ab)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_c25f2568-bc3b-5967-bd18-ae16f1d11452)
EMILY RICHARDSON DUCKED under the scaffolding over the entrance of the smart building in the heart of the city of London, strolled through the spacious atrium and headed to the wide staircase. When she reached the second floor she took an abrupt left, walked to the end of the corridor and pressed the button for the lift. Only once she had stepped inside and the door had slid shut did she allow herself to expel a breath.
Catching sight of her reflection in the mirrored wall, she raised an eyebrow. Power suits were really not her thing, especially ones dating back to the eighties. She felt suffocated—and her feet, in their patent black stilettos, were already killing her.
She had to fit in, she had to look as if she belonged in the building, so no one would give her a second glance. Her usual attire made her too noticeable—she would have been recognised before she’d got her foot over the threshold of the building. Even with the suit, she’d have to be careful. She’d timed her entrance to perfection—not too early to be conspicuous but not so late that the people she needed to avoid would be in yet. So far, so good.
For this particular lift to work, a code had to be punched in. She duly obliged and was carried all the way to the top floor and the private offices held by the senior management team of Bamber Cosmetics International—or, as it had now been renamed, Virshilas LG.
The largest of the offices was held by Mr Virshilas himself. But not today; today Pascha Virshilas was in Milan.
Unlike in the rest of the building, renovation work had yet to begin on the top floor. She imagined it wouldn’t be long before it was remodelled into Pascha Virshilas’s idea of an executive suite of offices.
She walked up the narrow corridor to an unassuming door that required a swipe card to open. As luck would have it, Emily had such a card, slipped from her father’s wallet...
The door opened into a large, open-plan office. It appeared empty and for that she expelled another breath of relief.
Holding her chin aloft and forcing her back straight, she walked through the central hub of the floor, gently swaying her empty black briefcase.
The place really was deserted. Excellent; she’d beaten the executive secretaries in.
It surprised her to find Mr Virshilas’s office unlocked. Given how security-conscious the man was, she’d assumed it would be rigged with explosives in case an intruder made it through the security measures.
Maybe he wasn’t as paranoid as she’d been told.
All the same, she paused after she’d opened it an inch, put her ear to the door and tapped on it. If the fates were conspiring against her and one of the cleaners was in there emptying his rubbish bin, she would apologise and say she was lost. She hadn’t come this far to wimp out on a ‘maybe’.
Her knock elicited no response.
She pushed the door open another inch, then another. Heart racing, she entered the office, softly closing the door behind her.
She was in.
Time being of the essence, she scanned her surroundings quickly whilst reaching into the back pocket of her skirt and pulling out a state-of-the-art memory stick.
According to her source, Pascha Virshilas kept a laptop in all his worldwide offices. If her source continued to be correct, the laptop sitting on his desk was a centralised hub containing every file created by every department of every holding owned by Virshilas LG. This laptop contained the means of clearing her father’s name.
Looking around, Emily could see that Pascha kept the neatest office in history. Not a single item looked to be out of place, not a single speck of dust or tiny crumb to be found. Even the intricate pencil drawings on the wall seemed to have been placed with military precision. All that lay on the highly polished ebony desk beneath the large window was the laptop and what looked to be a document file.
Flipping the laptop open, she pressed the button to switch it on. To her surprise, it fired up immediately.
Her eyebrows drew together. Had he forgotten to turn it off after his last use? From everything she knew about the man, this seemed out of character.
All the same, she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. For once it seemed the stars were aligning in her favour. The laptop being turned on had saved her an estimated two minutes’ worth of hacking time.
Sticking the memory stick in the side portal, she pressed a few keys and the process began. Now all she had to do was wait.
If her hacking-whizz of a friend’s estimates were correct, all the data contained within the laptop should be copied within six minutes.
The blue document file beside the laptop was a good inch thick. Emily opened the cover. The top sheet of paper had Private & Confidential stamped on it in angry red.
Pulling the thick sheathes of paper out of the file, she turned the top sheet over and began to read...
‘Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my office?’
Emily froze. Literally. Her mind went blank, her brain filling with a cold mist. The sheets of paper held between her fingers fell back into place while her immobile hands hovered inches above the file.
Her gaze still resting on the papers before her, she forced her chin up to meet the stony glare of Pascha Virshilas.
Cold grey eyes narrowed. ‘You,’ he hissed, his chiselled features contorting.
She didn’t know what was the greatest shock—that he’d caught her in the act, or that he recognised her. The one time she’d met him she’d looked completely different, so different she would have been hard pressed to recognise herself in the mirror.
With great effort, she forced her features to remain neutral. Now was not the moment to reveal her utter loathing of the man; she had to stay calm.
She’d met him six weeks ago at an event, optimistically billed as a party, thrown to celebrate the acquisition of Bamber Cosmetics by Virshilas LG and to allow the employees to meet their new boss. Emily had only attended as a favour to her father who, since her mother’s recent death, became crippled with nerves at social events. Being a senior executive, his presence had been a requirement.
When she’d been forced to shake Pascha’s hand, his only response had been a slight flicker of disdain before he’d looked through her and moved on to the next person. If he’d bothered to wait and talk to her, she could have apologised for her inappropriate attire and explained that she’d rushed over from work without having time to change. She’d been busy at a fashion show and it was mandatory for the designers of the house she worked for to dress the part.
Emily and her father had stayed at the party for a polite hour before making their escape.
She doubted her escape from Pascha’s office would be as successful.
‘I asked you a question, Miss Richardson. I suggest you answer it.’
‘But you’ve just answered the question of who I am yourself,’ she answered with more bravado than she felt. Her memory of Pascha Virshilas was vivid, yet in this office he appeared magnified. Impossibly tall and broad, even the crispness of his white shirt and impeccably pressed grey-striped trousers couldn’t hide the muscularity of his physique. If anything, it enhanced it. And that face... Chiselled perfection a sculptor would struggle to replicate.
‘Don’t play games with me. What are you doing in my office?’
Her gaze flickered to the small stick poking out of the side of the laptop. From Pascha’s vantage point, he would only be able to see the upright lid. He might not see the stick at all. If she was lucky, she might just be able to escape with the data.
Using all the nonchalance she could muster, Emily leaned forward so her chest rested on the desk. ‘I was passing and thought I would pop in to see how you’re settling in.’ As she spoke, she inched her fingers forward, placed her knuckles either side of the memory stick and tugged it out, enfolding it into the fist of her hand.
If he saw what she’d done, he gave no visible sign.
She got to her feet and casually placed her hand in her back pocket, releasing the stick into its tight confines. She had no choice but to brazen this out, whatever its conclusion may be. ‘As I can see you’ve settled in fantastically, I shall leave you to it.’
‘Not so fast. Before I let you go anywhere, empty your pockets.’ Pascha’s English was delivered with curt precision but with a definite trace of his Russian heritage in its inflection. Deep and rich with a hint of gravel, it sent the most peculiar tingle whispering over her skin.
‘No chance,’ she said, inching her way round his desk, slowly closing the gap between herself and the door to her side. She silently cursed herself for not paying more attention to the internal door Pascha had appeared through. She’d seen it when she’d first stolen into the office but had barely registered it; she certainly hadn’t given it more than a cursory glance.
‘I said empty your pockets.’
‘No.’ Her eyes darted to the door. She might be twenty-six but she’d been a nimble runner in her school days. She was half his size and figured she must be quicker than him...
It didn’t surprise Pascha in the least when Emily made a run for it, shooting to the door and tugging on the handle.
‘It’s locked,’ he informed her calmly.
‘I can see that,’ she snapped.
‘It won’t open until I press the button to release the lock, and I won’t do that until you give me what’s in your pocket.’
Her pretty heart-shaped face glared at him, defiance pouring off her.
It was hardly surprising he hadn’t recognised her from the camera that piped to a small screen in his private room. When he’d met her at his buy-out party, she’d been dressed in a long, black lace dress with ruffles, complemented by a pair of black biker boots and dark, dramatic make-up. All the black had contrasted sharply with her porcelain skin.
While the other women at the party had made an effort with their attire, Emily had deliberately set out to subvert. All she’d needed was a black veil sitting atop her long, dark ringlets which had spilled out in all directions and she’d have been the perfect gothic bride.
Today, though, she had tamed her curls into a bun—although tendrils were falling round her face—and was dressed in ordinary business attire of a knee-length navy skirt with a matching blazer and a delicate cream blouse. On her feet were ordinary, businesslike black court shoes and her face was make-up free. No wonder he hadn’t recognised her, not until she’d raised those dark-brown eyes to meet his.
He would have recognised those eyes anywhere, dark but with flickers of yellow firing through them. Under the light of the function room the party had been hosted in, the colours had melded together, glimmering like a fire opal.
Those same eyes were staring at him now, loathing radiating from them.
He held his hand out and waited. If necessary, he would wait all day.
It wasn’t necessary. Emily slipped her hand into her back pocket and pulled out a small silver device. She dropped it into the palm of his hand and stepped straight back, away from him.
As he’d suspected: a memory stick.
He strolled round to his seat, still warm from her bottom, and folded his arms. ‘Sit down.’
After a beat, Emily grabbed the chair opposite him and dragged it to the other side of his office, literally as far away from him as she could get it.
‘So, Emily, it is time for you to start talking. Why were you trying to steal the files from my laptop?’
‘Why do you think? I’m trying to prove my father’s innocence.’
‘By stealing my files?’
‘I had to do something. According to my sources, you haven’t even started the investigation into the missing money you’ve accused him of taking. The stress of it all is making him seriously ill.’
Emily would do anything in her power to clear her father’s name. Anything. She had to give him something that would make his life—make him—feel as if it were worthwhile again.
As much as it pained her heart, Emily knew she would never be a good enough reason for her father to go on.
She’d watched him go through these dark times as a child, long periods where he wouldn’t get out of bed for weeks on end. It had been terrifying. Back then, her mother had held them all together: had held him together. But now her mother was dead. The rock they’d all relied upon was gone.
In the space of three months her father had lost the wife he’d adored and been suspended from the job he’d taken such pride in. The threat of the police knocking on his door and a subsequent prison sentence loomed over him. With hindsight, it had been obvious he would try to kill himself. He’d very nearly succeeded.
Losing her mother had been the single most devastating thing that had ever happened to her, a fresh, open wound that couldn’t begin to heal while her father’s mental and physical health were so precarious. If she were to lose him too...
Pascha gathered the file Emily had been reading when he’d caught her. So she had sources within his company, did she? That was something to think about later on. There was a much more important factor to consider first, namely how much of the file she’d read. He had no way of knowing how long she’d been in his office before he’d caught sight of her on the monitor. No longer than ten minutes, that was certain, as that had been the length of time since he’d left it. But long enough to read about things she had no business knowing.
‘We will move on to the subject of your father shortly,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, tell me what you read in this file. And don’t say you didn’t read anything, because you were engrossed in it.’
For long moments she didn’t answer, simply stared at him, her eyes squinting as if in thought. As if she were weighing him up... ‘Not much. Only that a company called RG Holdings is buying out Plushenko’s.’
Plushenko’s was a Russian jewellery firm whose trinkets were regarded as some of the most luxurious in the world and came with a price tag to match, the Plushenko brand rivalling that of the other famous Russian jeweller, Fabergé. At least, it had been regarded as such. In recent years the jewels had lost much of their lustre and sales were a fraction of what they had been a decade ago. Amidst the highest secrecy, Pascha was gearing up for a buyout, using a front company.
‘Oh, and I read that you own RG Holdings but that your name is being kept off all the official documents between RG and Plushenko’s.’ Her brow furrowed, as if she were trying to remember something, then her lips twisted into something resembling a smile. ‘What was the phrase I read? Something along the lines of, “it is imperative that Marat Plushenko does not learn of Pascha Virshilas’s involvement in this buyout”. Was that it?’
Only with the greatest effort did Pascha keep his features still. Inside, his stomach lurched, his skin crawling as if a nest of spiders had been let loose in him.
Her brown eyes held his, as if in challenge, before her lips curved upwards—amazing lips, like a heart tugged out at the sides. Her eyes remained cold. She leaned forward. ‘It’s obvious this buy-out is important to you and you need to keep it a secret. I suggest we make a deal: if you agree to withdraw the threat of legal action towards my father, I will keep the details of the Plushenko deal to myself.’
Pascha’s fingers tightened on the document in his grasp. ‘You think you can blackmail me?’
She raised her shoulders in a sign of nonchalance. ‘You may call it blackmail but I like to think of it as us making a deal. Clear my father’s name. I want it in writing that you’ll exonerate him from any potential charges or I will sing from the rooftops.’
Emily could see by the whitening of Pascha’s knuckles that he was fighting to keep his composure.
How she kept her own composure, she did not know.
She’d never been a wallflower, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she’d never been one for making war before either. To stand up against this powerful man—a man capable of destroying her father; of destroying her too—and know she was winning... It was a heady feeling.
From despair and anger at getting caught and failing her father, she’d found a way to salvage the situation.
‘I can have you arrested for this,’ Pascha said, his voice low and menacing.
‘Try it.’ She allowed herself a smile. ‘I’ll be entitled to a phone call. I think I’ll use it to contact the firm Shirokov—is that how you pronounce it?—and see if they’d be interested in representing me.’
How Pascha stopped his tongue rolling out the volley of expletives it wanted to say, he did not know.
Shirokov was the firm representing Marat Plushenko in the buy-out.
She dared to think she could threaten and blackmail him? This little pixie with a tongue as curling as her hair dared to think she could take him on and win?
He’d spent two years trying to make this deal happen, had even bought Bamber Cosmetics a few months ago as a decoy to avert any suspicion.
And now Emily Richardson had the power to blow it all to hell.
If Marat Plushenko heard so much as a whisper that Pascha was the face behind RG Holdings, he would abandon the deal without a backward glance and Plushenko’s, the business the late, great Andrei Plushenko had built from nothing, would be ground to dust. His legacy would be gone.
And so would Pascha’s last chance at redemption.
Could he trust her? That was the question.
He had no doubt her actions in stealing his files had been driven by exactly what she claimed—to prove her father’s innocence. He almost admired her for it.
But beneath the collected exterior lurked a wildness. It echoed in the flickers of light emitting from her dark eyes. He could feel it.
This was a woman on the edge.
That, in itself, answered his question.
No, he could not trust her.
In exactly one week, the Plushenko deal would be finalised, the contracts signed. Seven whole days in which he would be wondering and worrying if she really was capable of keeping her mouth shut, if something innocuous could set her off to make a phone call to Marat’s lawyer.
Beneath Emily’s bohemian exterior, which even the plain suit she wore couldn’t hide, lurked a sharp, inquisitive mind. A sharp mind on the edge could be a lethal combination.
An old English phrase came to mind: keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
This deal was everything. It had to happen.
It had been eight years since he’d walked out on his family. It was too late to make amends with the man who’d raised him as his own, but he could restore his legacy and, maybe then, finally, his mother would forgive him.
And for that reason he needed to make Emily disappear...
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bfa78483-bfef-593d-bfbf-d9db39993e56)
EMILY DID NOT LIKE the thoughtful way Pascha appraised her, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded, his long legs stretched out beneath his desk, ankles crossed, handmade brogues gleaming.
She’d never seen such stillness. It was unnerving. Almost as unnerving as her attempt to blackmail him. But then, she’d never thought she would break into an office with the sole intention of stealing data from a billionaire’s laptop.
After what felt like an age, where Emily’s skin became tense enough to snap, Pascha leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk and draw his fingers together.
‘So, Miss Richardson, you think you can blackmail me to get what you want? I will not be threatened and I will not have the deal I’ve spent two years working on be destroyed.’ The grey in his eyes glittered with loathing. ‘I will not capitulate to your demands. No. You, Miss Richardson, are going to disappear.’
That made her sit up straight. She shook her head, as if unsure she’d heard him correctly. ‘What? You’re going to make me disappear?’
‘Not in the sense you’re thinking,’ he said shortly, aggrieved to see her face had turned white. What kind of a man did she think he was? ‘I can’t take the risk of you disclosing the specifics of this deal, so I need you to disappear for a week.’ And he knew the perfect place to take her.
Emily stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes that held a hint of relief, probably at the confirmation he wasn’t going to make her disappear via a wooden box. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I am never anything but serious.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Yes, you are. I will agree to clear your father’s name but in return you must agree to go into hiding for a week.’
He had to give her something in exchange, that much he knew. And, seeing as it was her father’s name she wanted to clear, then that was what she would have. It was hardly a trivial sum either. One-hundred-and-fifty-thousand pounds had gone missing on her father’s watch. He was the only person who could have taken it.
Her stomach roiling, Emily forced her mind to think clearly. As deftly as a professional tennis player, Pascha had regained control of the court. But this wasn’t a game. Not to her. And, she knew, not to him either. What he was demanding of her was unbelievable, yet the set expression of those cool, grey eyes and the line of those wide, firm lips showed he wasn’t bluffing. ‘I can’t just leave... I have commitments...’
‘You didn’t think of those commitments when you entered my office for illegal purposes.’
‘Yes, I did, but I only planned on losing a couple of days if I got caught. Not that I expected you to catch me. I was told you were in Milan.’
‘You really are remarkably well-informed.’ Those gorgeous lips curved into the semblance of a smile. Gorgeous lips? Had her anger addled her brain...? ‘But have no fear—I will learn who your mole is.’
She threw him a tight ‘that’s what you think’ smile. Emily would never sell out a friend, especially to a man as dangerous as Pascha Virshilas, who ruined people’s health and reputations for fun. She would bet that was the extent of any fun he had. He was so buttoned up, he probably even treated sex with the utmost precision.
And now she was imagining his sex life—where on earth had that come from? He’d unnerved her more than she’d credited.
Pascha rose to his feet and looked at his watch. ‘I will give you five minutes to make your decision: your father’s freedom in exchange for yours.’
‘But where will I go? I have nowhere to go to.’
‘I have somewhere to take you. It’s safe and out of the way.’
Leaving her standing there to glower at his retreating figure, Pascha opened the inter-connecting door and stepped into his private space.
Emily would agree. Complying would give her exactly what she’d come here for.
He pulled out his phone and fired off an email to his PA, telling her to rearrange all his appointments for the next two days. As he wrote, he ruminated over the arrangements needed to get Emily out of the country and then immediately fired half a dozen more emails to the people and organisations he paid to make things like this happen.
Not that he’d ever done something quite like this before. And, if he felt any discomfort over what he was doing, he was quick to remind himself that she’d thrown the first ball. Emily had broken into his office to steal his company’s data and then had tried to blackmail him. She didn’t deserve him to feel any guilt.
Everything was in hand with regards to the Plushenko buyout. All the negotiations had been finalised; now it was just a case of dotting every ‘i’ and crossing every ‘t’. His lawyers were in the process of doing just that. There was nothing more for him to do other than sign the final contracts in exactly one week.
Escorting Emily to Aliana Island wouldn’t affect anything. He could accompany her there and be back in Europe within thirty-six hours. And yet...
Pascha didn’t like leaving anything to chance. He wanted to be there on the scene should any unexpected crises be thrown up, not halfway round the world with a blackmailing thief.
The inter-connecting door opened and Emily burst into his private space, a space not even his executive secretary or PA were permitted to enter. More curls had sprung free from the bun she’d wedged her hair in, ebony tendrils falling over her face and down her back.
Without any preliminaries, she launched straight in. ‘If I agree to effectively be kidnapped by you, I want it in writing that you’ll exonerate my father from any and all charges.’
‘I’ve already agreed to that.’
‘I want your written guarantee. I doubt he’ll ever be in a position to return to work, so I also want you to back-date the money he’s been denied since being under suspension. And I want you to give him a decent pay-off of, say, a quarter of a million pounds.’
Pascha shock his head, almost laughing at her nerve. ‘Your demands are ridiculous.’
She shrugged mutinously. ‘That’s what I want. If you agree to my demands, then I will agree to your demands.’
‘I think you forget who is in the driving seat. I’m not the one whose father’s future hangs in the balance.’
‘True. But your wish for secrecy over your involvement in the Plushenko deal is in the balance.’ Here, her face transformed, lighting up with faux sweetness. ‘Either you agree to my demands or I whistle it to the world. We can call it a deal of mutual benefit or, if you prefer, mutually beneficial blackmail.’
Emily had never been on the receiving end of such pure loathing before. It radiated off him like a rippling wave.
She refused to cower.
She didn’t care what the motivation was for his buy-out, knew only that it had to be something more than a simple business deal. Either that or the man was completely insane because no one went to such great lengths to secure a business deal.
No. For Pascha Virshilas, this buy-out was, for whatever reason, personal. And if he could use her emotions for leverage then she could certainly use his emotions for her own benefit—or, in this case, her father’s.
Now the ball was back in his court.
After what felt like an age, he gave a sharp nod. ‘I will agree to your demands with regards to your father, but you will disappear until my buy-out is complete. If at any point you find an opportunity to talk and are stupid enough to take it, our deal will be null and void and I will personally ruin the pair of you.’
* * *
Pascha pulled up outside the house in the London suburb Emily had given him as her address.
‘You live here?’ The cosy, mock-Tudor house was nothing like the home he’d imagined she would have. ‘This is my father’s home,’ she answered shortly. ‘I rented my flat out and moved back in a month ago.’
‘That must have been a come-down, moving back in with your parents.’
She fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Do not presume to know me or know anything about my life. Give me twenty minutes. I need to arrange some matters and get my stuff together.’
He opened his door before returning the stare. ‘I’m coming in with you.’
‘You certainly are not.’
‘I’m not giving you a choice. Until we get to your destination, you’re not leaving my sight.’
The fire running in her eyes sparked. ‘To be clear, if you say or do anything to upset my father then our agreement can go to hell.’
‘Then you will be the one dealing with the consequences.’
‘As will you.’ Before his eyes, her face transformed, the hardness softening to become almost childlike. ‘Please, Pascha. He’s in a very bad place. You probably won’t even see him but, if you do, please be kind.’
He’d never had any intention of upsetting her father. All the same, he found himself agreeing to her heartfelt plea. ‘I will say nothing to upset him.’
And, just like that, she went back into her hard shell and jumped out of the car. ‘Let’s go in, then.’
He followed her through the front door and into a spacious yet homely house.
‘Dad?’ she called, shouting up the stairs. ‘It’s only me. I’ll be up in a minute with a cup of tea for you.’ Not waiting for an answer, she headed into a large kitchen-diner, put the kettle on and reached for the house phone.
Pascha grabbed her wrist before she could dial the number. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘My brother. I told you, I have things to organise. Now, take your hand off me.’
Not trusting her an inch, he complied, stepping back far enough to give them both a little space, but remaining close enough to disconnect the call should she try anything.
‘James?’ she said into the receiver. ‘It’s only me. Look, I’m sorry for the short notice, but I need you to come and stay with dad for the next week and not just tonight.’
From the way she sucked her angular cheekbones in, and the impatience of her tone as the conversation went back and forth, she wasn’t happy with her brother’s responses.
Emily was clearly a bossy big sister but beneath it all he heard genuine affection. He could well imagine her ordering her brother around from the moment of his birth.
His mind turned to the man he’d always regarded as a brother, the same man who would sooner drive Plushenko’s—the business he’d inherited from their father—into the ground rather than sell it to Pascha.
While Pascha had openly hero-worshipped him, Marat had never made any secret of his loathing for Pascha. When Pascha had been seriously ill and death had been hovering, real, Marat had wanted him—the boy he’d liked to call the cuckoo in the nest—to die.
Emily’s conversation ended with her saying, ‘Mandy’s around during the day if you need to go into the office. I’m only asking you to come for a week—you’ll be fine. Amsterdam will still be there when you get back.’
She disconnected the call and immediately put the receiver back to her ear, dialling yet another number. This time, she relayed that an emergency had come up and asked whoever was on the receiving end to tell someone called Hugo that she needed to take a week’s leave of absence.
‘Are you done?’ Pascha asked when she’d replaced the receiver.
‘Yes.’
‘No boyfriend to call?’ He didn’t even attempt to hide his sarcasm.
In response, she threw him the hardest look he’d ever been on the receiving end of, and in his thirty-four years that was saying something.
‘No.’ With that, she went back to the freshly boiled kettle.
‘I take my coffee black with one sugar,’ he informed her as she tossed a teabag into a mug, poured hot water onto it, followed by a splash of milk, and gave it a vigorous stir.
‘That’s nice.’ She picked up the mug and swooped past him.
‘It is good manners to offer guests refreshments.’
She came to an abrupt halt and spun around, somehow managing not to spill a single drop of tea. ‘You are not a guest in this house and you never will be.’
For a moment, Pascha seriously contemplated forgetting his promise to send Emily somewhere safe and simply lock her in a sound-proof cupboard for a week.
Keeping close to her tail, he followed her up the stairs. When they reached the top, she turned back to him. This time she whispered, although she still perfectly managed to convey her hatred towards him. ‘This is my father’s room. Do not come in. Seeing you might just tip him over the edge.’
‘Then keep the door open. I want to hear what you’re saying.’
‘You’ll find our conversation scintillating.’ She rapped her knuckles on the door, pushed it open and stepped over the threshold into a dusky bedroom, curtains drawn.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Emily said, speaking in such a gentle voice he could easily have believed it was someone else talking. ‘I’ve made you a cup of tea.’
Pascha watched as she went to the window and drew the curtains back.
‘Let’s get some air in here,’ she said in the same gentle voice, opening the window. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Honestly, Dad, you would love it out there. It really feels like autumn now.’
The daylight streaming into the room allowed Pascha to spot the full-length mirror on the wall, which gave him a perfect view of the still figure in the bed.
With Emily keeping up a stream of steady, gentle chatter, the figure slowly rolled over and lifted his head an inch before slumping back down.
Pascha’s jaw dropped open to see him.
Malcolm Richardson was unrecognisable from the man he’d suspended just a month ago.
He looked as if he’d aged two decades.
A stab of something Pascha couldn’t place jabbed in his guts.
It wasn’t long before Emily re-joined him. ‘Get a good look, did you?’ she shot as she sidled past and over to a room on the other side of the landing.
‘Don’t be facetious,’ he snapped, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘When will your brother be here?’
She hadn’t been exaggerating. Her father really was in a bad way.
‘As soon as he finishes his meeting.’
‘And he can care for your father?’
‘Yes. He runs his own business—he’s a financial advisor and sets his own schedule. The next-door neighbour pops in during the day when she can.’
‘We need to make a move soon,’ Pascha said, trying to ignore the new insistent jabbing in the pit of his stomach. However much his conscience might be turning on him, he couldn’t let Emily stay. The risk was too great. ‘We have a flight slot to fill.’
‘You’re taking me abroad?’
‘Yes.’
‘I expected you to leave me in a dungeon somewhere.’
‘That’s a very tempting thought.’
She opened the door with a scowl. ‘You can come in, but only because I don’t want my dad finding you out here.’
Emily took a deep breath and admitted Pascha into her room.
He made no comment, just stood there taking it all in.
To her chagrin, she was embarrassed for him to see it. She’d done her best, but comparing it to the sterility of his office made her see all the flaws. It was as tidy and as organised as she’d been able to manage but it was hard cramming an entire life into a childhood bedroom.
She thought with longing of her cosy flat, could only hope her short-term tenants were treating it with respect.
She pushed the thought aside. It could be months before she was able to move back. Torturing herself wouldn’t change her circumstances.
‘It’s going to take me a while to get my things together,’ she said, mentally shaking herself. ‘Feel free to take a seat.’
‘And where am I supposed to sit?’ he asked. The small armchair in the corner was piled high with old clothes she planned to recycle into something new.
‘On the floor?’ she suggested with faux sweetness, yanking open the wardrobe door, glad she could hide her flaming cheeks.
Her room wasn’t messy but it was filled with so much stuff. A lifetime’s worth. If she didn’t need to keep James’s room free for the times he came to stay, she would appropriate it.
She would rather rip her own heart out than use her mother’s small craft study. How many hours had they spent together in that room, working together, her mother teaching her how to create her own clothes? Too many to count.
Ignoring her suggestion, Pascha gathered the pile of clothes and placed it on the floor atop a neat stack of magazines, which promptly fell down under the weight. He raised an eyebrow then gingerly took a seat.
‘Seeing as you’re shunting me off abroad, what kind of weather should I pack for?’
‘Hot.’
She pulled a face.
He leaned forwards slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs and exposing the tops of his golden forearms. ‘You don’t like the heat?’
‘It makes my skin itch.’ Disconcerted that a tiny glimpse of his arms made her blood feel thick and sluggish, she opened a drawer, gathered an armful of underwear and dumped it unceremoniously into the suitcase. Feeling Pascha’s eyes watch her every move was even more disturbing, making her feel dishevelled and strangely hot.
Wanting to get out of the close confines of her bedroom as soon as possible, she packed quickly, throwing armfuls of garments into the case.
‘I need to get changed,’ she said, once she was satisfied she had enough suitable clothing for a week in the sun.
Pascha eyed her coolly before inclining his head and turning his chair so his back was to her.
In any other circumstance he would have left the room and given her the privacy she needed. In this circumstance, he could not.
He tried to tune out the sound of a zip being pulled down, the rustle of clothes being shed.
Determinedly, he focused his mind to running over the day’s stock prices. Anything other than think about what was happening behind him where Emily was undressing...
He swallowed, trying to bring moisture into a mouth that had run dry.
He would not allow his thoughts to stray into such inappropriate territory.
Emily was leaving the country with him unwillingly, through circumstances neither of them could have wished for. That she was a single female should not mean anything.
All the same, the air trapped in his lungs didn’t expel until she said, ‘I’m decent.’
He twisted his chair back around.
She’d changed into a long, floating black dress with thin sleeves and was placing the business outfit she’d worn onto a coat hanger.
‘So you do know to hang clothes properly,’ he said as she hooked it into her wardrobe.
Her dark-brown eyes caught his and narrowed. ‘These belonged to my mother. She did the occasional temping work.’
Belonged...? ‘Your mother is...?’
‘Dead. Yes.’ The way her gaze fixed on him, it was as if she held him personally responsible for her loss. But there was something else there too, a flash of misery, quickly hidden but sharp for all its briefness.
‘I’m sorry.’ He truly meant it, too.
‘So am I.’ Her mouth set in a straight line that he understood to mean this topic is not open for discussion, Emily undid the bun holding the few tresses that had not already escaped before scooping the mass of curls back up and shoving a tortoiseshell comb high on the top, ringlets spilling over her face in a style that accentuated her high cheekbones.
‘Is this really necessary?’ he asked when she sat on the dressing table chair and began applying make-up.
‘Yes,’ she said, cleverly darkening her eyes. While she didn’t go as far as she had at his party, there was more than a little hint of the theatrical when she’d finished.
He hated to admit it but the look really suited her.
He looked at his watch. ‘If you’re not ready in two minutes, I will carry you out of the house.’
‘Good luck with that.’
Her stony gaze met his through the reflection in the mirror. For the briefest of moments, something sparked between them, a look that sent a wave of heat sailing through his skin and down to his loins.
Emily broke the look with an almost imperceptible frown.
‘What’s the weight limit for my luggage?’ she asked, packing cosmetics into a large vanity case.
‘We’ll be travelling on my jet so there are no limits.’
‘Good.’ She dived back into her wardrobe.
‘Now what are you getting?’ His irritation had reached maximum peak, both at her attitude and the unfeasible reaction she seemed to be igniting within him.
The sooner he left her on Aliana Island, the better.
‘My sewing machine.’ She pulled out a large square case and dumped it on the bed beside the suitcase.
‘Would you like me to un-plumb your kitchen sink for you while you’re at it?’
The ghost of a smile curled on her cheeks, but she ignored his comment and slid under the bed.
Exasperated beyond belief, Pascha was suddenly distracted by the sight of dark-blue nail varnish on her pretty toes...and a small butterfly tattoo on her left ankle.
He couldn’t say he liked tattoos but he couldn’t deny that Emily’s was tasteful. Delicate, even.
When she re-emerged, her hair having escaped the tortoiseshell clip and fallen down her back, she pulled out four large cardboard tubes.
‘What’s in those?’
‘Fabric.’ At his questioning look, she added, ‘Well, it’s pointless taking my sewing machine if I have nothing to make with it.’
‘Have you got your passport?’
‘It’s in my handbag.’
Gritting his teeth, Pascha got to his feet and lifted the weighty suitcase. If he’d known she kept her passport on her, he could have taken her straight to the bloody airport without any of this ridiculous carrying on.
Think of the reward at the end, he reminded himself. In one week this would be over. It would all be over.
In seven days, his redemption would be complete.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_252b91e8-1848-53ca-a5b5-c64b0485eb87)
EMILY SIGNED HER PART of the agreement before they boarded the plane, refusing to climb the metal steps until Pascha had signed his part too. He’d typed it on his laptop on the drive to the airport, printing it off in the executive lounge. She’d also insisted on getting it witnessed by one of the flight crew.
One week of her life and her father’s good name would be restored. He’d receive a quarter of a million pounds too, enough to see him through to old age. If he made it to old age, that was. At that moment, she wasn’t prepared to take anything for granted when it came to her father. He was too fragile to look beyond the next day. Surely the anti-depressants would kick in soon?
She pushed aside thoughts that when her week was up she would likely find herself without a job. The odds were not in her favour. Hugo was temperamental at the best of times. All the leave she’d had to take at the last minute recently, coupled with her request not to travel outside the UK for the foreseeable future, were strikes against her name. A further week’s leave without warning would be the final straw.
The moment they were airborne, she ignored Pascha and tried to immerse herself in the fashion magazines she’d brought with her. Normally she loved flipping through them, finding inspiration in the most obscure things, but today she couldn’t concentrate. Her brain was too wired, as if she’d had a dozen espressos in a row.
She’d known getting caught in Pascha’s office would have basic risks attached to it but she’d assumed the worst that could happen would be a night in a prison cell. She’d arranged for James to spend the night with her father in that eventuality. That particular risk had been worth it for the chance of clearing her father’s name and giving him something that might, just might, give him some form of hope to cling to. Something that might prevent him from sinking another bottle of Scotch and throwing dozens of pills down his throat again.
Her father was broken. He’d given up.
She hadn’t been a strong enough reason for him to want to live.
* * *
By the time they embarked onto the small luxury yacht in Puerto Rico that would take them on the last leg of their trip, Emily’s brain hurt. Her heart hurt.
Leaving Pascha to talk safety issues with the yacht’s skipper, in much the same way he’d discussed safety issues with the flight crew before they’d taken off from London, Emily settled onto a sofa in the saloon and closed her eyes, blinds shading her from the late-afternoon sun.
She must have fallen asleep as a tap on her shoulder made her open her eyes with a snap.
Pascha loomed over her. He wore the same outfit he’d been in when he’d caught her in his office hours earlier, but still looked as fresh as if he’d just dressed.
‘We’ll be there soon,’ he said before turning round and heading back outside, leaving his dreadful citrus scent behind him. Okay, maybe it wasn’t dreadful. Maybe it was actually rather nice. Too nice. It made her feel...hungry. She didn’t want to like anything about him, not even his scent.
Despite her worry and lethargy, she couldn’t help but experience a whisper of excitement when she joined him on deck and felt the warmth of the sun beat down on her face. It really was a picture-perfect scene. Not a single cloud marred the cobalt sky.
Pascha pointed out the tiny, verdant island before them poking out of the Atlantic—or was it the Caribbean? They were right at the border between the two watery giants. In the far distance she could see a cluster of larger islands, seemingly surrounding the smaller one like sentries.
‘That is Aliana Island.’ It was the first time he’d put a name to her final destination.
Aliana Island: even its name was beautiful.
Emily reminded herself that it should make no difference whether her prison for the next week was an under-stairs cupboard or a virtual paradise. Her reasons for being there were the same. She was there against her will.
All the same, the closer they got to their destination, the more her spirits lifted. The island didn’t appear to get any bigger, but she could see more detail. The deep blue sea beneath them lightened, turning a clearer turquoise than she could have dreamed of, the sandy beach before them sparkling under the beaming sun.
‘We have to be careful getting to the island,’ Pascha explained in that clipped manner she was becoming used to. ‘It’s surrounded by a coral reef.’
‘Aren’t they dangerous for boats?’ She didn’t know much about coral reefs but that was one thing she was fairly certain of.
‘Exceedingly dangerous,’ he agreed. ‘Only a fool would navigate coral waters without any prior knowledge of them. Luis has been navigating these waters for years.’
‘That’s good to know,’ she murmured without surprise. In the short time she’d known him, Pascha had proved himself a man who took security and safety extremely seriously.
‘Is that a temple?’ she asked, spotting what looked like some kind of Buddhist retreat set back a little from the beach.
‘No. It’s my lodge.’
‘Your lodge?’
‘Aliana Island belongs to me.’
Despite herself, Emily was impressed. Looking carefully, she could see other, smaller buildings with thatched roofs branching off the main one. ‘It’s beautiful. How did it get its name? Was Aliana the person who discovered it?’
‘No. Aliana is my mother.’
‘Really?’ Something flittered over her face, a look he couldn’t discern but made him think his answer had pleased her somehow. ‘You named an island after your mother? What a fabulous thing to do. I bet she was delighted when you told her, wasn’t she?’
‘She...’
He struggled to think of the correct wording to describe his mother’s reaction—the slap across his face and the words, ‘You think an island can repair the damage you caused?’
He decided on, ‘She wasn’t displeased.’
He’d bought the island three years before. The ink on the purchase contract had barely dried before he’d changed its name.
He’d had it all planned out. He would visit his mother and Andrei after five years of estrangement. As part of his atonement, he would invite them to spend a holiday with him on the island. He would give them their own keys and tell them to think of it as theirs too—a special place for them all to share and use however they saw fit.
Time and distance had given him a great deal of perspective. When he closed his eyes, all he saw was the worry etched on his mother’s face as she’d watched over the small son she hadn’t known whether would live or die. He’d seen the stress Andrei had carried with him but had never shown his adopted son. The thick, dark hair had thinned and whitened too quickly; the capable hands had calloused seemingly overnight.
Fate had worked against him. Shortly before the lodge had been completed, before Pascha had been able to make things right between them, Andrei had died. He’d gone to bed and never woken up. A heart attack.
The man who’d raised him as if he were his own, who’d worked his fingers to the bone to give Pascha the chance to live, the man Pascha had walked away from...had gone. He’d lost the opportunity to apologise and make amends. He’d lost the opportunity to tell him that he loved him.
His grief-stricken mother...
Pascha’s apology and remorse had washed right over her. His words had come too late. He should have said them when Andrei was alive. Aliana Island was just a possession; it meant nothing to his mother, not when she no longer had her beloved husband to enjoy it with.
But, while he might never be able to make amends with Andrei personally, he could secure his legacy. It was the only thing he could do. And if he was successful...maybe then his mother would forgive him. Their relationship could be repaired—he had to believe that.
‘Do you spend much time here?’ Emily asked, thankfully moving the conversation onto safer territory.
‘Not as much as I would like.’
The yacht had been brought into a lagoon and moored alongside a small jetty. A panelling in the side of the yacht unfurled to reveal metal steps for them to disembark from. Pascha strolled down the steps and made his way up the jetty.
He was sorely tempted to get Luis, the man he employed to skipper his yacht, to take him straight back to Puerto Rico so he could take his jet directly to Paris, his next destination. However, he’d been awake for over a day, having flown from Milan to London in the early hours. He needed sleep. If there was one thing Pascha did not mess around with, it was his health, and sleep was instrumental to it.
The odds of the illness which had threatened his life as a child returning was miniscule, but a miniscule chance was worse than no chance at all. Sleep, exercise and a healthy diet were all things he could control. Controlling them lowered that miniscule chance, putting the odds even more in his favour.
He’d planned to sleep on the flight from London but for once had been unable to, his awareness of the proximity of his guest having made it impossible for him to relax. He kept catching wafts of the perfume Emily had applied before he’d finally got her out of her bedroom. Her scent was delicious, an earthy smell with a touch of honeyed sweetness his senses responded to of their own accord, much to his annoyance.
He needed rest, and for that he’d need space. He would have a quick meal then get his head down—eight solid hours to recharge his batteries—then leave at first light.
He followed the pathway, traversing the beach up to the main entrance of the lodge, aware of Emily following behind him. Valeria, his head of housekeeping, was there to greet them.
After exchanging pleasantries, he said, ‘Please show Miss Richardson to her guest hut and show her where everything is. Are we okay to eat in an hour?’
Valeria nodded. His unplanned visit hadn’t fazed her in the slightest. Under normal circumstances Pascha would give proper notice of a planned visit so she could prepare for it. Today she’d had roughly twelve hours to get everything ready, but from what he could see everything was in hand.
When he stepped into his hut, everything was exactly as it should be, not a speck of dust to be seen. Before heading to the bathroom, he stepped out onto the veranda and breathed in the salty air, closing his eyes as he willed the usual peace he found on Aliana Island to envelope him.
With Emily Richardson there, he suspected peace would be a long way off.
* * *
If Emily’s eyes were capable of widening any further, they would have. Connected to the main house by a set of dark hardwood stairs, her hut looked more like an enormous high-end luxury cabin than anything else, with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up to give a panoramic view, not just of the island but the surrounding ocean. The entire front section of the hut was one huge sliding door. Steps led out to a private veranda with a dining table, then down to a balcony with an abundance of soft white sun-loungers. More steps led down onto the beach.
After a quick discussion about Emily’s dietary requirements—apparently there were three chefs on site to prepare whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted—Valeria left her to settle in.
Alone, Emily tried to take it all in, but she was so overwhelmed by her hut, her surroundings, the fact that Aliana Island was a private paradise...
And this was her prison. A jail with a four-poster bed.
It felt as if she’d been plunged into the middle of a fantastical dream.
In the far corner of her hut was a roll-topped bath. She longed to get into it but felt too exposed with all the surrounding glass. Instead, she opted for a shower in her bathroom, which was mercifully private, then changed into a pair of three-quarter-length skinny black trousers with silver sequins running down the lines and a silky grey vest top. She applied her make-up with care. She’d always adored wearing make-up, loved the way it could enhance a mood. Today it felt as if she were applying battle armour.
Her appearance taken care of, she set about unpacking then padded out barefoot onto the veranda. Her spirits soared further when she found her own small private swimming pool. She’d caught a glimpse of the long pool that snaked around the main house, but to find she had her own one too...and one that was entirely private.
Now that she really took stock of everything, she could see she really did have complete privacy. No one could see into her space. She decided that she would definitely use the bath in the morning.
She checked herself, forcing a curb on her excitement. This was not a holiday. Not by a long mark. She must not forget that.
It wasn’t until she leaned over the pebbled wall separating her balcony from the steps down to the beach that she caught a glimpse of another hut overhanging to the left of hers. Craning her neck for a better look, she jerked when she saw Pascha leaning over his own wall talking into his mobile phone, the top part of his naked torso visible...
He must have sensed her gaze for he suddenly looked down. For the briefest of moments their eyes locked before she tore her eyes away and stepped back, out of sight.
She inhaled deeply and placed a hand to her chest. Her heart raced, her skin tingled and, much as she tried to blink the image away, all she could see was the hard chest with a smattering of dark hair over taut muscles.
Utterly unnerved by her reaction to semi-naked Pascha, Emily resolved to stay in her hut for the rest of the evening, using its phone to call down to the kitchen and request her dinner be brought up to her.
It felt safer to keep out of his way. Much safer.
In the meantime, she needed to call home. But picking up the receiver proved a fruitless task. The phone in her hut connected to the main house but nowhere else. As soon as she dialled any other number, a beep rang in her ear. She was disappointed, but she wasn’t surprised. The whole point in Pascha keeping her there was to stop her communicating with anyone. All the same, she decided to try her mobile phone. She curled up on an outdoor sofa that was completely hidden from view and switched it on. Nothing. No signal bars, no Internet access. Nothing. No wonder Pascha hadn’t bothered trying to take it from her.
She muttered a curse just as a soft buzzer went off in her room.
‘Come in,’ she called, assuming it was her dinner being brought to her. Rising to her feet, she gave a sharp intake of breath when she found Pascha in her hut.
‘How have you settled in?’ he asked, stepping out to join her on the veranda. He’d changed into dark linen trousers and an open-necked light blue shirt. Were it not for the fact his attire had been ironed to within an inch of its life, and his hair styled to such an extent that not a single strand dared depart from the slight quiff, she would have said he looked casual. But then, casual was a state of mind. Emily doubted he ever switched off.
‘I’ve settled in fine,’ she replied, resisting the urge to push him back into the hut and shove him out through the French doors. It wouldn’t make any difference if she did; they’d only be separated by the windows. She held her phone out to him. ‘I need to call home.’
He didn’t even look at it. ‘There’s a block on all electronic communications without an access code.’
‘I gathered that. I need to call home. Is there another phone I can use?’
‘You only left this morning.’
‘A lot can happen in a day.’ At his narrowing eyes, she quickly added, ‘You can hover by my side while I make the call and satisfy yourself that I’m not revealing any state secrets. I just want to make sure my dad’s okay and that my brother’s got there.’
Silence hung between them while Pascha contemplated her request. After what felt like an age, he inclined his head. ‘You can use my phone.’
‘Seeing as my phone is useless here, I’ll need a number my dad and brother can reach me on too.’ She’d assumed he would take her phone and keep it on him, had assumed her family would be able to reach her even if she couldn’t contact them.
When it looked as if he would refuse, she folded her arms. ‘Look, you either let me give them an emergency contact number or I will make it my business to be the most difficult guest you’ve ever had here.’
‘You’re already the most difficult guest I’ve ever had here.’ Was it her imagination or was that a glimmer of humour in his eyes?
‘You haven’t seen anything yet.’
‘I can well believe it. You can call home and give my number as an emergency contact, but it can wait until after we’ve eaten.’
This time it was her eyes that narrowed.
His cheeks formed a semblance of a smile. ‘Yes, Emily, you will be dining with me tonight.’
‘I was planning on eating on my veranda. Alone,’ she added pointedly.
‘You can dine alone on your veranda for the rest of the week but this evening I require the pleasure of your company. My staff have set up the beach table for us.’ From the way he enunciated the word ‘pleasure’, it was obvious he found the prospect of her company nothing of the sort.
‘Why not?’ She threw him a brittle smile. ‘You and I are clearly ideal candidates for a romantic meal for two.’
His lips tightened. ‘Circumstances are what they are. I’ll be leaving for Paris first thing in the morning and there are a number of things we need to discuss before I leave.’
‘Excellent.’ She grinned at him without an ounce of warmth. ‘Let’s get this over with, then—with any luck it’ll be the last time we have to suffer one another’s company.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_04a1d617-b318-50fc-910f-b32aee20c3f3)
THE LONG TABLE on the beach had been set up for them just metres from the lapping waves of the ocean, tea-lights in lanterns glowing under the dusky sky.
‘We’re sitting on mats?’ she asked, nodding at the thick cushions on the sand.
‘Do you have a problem with that?’
She shrugged. ‘No. I’m just surprised—I imagined you’d be averse to getting sand on your expensive clothes.’
‘I find the sound of the ocean soothing,’ he answered shortly. Emily’s antagonism towards him was becoming trying. She had no one to blame for her predicament but herself. ‘After the day I’ve had, I could use some respite.’
She settled onto a mat, tucking her bare feet beneath her. They really were the most delicate feet, he noticed: petite, much like the rest of her. Except her luscious mouth, of course.
He’d followed behind as they’d descended the stairs, holding onto the rail while she bounded down the steps without support, her long black hair, free from confinement, springing in all directions.
Emily had an energy about her that zinged. He found it intriguing. He found her intriguing. Any other woman in her predicament likely would have resorted to tears to get her own way. Emily had only become more defiant.
For the first time in a long time the image of Yana came into his mind, startling him. He never thought of his ex, had ruthlessly dispelled all memories of her so she was just a hazy figure in his past.
Yana and Emily were polar opposites, in looks and temperament.
The more time he spent with Emily, the more he was reminded of an uncut fire opal, passionate and vibrant. Yana was as polished as a Plushenko diamond. But by the time he’d ended their relationship she’d been a diamond without the lustre. And it had all been his fault.
He’d never had a problem attracting women but since he’d broken away from Andrei and set up on his own, building a multi-billion-dollar business in less than a decade, the feminine attention had become altogether hungrier. They were all wasting their time, something he spelt out at the outset of any fling. Sex was the most he could offer, the most he could give.
He’d destroyed the cut and polish of one woman. He would never put another in that position.
His thoughts were interrupted by a member of staff bringing out their starter of grilled squid and topping their wineglasses with chilled white before disappearing.
Pascha watched Emily take a bite, her lips moving in a way he could only describe as sensual. She really did have the sexiest of lips.
‘What?’ she asked a few moments later, looking at him quizzically.
To his chagrin, he realised he’d been too busy staring to take a bite of his own food.
He speared his fork into the delicate flesh of the squid. ‘While you’re staying here, I don’t want you feeling you have to hide yourself away.’
‘That won’t be a problem when you’ve left. I’m looking forward to exploring your island.’
‘Good.’ It shouldn’t bother him that she didn’t want to be in his company. It didn’t bother him. ‘You’ll find the island a place of hidden treasures. My staff are highly trained and able to cater for any wish you might have, which leads me to the next item on the agenda.’
‘Do you want me to take minutes?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You mentioned items on an agenda.’ She put her knife and fork together and pushed her plate forward. ‘Would you like me to act as secretary and write a set of minutes so neither of us forget what’s discussed?’
Were it not for the unexpected spark of light that flashed in her eyes, he could have believed she was serious. ‘I’m sure you’ll remember it all without any problem.’
‘A near compliment? I’m touched.’
His smile loosened a fraction. ‘Onto my next item—my staff. I hand-picked them all and I do not want them upset in any shape or form.’
The spark of light in Emily’s eyes vanished. ‘My problem is with you, not your staff.’
‘So long as you remember that. They follow my directives and know not to help you communicate with the outside world. Don’t embarrass yourself or them by asking for their help.’
‘I can go along with that so long as you promise to pass on any message from my family straight away.’
‘If they get in touch once I’ve left the island, I will let Valeria know and she will pass on any message.’
‘You’d better,’ she muttered, becoming mute as staff inconspicuously cleared their starters away before returning with their main course. Soon, an array of fresh lobster, salads and spicy rice dishes was placed before them.
Emily heaped her plate with a little of everything then, using a bare hand, gripped the body of the lobster. Her eyes met his, insolence ringing from them as she reached for a claw with her other hand and twisted it off with a snap.
Pascha winced. While Emily attacked her lobster with relish, only using her crackers when absolutely necessary, Pascha used a more methodical approach, taking great care with the hard shell. By the time they’d finished eating, he was as clean as when he’d started, while her lips and fingers were slippery with butter.
His blood thickened as an image came into his mind of those slick fingers touching him...
What was it with this woman? Since he’d given Yana her freedom, he’d had more than his share of brief encounters, all with highly groomed, beautiful women who looked good on his arm. Not one of those women had roused him in anything other than the most basic of fashions. They certainly hadn’t roused his senses. Not in the way Emily was doing at that moment and she wasn’t even trying.
‘Anything else you want to discuss?’ she asked, pulling him out of his wayward thoughts. Bowls of hot flannels were placed before them and she took one, dabbing at her mouth, that beautiful, sensual mouth, and wiping her hands.
‘No. That’s everything.’ There had been other issues but at that moment his brain felt as if a hazy fog had been tipped into it.
It was time to step away from this situation.
He should have got his staff to set up the dining hall, which had a table large enough to seat thirty. He should have stuck her right at the other end from him, all communication via megaphone.
If he hadn’t wanted to eat by the ocean, he would have done just that, but in the morning he would leave for Paris, unlikely to return for a few months. There was something soothing about the sound of the gentle, rippling waves. It brought a contentment he’d never found anywhere else, a knowledge that whatever he did and wherever his future lay the tides would still turn.
‘In that case, let’s move on to “any other business”: my phone call home.’ She held a hand out, palm up. ‘You gave me your word.’
He had to admire her devotion to her father. Such intense loyalty, she’d been prepared to spend a night in a police cell for it. It almost made him forgive that it had been his office she’d broken into and his data she’d attempted to steal. Almost.
Where had his own loyalty been eight years ago? He’d put his pride first and now it was too late. Andrei had died estranged from the adopted son he’d once adored. Was it any wonder his mother couldn’t forgive him?
Snapping himself out of the settling melancholy, he pulled his smart phone out of his pocket and keyed in the password. ‘What’s the number?’
She recited it from memory. As soon as he heard the tone connecting the two lines, he passed it to her. She practically snatched it from him and pressed it to her ear.
‘James?’ Emily couldn’t hide her relief. Her brother was there.
After hearing that her father had refused to get out of bed for his dinner, never mind eat it, Emily’s eyes darted back to Pascha, who was watching her.
There were so many more questions she wanted to ask, but she resisted.
Now was not the time, not with Pascha listening in so closely. It was one thing for people to know how ill her father was, but his suicide attempt... No; that was between James, her and the medical profession. When her father recovered—and he would; whatever it took to get him better she would do it—she didn’t want him living with the stigma of being the man who’d tried to kill himself. He wouldn’t want it for himself. When he was well, his pride was everything. It had always been that way.
‘My phone hasn’t got a signal here,’ she lied to her brother. ‘So use this number if there’s an emergency. It’s right there in front of you on caller display—write it down, James. By the way, has Hugo called?’ She didn’t know if it was relief or dread she felt when James replied in the negative.
Disconnecting the call, she handed the phone back.
Her chest felt full and heavy and she suddenly realised she was on the verge of tears.
‘Who is Hugo?’ Pascha asked. ‘You mentioned him earlier.’
Emily sighed.
‘Hugo is my boss. Or perhaps I should say was my boss.’
Pascha arched a brow. ‘Was?’
‘Unless Hugo’s had a new heart transplanted into him, I won’t have a job to go back to. Most employers wouldn’t be happy about a key member of staff taking off for a week’s leave on a whim, especially when that member of staff has already been given an official warning for taking too many unauthorised absences.’ Stopping herself, Emily clamped her lips together. Pascha didn’t care about her or her job. All she was to him was a potential threat that had to be hidden away.
Fashion design was all she’d ever wanted to do. But she shouldn’t complain about Hugo. He’d been incredibly supportive through what had been a horrific time, at least initially, but he had a business to run—something he’d made abundantly clear when he’d given her that official warning less than a month ago.
After a long, thoughtful pause, Pascha said in a softer tone, ‘I’m certain that if you explain the situation when you return Hugo will understand. He must know how ill your father is.’
Emily felt her heart lurch at the unexpected kindness from Pascha. Heartlessness she could cope with, but not that. Not now when her stomach felt so knotted she was having trouble holding down the beautiful food she’d just eaten.
Her mother had adored lobster, had been the person to teach her how to demolish one so effectively.
A wave of despair almost had her doubled over, lancing her stomach with a thousand thorns.
Her darling, darling mother; oh, how she missed her.
Emily fought to control her emotions. She couldn’t let him see it. She just couldn’t. He had enough power over her already.
‘I...I need to get some sleep,’ she said, backing away from him. ‘Was there anything else you wanted?’
He shook his head, a strange, penetrative expression in his eyes.
She gave a brief nod and turned on her heel, forcing her rubbery legs to walk.
By the time Emily slid the door of her cabin shut, the grief had abated and her sudden tears had retreated back into their ducts.
Sinking onto the bed, she gazed up at the ceiling.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/michelle-smart/the-russian-s-ultimatum/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.