The Russian's Ultimatum Page 15

  It felt good to feel something. The only other emotion she felt at that moment wasn’t even an emotion. It was numbness. She felt empty, as if she’d been drained of all the things that made her human.

  ‘Hi, sis,’ James said, stepping into the kitchen and heading straight to the oven where his dinner was keeping warm. ‘Good trip away?’

  ‘It was very...productive.’ He didn’t know about her job situation. Not yet. He could wait a little longer.

  ‘Right. Well, I’ve rebooked my trip to Amsterdam and I’ll be leaving on Friday.’

  ‘When are you going back home?’

  ‘After I’ve eaten this.’ He winked at her, taking the seat opposite her at the kitchen table. ‘I’ve missed my flat.’

  ‘Funnily enough, I’ve missed mine too.’ Emily waited for him to swallow his first mouthful. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  For once she didn’t laugh at her brother’s quip. ‘This can’t go on. We can’t fix Dad on our own—no, I can’t fix him on my own. He needs professional help and he needs it now. I’ve phoned the doctor to get the ball rolling about getting proper home care for him.’

  James eyed her shrewdly. ‘What’s brought the big change on? I thought you were adamant we didn’t need outside involvement.’

  ‘I was wrong. And I was wrong to give up my flat. I’ve given my tenants their month’s notice. I’ll be moving back in as soon as they’re out. From now on, you and I are going to share responsibility for Dad.’

  She didn’t wait for a reaction, simply got up and reached for a shelf stacked with her mum’s old cookbooks. She pulled one down and lobbed it on the table next to him.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘That, darling brother, is a sign from your little sister that it’s time to grow up and learn to take care of yourself. Oh, and seeing as I cooked dinner, you can do the clearing up.’ This time it was Emily’s turn to flash a wink before heading out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  When she reached the landing, she took a deep breath.

  That had been easier than she’d anticipated. There was definitely something to be said for not giving the other person time to answer back.

  She heard the creak of her father’s door and turned to find him standing at the threshold in his pyjamas, his eyes watery.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said. And just like that, her slightly lighter mood plummeted.

  * * *

  Pascha sat in the back of his Lexus gazing absently out of the window.

  It had all gone to hell.

  Everything.

  His driver turned the corner onto the road that housed his London office. A flash of curly black hair made him do a double-take.

  Craning his neck for a better look, he soon realised the Monday morning street was so thick with bodies he must have imagined it.

  He’d imagined he’d seen her a handful of times that day already. And a dozen the day before, when he hadn’t even left his house.

  If he was to see her now, in the flesh, he didn’t know how he would react.

  They pulled up outside his building and he got out, heading inside.

  As usual, he was greeted by a bustle of activity. Normally he enjoyed the vibrancy and energy. Today he could do without it.

  Today he wanted to be alone.

  He didn’t know what had propelled him to leave St. Petersburg late on Friday evening and come to London. After his confrontation with Marat, he could have gone anywhere. Why here?

  Ignoring all the welcoming although still nervous smiles, he went straight up to his office. As he punched in the code to his office floor, he remembered he still hadn’t changed it since Emily had sneaked in.

  Cathy, the executive secretary he’d inherited when he’d bought Bamber Cosmetics, was there to greet him. His PA must have warned her to expect him.

  ‘Can I make you a coffee?’ she asked once the pleasantries were out of the way.

  ‘No. I don’t want any visitors or calls today either.’ He swept into his office, closing the door firmly behind him.

  The morning dragged.

  He’d spent the weekend in his London home doing nothing but going over the events of the preceding week in his mind, which had culminated in his disastrous encounter with Marat.

  He rubbed at his eyes with his palms and got to his feet. He needed to find some energy. Regardless of what had happened with Marat, he still had a business to run. More coffee should do the trick.

  In his private room he switched the coffee machine on and read an email from Zlatan.

  He was about to pour his coffee out when movement on the monitor caught his attention.

  He stared. And stared some more.

  No. He wasn’t seeing things. There really was someone in his office. A pixie with a cascade of curly black hair.

  Eyes fixed on the monitor, he took long, deep breaths and swallowed away the enormous lump that had formed in his throat.

  Only when his composure was assured did he pour his coffee out and step through the door to her.

  ‘You seem to be making a habit of breaking into my office,’ he said, striding over to his desk.

  Emily was sat on the visitor’s seat. As he passed her he caught a waft of her earthy honey scent. He tightened his grip on his cup, glad to place it on his desk as he took his seat.

  Finally he could look at her properly.

  What he saw made his heart wrench and his stomach dip.

  She looked dreadful—really dreadful. Her skin was pale, her eyes red-raw, her hair even wilder than usual. She wore a deep-red jersey dress and thick black tights, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as if for warmth or protection.

  ‘I’m sorry for having to break back in,’ she said, speaking tentatively.

  ‘Evidently not sorry enough or you wouldn’t have pulled the same stunt twice,’ he said icily.

  She blanched. ‘I needed to see you. I didn’t want this conversation over the phone. Cathy let me know you’d come in. She said you weren’t accepting visitors so I waited until she went on her lunch break before sneaking in.’

  ‘You know Cathy?’

  She nodded.

  And, just like that, everything fell into place: Cathy was the mole. His own executive secretary had given Emily his schedule and the code for the floor.

  And, as all the pieces of the jigsaw slotted together, Emily’s face crumpled as she realised what she’d given away.

  ‘Oh, please, please don’t punish her. Please. She did it for my family. She’s worked here as long as my dad has—years ago, she was his secretary. She was my mum’s best friend and used to babysit me and James. Please don’t sack her. It’s my fault. She didn’t want to tell me anything but I used emotional blackmail to get your movements and the code out of her.’

  Pascha held up a hand to stop the torrent of words spilling from her lips.

  He had too much to think about as it was; his brain was overloaded. ‘I will think about Cathy later. Tell me why you’re here.’

  A fat tear rolled down her cheek. She let it fall all the way to her chin.

  He would not react to it. He would not react to her.

  She reached into her large handbag and pulled out an envelope which she handed to him.

  Wordlessly, he opened it. Inside was a cheque made out to him for the sum of a quarter of a million pounds.

  ‘What is this?’

  Emily’s chin wobbled, her lips trembling, her eyes filling. ‘It’s the money I blackmailed you into paying my father. His bank account was credited late last week. I couldn’t figure how to return it. Pascha, I... My...’

  He waited while she tried valiantly to compose herself, hating that he had
to fist his hands to stop them reaching out to her.

  ‘You...were right all along,’ she finally dragged out, her words stark. ‘My father stole the money.’

  Emily was still having trouble digesting it. For the past few days she’d thought of little else. She’d been so certain her father was innocent—one-hundred per cent positive. Doubt had never entered her head.

  It wasn’t just her father’s actions she was trying to comprehend, though. The magnitude of what she’d done had hit her too.

  She’d broken the law. She’d wilfully broken into Pascha’s office with the sole purpose of stealing his files...had been prepared to use blackmail to get what she wanted...and for what? Because she’d wanted to fix her father.

  Because she wanted him to love her when he was in the darkness as well as the light.

  She couldn’t fix what was in his head any more than she could fix him if he broke his leg. It was time to accept that.

  ‘I already knew your father had taken the money.’

  That shook her. ‘You did?’

  ‘It took Zlatan five minutes to learn that the money trail led straight to an account held by Malcolm Richardson.’ Something that looked like sympathy flickered in his cold eyes before he cast his gaze back down to the sheaths of paper spread out before him.

  Why was he being so cold?

  Why wouldn’t he look at her?

  ‘He gave the money to the hospice Mum spent her last days in.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Zlatan told me an hour before the beach party.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she whispered. ‘Why did you transfer all that money into his account when you knew he was guilty?’

  ‘Your father is ill. I do not want the money back and I will not be pressing charges.’ To compound his point, he picked up the cheque and ripped it into little pieces. ‘Keep this money. Use it to pay for full-time nursing care until he’s well enough to care for himself.’

  ‘It’s too much,’ she whispered.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, this is the end of the subject.’ He indicated the door. ‘Go home and tell your father he has nothing to fear from me. I wish him nothing but the best.’

  What was wrong with him?

  There was something...unkempt about him. A barely contained anger she hadn’t picked up on initially because she’d been too full of the need to purge herself of her guilt.

  He picked up an expensive-looking pen and made a mark on a sheet of paper. ‘Emily, I have a full schedule.’

  ‘Too full to spend ten minutes with me?’

  ‘Yes. Please leave.’ He picked up a folder and opened it.

  Legs shaking, she stood.

  He really was dismissing her. After everything they’d been through, he was dismissing her as if she were nothing but a lowly employee.

  Something inside of her went ping, a rush of fury that fired out of her fingers and had her leaning over his desk to wrench the folder from his grasp and toss it in the air.

  As it fell to the floor, dozens of pieces of paper fell from it, floating and landing around her.

  ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ he snarled, his face contorting.

  ‘I had to do something to get your attention. You’re acting as if I’m nothing to you, as if I’m some stranger who’s parked herself in your office. You won’t even look at me!’

  ‘That’s because looking at you...’ Whatever he was going to say, he cut himself off, punching his desk with a roar.

  Shock at his response rendered her mute. All she could do was stare at the man she loved and watch the unprecedented fury flow from him like a torrent.

  Something was badly wrong.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ He got to his feet. ‘I told you to leave.’

  ‘What is wrong with you? Did something go wrong with the Plushenko deal?’

  It was the mention of the word ‘Plushenko’ that sent Pascha’s fury erupting through his skin.

  Because of Emily, he’d finally understood that family meant more than pride.

  Because of Emily, he’d gone to his brother with the truth, believing that this time things could be different.

  He’d lost it all. Any hope of redemption and forgiveness was gone.

  He’d laid everything on the line, revealed that he was the face behind RG Holdings. Revealed his need to make amends for their father’s memory. When he’d finished his speech, he’d extended a hand. ‘So what do you say?’ he’d said. ‘Are you prepared to draw a line under the past?’

  Marat had stared at his hand before his thin lips had formed into a sneer. He’d pushed his chair back and got to his feet. ‘I told you two years ago that I wouldn’t sell the business to you. I would rather it went to the dogs than fall into your hands.’

  How had he ever allowed himself to think that this time things might be different?

  There had been no point in prolonging the meeting. He knew Marat, knew the entrenched look in his eyes. Pascha’s reasoning had been disregarded. To try any more would have been akin to trying to reason with a toddler. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. I wish you luck in finding another investor.’

  He hadn’t reached the door when Marat had pounced, pinning him to the wall. ‘You,’ he’d spat. ‘It was always about you. No money for anything, not even the basics, because it all went on keeping you alive, the cuckoo in the nest who didn’t belong there.’ He’d abruptly let go and stepped back, throwing his hands in the air. ‘And look at you now—rich and handsome. All that chemotherapy didn’t even stunt your growth. You got everything.’ His eyes had glittered with malice. ‘But you didn’t get Plushenko’s. And you never will.’

  Pascha had held onto his temper by the skin of his teeth. He was almost a foot taller than his adopted brother and, with around ninety-five per cent more muscle mass, all it would have taken was one punch to floor him and curb his cruel mouth.

  Instead, he’d straightened his tie, dusted his arms down and said, ‘It was never about Plushenko’s. It was about family. Goodbye, Marat.’ He’d left the office, striding past the waiting room where the lawyers were holed up, through the foyer and out into the cold St. Petersburg air.

  He felt it now, as raw as if he were still in that conference room with his brother.

  ‘The Plushenko deal is dead. It’s over.’

  Ignoring the ashen pallor of Emily’s skin, he kicked his chair back and stormed over to stand before her. ‘Plushenko’s was built from my father’s sweat and my mother’s tears and now it’s gone. Marat’s hell-bent on destroying our father’s legacy and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.’

  ‘You told him the truth?’ she asked, her voice a choked whisper.

  ‘Yes, I told him the truth. He threw my offer back in my face.’

  Marat hadn’t wanted anything to do with the cuckoo in the nest.

  Why had he ever been foolish enough to believe otherwise?

  ‘You wonder why I can’t bear to look at you? You have everything—a family who loves you. You made me believe I could have that too. You gave me hope that Marat would accept me. You made it sound so easy. It was all a lie, a big, damnable lie, and every time I look at your face all I see is what could have been!’

  Because of Emily, and that strange alchemy she had spread over him that had re-awoken his desire for a family of his own, everything had blown up in his face.

  The path to his mother’s forgiveness had been detonated. And that was the worst part about it.

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you hoped it would,’ Emily said, breathing heavily, her face no longer pale, angry colour staining her cheeks. ‘But at least you can look at yourself in the mirror and say that you tried, that you fought for
a relationship with Marat.’

  ‘It’s destroyed everything. What hope is there for my mother to believe in me now?’

  ‘Oh, get over yourself and stop being so defeatist!’ Her fury seemed to make her expand before his eyes. ‘As if presenting her with the gift of Plushenko’s would magically have made things better between you—it hardly worked when you bought an island in her name, did it? Give her the one thing she hasn’t got—her son. You. If I can love a stubborn fool like you, then I’m damn sure your mother can as well. She is not Marat. If you allow your stupid pride to kill your future with her, you have no one to blame but yourself.’

  Leaving him standing there, his head spinning, she turned on her heel, pushed the door open and strode out, her head held high.

  She didn’t look back.

  * * *

  The miniature castle Pascha’s mother called home was a world away from the small, dark house he’d been raised in. No flickering lights, no heaters where the oil level was checked with an anxious look, always quickly disguised if her young son happened to be watching her.

  If Plushenko’s shares continued to drop and its revenue continued to plummet, this beautiful home, with its bright, spacious rooms and indoor swimming pool, in theory would have to be sold.

  Whatever the outcome of this meeting with his mother, he would ensure this home remained hers. He would buy her a dozen homes if she let him.

  He’d arrived unannounced but she hadn’t looked surprised to see him at her door. She’d invited him in with hardly a murmur.

  Sitting on the sofa in the immaculate living room while she fetched them refreshments, his eye was caught by a photo above the fireplace of his mother and Andrei’s wedding day. Everything about them looked cheap, from their wedding clothes to the cut of their hair.

  The love shining between them, though, was more valuable than any Plushenko diamond.

  He rose as his mother came through the door carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ he said after she’d taken the seat across from him. There was nothing cheap about his mother these days. Her salt-and-pepper hair had been expertly coloured a pale blonde, her calloused hands smooth from regular manicures.