The Russian's Ultimatum Read online

  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

  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 h
ands 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.