The Russian's Ultimatum (6 page)

When Pascha shut the door of the shelter, the silence was total, making Emily realise just how loud the wind had become.

She peered through a small round window which reminded her of a ship’s porthole, the only source of natural light in the shelter.

Shelter? It was the same size as her London flat.

Turning her head, she found him opening cupboards and rummaging through drawers.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, not looking at her.

Taken aback at the offer, she stared at him. ‘What have you got?’

‘Everything.’

‘Rum and Coke?’ she said flippantly, wanting to test him.

His grey eyes met hers. ‘Do you want ice in that?’

‘Seriously?’

He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of rum, arching a brow as he displayed it for her.

She had to admit, she was impressed. And an alcoholic drink might take the edge off her angst.
Might.
‘No ice for me, thank you.’

‘A thank you? You shock me.’

‘I like to keep you on your toes.’

‘You’re doing an excellent job of it.’

While Pascha mixed them both a drink, her curiosity overcame her and she wandered into the kitchenette to rifle through the cupboards.

Amazing
. There was enough food here for them to live like kings for at least a fortnight. A month, if they downgraded to princes.

‘I take it there’s a back-up generator?’ she said.

‘Of course.’

Something in his tone made her look at him. He looked furious. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’ve left my phone charger at the lodge.’

‘And?’

‘And I don’t have enough battery left to get through the night.’

‘I would suggest going back for it but looking at the trees through the window I can see it wouldn’t be the brightest of moves.’

‘Finally she says something sensible.’

‘
I
didn’t leave the charger behind so don’t take it out on me.’ She wasn’t any happier about it than he was—what if there was an emergency at home? James wouldn’t be able to get hold of her.

She forced herself to think practically. If an emergency did occur, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it anyway, not from Aliana Island.

A whole evening of peace.

She couldn’t even bring herself to feel guilty about it. Peace had become such an elusive thing in her life.

It was just a shame she had to spend it with Pascha Virshilas. It would be more relaxing to spend it with an angry bear. Though she had to concede that an angry bear wouldn’t have the sex appeal...

Where had
that
thought popped out from?

No, no, no.
If she was going to get through the night with even a semblance of sanity left, she had to tune out the fact she was in a confined space with the sexiest man alive.

Sexiest man alive?

Ten minutes in the shelter and she was clearly suffering from cabin fever.

‘I’m not taking it out on you,’ Pascha said.

‘Good,’ she shot back, the scowl on her face still evident.

He expelled a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Technically speaking, it wasn’t Emily’s fault, but if he hadn’t been so determined to get her to the safety of the shelter, and wasted all that time at the beach with her, he would never have forgotten something as vital as his phone charger.

He could kick himself. He
should
kick himself.

Pascha should be with his lawyers. They’d spoken and corresponded throughout the day, none of them prepared to leave anything to chance, but it wasn’t the same as being in the same room. There was too much that could go wrong and scupper the Plushenko deal, and he was thousands of miles away. And soon he’d be totally cut off from all communication.

He finished mixing her drink and handed it to her.

‘Thank you.’ She turned away and strolled into the living area. Her behind really did sway beautifully when she walked, he noticed, curving nicely in her modest shorts and causing a whole heap of improper thoughts to race through him. Those improper thoughts were not helped by her silver top with its slanting neckline, which displayed a whole heap of porcelain shoulder, transparent enough for him to see the bikini she wore beneath it.

‘So, what is there to do for entertainment in here?’ she asked briskly, curling up on the sofa.

He held back the answer that formed on his tongue by the skin of his teeth. ‘I’m sure a resourceful woman like you can make her own entertainment.’

She took a sip of her drink. ‘Maybe enough of these will send me to sleep and then I’ll be able to wake up and the storm will be over.’

‘You’ll have a headache if you drink too many of them.’

‘Then I’ll take a headache tablet.’

The woman had an answer for everything.

‘Are you hungry?’

Her face scrunched up. ‘A bit.’

‘I’m not the greatest of cooks but I know how to make eggs on toast. Do you want some?’

She jumped back to her feet. ‘I tell you what, I’ll cook.’

‘Can you cook?’ Why did that surprise him?

‘Yep. It’ll give me something to do.’

‘Are you bored?’

‘Yep. Anything you don’t like to eat?’

‘I’ll eat anything.’

She practically skipped to the kitchenette. Opening the cupboards and the fridge, she started examining ingredients, selecting some, rejecting others.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ she warned. ‘I can cook but it won’t be the
haute cuisine
you’re used to.’

‘I didn’t grow up eating
haute cuisine
,’ he said drily.

‘Someone with three chefs at his holiday island is not someone who eats simple food.’

He’d followed her to the kitchenette and his huge form blocked her way to the utensil cupboard. A masculine scent with a hint of citrus filled her senses.

‘Excuse me,’ she muttered.

He shifted to the left.

Emily knelt down and snatched at a saucepan, tugged it out and immediately lost her grip, the pan clanging to the floor.

She picked it up and shoved it on the work surface. ‘Look, you’re getting under my feet. Why don’t you sit down while I get on with dinner?’

What was
wrong
with her? Her entire body was flushed, as if she’d been heated from the inside out; her hands and fingers were refusing to cooperate with her brain.

The only thing she knew with any certainty was that this was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER SIX

E
MILY
DID
HER
BEST
to eat her dinner but she struggled to swallow.

Her body just wouldn’t relax.

What she needed was noise. She liked noise. It was comforting. If she’d been eating at her flat or at her parents’ house—correction, her dad’s house—the radio would be humming in the background.

Here, in the shelter, there was nothing but silence. Heavy, oppressive silence.

‘Are you not enjoying your meal?’ Pascha asked her.

Looking down, she found she’d been pushing her pasta around her plate.

‘I’m not very hungry,’ she confessed, adding with forced brightness, ‘They always say the chef loses their appetite when it comes to the actual eating.’

‘Well, I think it’s delicious,’ he said, popping a heaped forkful of her pasta concoction into his mouth to make his point.

She couldn’t help but smile, but as the corners of her mouth lifted nodules in her belly tightened.

How could she eat when Pascha sat so close, near enough that if she moved her foot forward an inch she would graze his leg?

She was softening towards him. She could feel it. And she didn’t like it one jot. It felt disloyal, as if she was somehow betraying her father by finding the enemy to be so human.
And so damn sexy
...

However it was dressed up, be it mutual blackmail or force, Pascha had given her no choice but to come to Aliana Island. There had been no option but for her to comply. Her desperate attempt to help her father had backfired so spectacularly, a firework could be made in its honour.

And yet in the short time they’d been together Pascha had shown more consideration towards her than she’d ever known. He’d sought her out at the waterfall because he’d been worried she would be hungry. He’d sought her out at the lagoon because of the storm, because he’d wanted to take her to safety. Even his anger at her snorkelling alone had been provoked by his concern for her well-being.

When had anyone last worried about her safety?
When had anyone last worried about her full-stop?

For her own sanity she needed to hold onto her anger towards him.

But how could she hold onto her anger and hate when every time she looked up at him she found magnetic grey eyes holding hers and the nodules in her belly tightened that little bit more?

She waited until he’d cleared his plate before rising.

‘Sit down and relax,’ he said, gathering the plates together. ‘You’ve done your share. I’ll clear up.’

Only when his back was turned to her at the kitchenette did she exhale. It felt as if she’d been holding her breath the entire meal.

As she watched him load the dishwasher, admiring the tautness of his buttocks against the heavy cotton of his shorts, the strangest feeling crept through her veins, a fizzing, as if her blood had awoken and started dancing.

Disturbed by all these strange feelings being evoked within her, and determined to pull herself together, Emily decided she might as well take Pascha’s advice and relax. Taking another sip of wine, she put her bare feet up on his recently vacated chair.

‘You would make an excellent house-husband,’ she commented idly. He was wiping the work surface down with such thoroughness, she wouldn’t be surprised if the top layer was scrubbed away.

He gave a grunt.

‘I take it the thought of being a house-husband does nothing for you?’ Saying the words made her realise she knew nothing about his private life. Nothing. Was there a woman? Surely there must be? Regardless of his wealth, a man who looked like Pascha would attract pretty much any woman he fixed those grey eyes on.

Another grunt.

‘Do you think you’ll ever marry?’ she asked.

Pascha paused from wiping the side down to pin her with a stare. ‘What’s with all the questions?’

‘I’m bored,’ she lied with a shrug. ‘You’re the one who dragged me to a shelter where there’s nothing to do to pass the time.’

‘Can’t you be bored quietly?’

‘Why? Am I annoying you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

His glare turned into a half-smile and a rueful shake of the head.

‘So are you going to answer my question?’

‘The answer is no. No, I don’t think I’ll ever marry. In fact, I know I won’t.’

‘That sounds pretty emphatic.’

‘That’s because it is.’

‘Why don’t you want to get married?’

He turned his head to spear her with a glance. ‘Why don’t you have a man in
your
life?’ he countered. ‘How long have
you
been single?’

‘Seven years.’

He leaned back against the work surface and folded his arms. ‘That long?’

‘Yep.’

‘Any flings?’

‘Nope. I work in the fashion industry. The vast majority of the single men I work with are gay. It’s rare I meet an eligible straight man.’ She tried her best to keep her tone light and nonchalant. Okay, so she was exaggerating, but it was the old tried and tested response she’d been using for years. Anything had to be better than admitting she’d given up finding anyone who didn’t make her feel inadequate. Who didn’t make her feel second-best.

She’d long accepted love would never happen for her. She’d grown tired of trying to find it. When her father had sunk into the dark depressions that had blighted her childhood, it had always been her mother who’d lifted him out of it, never his daughter. When he was at his lowest ebb, Emily might not exist. She’d never doubted his love for her but it had never been enough.
She
wasn’t enough. His suicide attempt had only reinforced that feeling. If she wasn’t enough to make her own father want to live, how could she possibly be enough for someone else?

And, just like that, the lighter mood she’d been trying to create darkened, making her stomach cramp.

Time to move onto safer territory, far away from relationships of any form.

‘Seeing as the subjects of marriage and relationships bring us both out in a cold sweat, why don’t you tell me why you want to buy Plushenko’s instead? My guess is that it has to be personal.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You don’t force a woman to travel halfway round the world simply to salvage a deal without it being personal.’

Although the very mention of the word Plushenko was enough to tighten his chest, Pascha found himself grinning. ‘Were you a journalist in a previous life?’

‘You would know the answer to that yourself if you’d bothered to ask about my job,’ she said tartly.

‘I couldn’t get a word in,’ he said, raising his brow. ‘You ask more questions than the old KGB.’

‘That’s because I’m incurably nosy.’

Picking up the wine bottle, he headed back to the table. ‘Tell me about your job first and then I’ll consider telling you about my relationship with Marat Plushenko.’ He topped both their glasses up then deliberately tugged his chair out from under her feet and sat down.

For half a moment he thought she might put her feet back up and onto his lap.

For half a moment his skin tingled with anticipation.

What, he wondered, would she do if he were to lean a hand down and gather those pretty feet onto his lap...?

Emily took a sip of her wine. ‘You want to know about my job?’

‘I do.’ It dawned on him that he wanted to know a lot more than that. Emily Richardson was the most intriguing person he’d met in a long time, maybe ever. A seemingly fearless woman without limits when it came to those she loved. ‘You say you’re in the fashion industry?’

‘I’m an in-house designer for the House of Alexander.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘You work for Hugo Alexander?’

‘Yep.’

‘All the pieces fall into place.’ The House of Alexander was one of the UK’s foremost fashion houses, famous for its theatrical, off-beat designs. Hugo Alexander’s designs had captured the eye of fashion editors around the world and the imagination of the public. It was one of the fashion houses to buy on his radar.

‘What, you mean the sewing machine and the rolls of fabric I brought here with me?’

‘And all the fashion magazines littering your bedroom.’
And the way you dress
, he almost added. He couldn’t think of a more suitable fashion house for her to work for. Not that she was dressed that way now. Since arriving on the island, all her theatricality had been stripped away.

‘You could have been Sherlock Holmes in a previous life.’

Pascha didn’t want to laugh. He didn’t want to find Emily amusing but the truth, as he was rapidly finding, was that he did.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found anyone fun to be around. It was not a trait he sought. Yes, many of the companies he’d bought over the years were run by flamboyant characters, but these were not people he mixed with on anything but a professional level.

‘Do you remember that party you had when you first bought Bamber?’ she asked.

‘I remember it,’ he said, surprised at her turn of the conversation. Throwing a getting-to-know-you party was something he always did when he bought a new company, wanting to meet his new staff on a more human footing than at their work stations.

‘I was only dressed that way because I’d come straight from work—we’d just had a show and Hugo had steered us all in a gothic focus.’

He looked at her. ‘So you don’t normally dress as the Bride of Frankenstein?’

She laughed. ‘Not to that extent. If I’d had the time, I would have changed into something a little more appropriate.’

‘I thought you’d dressed that way deliberately.’

‘If I’d had the time to change, I would have, but you know what fashion shows are like; the days just don’t have enough hours in them.’

Pascha did know. When he’d bought his first fashion house he’d felt obliged to attend New York Fashion Week. He’d stayed for approximately one hour before boredom had set in and he’d made his escape. He’d felt the energy all the designers, make-up artists and all the other people involved had expelled, like a hive of creative bees working in perfect harmony. He could easily imagine Emily fitting into the hive with ease. ‘How did you get into fashion?’ he asked, curious to know.

‘When I was a kid the only clothes available for little girls were “pretty” clothes and always in pink.’ She pulled a face. ‘I
hate
pink. I used to draw the clothes I wished I could wear. Eventually I badgered my mum enough that she taught me how to use her sewing machine.’

‘Your mother was a seamstress?’

‘If she hadn’t had kids at such a young age, she probably would have been. Maybe if she’d lived a bit longer she might have gone on to do it.’ She reached for her glass of wine and took a sip. Was it his imagination or was there a slight tremor in her hand?

Despite her threat to drink herself into a stupor, she’d had only the one rum and Coke, and had hardly touched her second glass of wine.

‘Mum was so proud when I got the job with Hugo,’ she said wistfully. A flash of pain crossed her face before she took another sip of her wine and then visibly braced herself, fixing a smile onto her face to say, ‘Anyway, your turn.’

‘My turn for what?’

‘To tell me why you want to buy Plushenko’s.’

Briefly Pascha considered batting the question away.

‘It’s not as if we’ve anything else we can do other than talk,’ she pointed out, those meltingly gorgeous eyes fixing themselves on him, waiting.

His eyes dropped to her bare shoulder, his skin heating as he considered a different, far more pleasurable way in which they could pass the time...

He gave a brisk shake of his head.

He needed to get a handle on himself.

They might be getting along in the shelter better than he had hoped but it didn’t change the facts. They had blackmailed each other. It was the only reason either of them was there.

‘Marat Plushenko is my brother.’

Emily gave a low whistle. ‘I didn’t see that one coming. You’re trying to buy your own brother’s company? In secret?’

He sighed. There was little point in trying to cheat her with part of the story. ‘We’re not biological brothers. I never knew my biological father—he abandoned my mother before I was born. Marat’s mother died when he was a toddler. Our parents married when I was eighteen months old and Marat five. Andrei adopted me, my mother adopted Marat.’

‘Right...’ She nodded slowly. ‘So you were raised together as brothers?’

‘Yes. We were raised together as brothers but Marat never accepted me as a brother.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘He always hated me.’

A groove formed in her brow. ‘Why?’

He rubbed his face. ‘Marat never wanted anything to do with Plushenko’s or with me—’

‘Back up a minute,’ she interrupted with a shake of her head. ‘I’ve just got it—Andrei Plushenko is your adopted father, therefore you’re part of the Plushenko dynasty?’

‘A dynasty conveys a sense of longevity. Andrei founded the company.’

‘I see.’

‘Are you sure
you
weren’t Sherlock Holmes in a previous life?’

She laughed. ‘You were telling me about Marat,’ she prodded.

‘He set up a number of failed businesses—I think it was five in all. Eight years ago he decided he should join the family firm, except he wasn’t prepared to work his way up and learn the business. He wanted to join at executive level.’

‘You didn’t agree with that?’

‘No. To me, it was a ludicrous idea. I was happy for him to join us, almost as happy as Andrei was, but I thought he should learn the intricacies of the business first, just as I did.’ He shook his head. ‘Our father didn’t see it like that. He was desperate for Marat to come aboard, would have given him anything he desired. It came to a head when I made the mistake of giving Andrei, our father, an ultimatum—if Marat joined the board, I would resign.’

‘Did Andrei choose Marat?’

‘Not in so many words.’ He fixed suddenly bleak eyes on her. ‘What he said was,
“But, Pascha, he is my blood”.
I handed in my resignation the next day.’

‘How did Andrei react to that?’ Her voice was low, soft.

‘He was very upset with my decision. My mother was too. But I was...’ He almost said ‘devastated’ but stopped himself just in time. ‘I was very angry about the situation, angry enough to change my name from Plushenko to my mother’s maiden name. I’d joined the business straight from school, pushed for the international expansion, the new state-of-the-art workshop...’