The Russian's Ultimatum (8 page)

Pascha wanted to argue with her but, studying Emily’s expression, he could see she didn’t look remotely tired.

He wasn’t tired either.

His body clock, usually so good at regulating his sleeping patterns, appeared to have gone on strike.

But he had to sleep—at least had to try to—even if Emily
was
sitting mere feet away from him.

‘If the sofa is too uncomfortable, feel free to join me in the bed,’ he said in as casual a tone as he could muster. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

His veins thickened anew at the thought of her climbing in beside him, her sweet scent inches from him, close enough for him to reach a hand out, touch her skin and discover for himself if it was as silky as it seemed. Close enough to discover for himself exactly what her glorious hair smelled like.

With iron will, he forced the torrent of desire away.

‘I know.’ She turned her face back to the window before he could read what was written on it.

After brushing his teeth, he poured himself a glass of water and padded around the shelter turning off all the lights bar the small lamp near where Emily sat curled like a cat.

Her concentration was firmly focussed on the storm outside, yet he could feel her awareness of him as keenly as he felt his own awareness of her.

Did she realise she’d been twirling that same curl round her finger for the past hour?

He stripped to his boxers and slid under the covers. Usually he slept nude but tonight he felt it more appropriate to wear something. He didn’t want her feeling uncomfortable with him. ‘Goodnight, Emily.’

She didn’t look at him. ‘Night.’

His eyes wouldn’t close. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his mind drifting into what would happen if she
did
join him in the bed. He didn’t think he’d ever felt the blood running through his veins so keenly, a thick desire that, if he’d been alone, he’d be able to do something about. If he’d been with any other woman, he’d have been able to do something about it too. Since making his fortune, he’d never been rebuffed by a woman. But he’d never felt a woman’s disinterest in his money as keenly as he did with Emily. His wealth meant nothing to her.

She was only here on Aliana Island with him, in a storm shelter, out of sufferance.

No, he corrected himself. She was here out of love. Love for her father.

She was also a thief, he reminded himself. However good her intentions, she’d stolen her father’s pass key, incited someone into giving her the code—he would find out who as soon as he returned to the UK—and had intended to steal every scrap of data from his hard drive. If he hadn’t returned earlier from Milan than intended, she would have got away with it.

And yet...

Her actions had been born out of desperation. Born out of love.

As sleep continued to elude him, he cursed that he hadn’t sent her to the staff shelter. Forget all his good reasons not to have done; for the amount he paid them, his staff could have put up with Emily for one night. Sleep was an essential function of his life. He’d never forgotten the words of his doctors when he’d been a child.
Sleep will help you get better,
they’d told him. And he
had
got better. He’d recovered. He’d beaten the odds and he’d survived.

He heard movement—Emily quietly making herself a hot drink before settling back on the armchair.

Pascha willed sleep to come quickly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
LEEP
DIDN
’
T
COME
. Time dragged ever more slowly. But Pascha must have drifted off at some point, for one minute Emily was there and the next she was gone.

Rubbing his eyes, he sat up. The armchair she’d been sitting in was empty. The small lamp still glowed.

He checked his watch and saw it was three a.m.

He looked through the porthole. It appeared the worst of the storm was over. The trees still swayed but the rain had stopped.

Stopping only to pull on a pair of shorts, he turned the handle. The door was unlocked. Stepping outside, he found her huddled up in the fleece blanket on the bench in front of the shelter.

The chill of the breeze hit him immediately. Not all the storm clouds had disappeared but right above Aliana Island they had cleared enough to reveal a black night sky alight with stars.

She turned her face to him. Under the glow of the outside light he could see her desolation.

‘It’s three o’clock,’ he said gently, crouching down to her height, noting that she’d taken the padded mats off the dining table chairs and placed them along the bench to sit on.

She nodded, blinking rapidly. She cleared her throat. ‘I needed some air. I’ll come back in if the wind picks up any more.’

She isn’t a child,
he reminded himself. If she wanted to sit out in the cold wind, then that was her business. But the look on her face reminded him of a child. Emily looked lost.

He sat next to her, thankful for the mats she’d placed on the bench.

At first she didn’t acknowledge him, simply kept her deadened gaze on the starry sky.

After long moments of silence, she opened her mouth. ‘When I was a little girl, my mum told me the stars were our dead ancestors looking down on us.’

‘That’s a nice thing to believe,’ he answered carefully.

‘I want it to be true. I want to believe she’s up there looking over us all.’ She hugged the blanket tighter around herself. ‘You know you asked me why I went into fashion?’

He nodded, a pointless gesture with her eyes still staring upwards.

‘It was because of her. It was a way to spend time with her, just me. She loved us all but so much of her time was spent managing Dad’s depression and trying to limit its impact on me and James that sometimes it was hard to get her to myself. We’d hole ourselves up in her study and design and make our own clothing. I kept trying to talk her into going to my old fashion college as a mature student, but she kept putting it off, saying she would do it one day. And now it’s too late. She’ll never do it. All the dreams she had...all gone.’

‘When did she die?’

‘Three months ago.’

The jolt this information gave him felt like a physical blow.

Three months?

That meant Malcolm Richardson had lost his wife only weeks before the money had gone missing...

He lost his train of thought when he felt her slump beside him, saw her drop forward to wrap her arms around her knees and bury her face.

For too long he stared at her shaking body before placing a hand on her back.

She shuddered. He thought she was going to shrug off his ineffectual attempt at comfort; instead she twisted into him, placing her head on his chest as she sobbed, her tears falling onto his naked skin.

Pascha didn’t think he’d ever felt as inadequate as he did at that moment. All he could do was stroke her hair with the palm of his hand, his guts a tangled knot.

His mind raced, a confusion of thoughts he couldn’t begin to decipher.

Only three months...

‘I miss her so badly.’ Emily spoke in gasps, her breaths warming his stomach. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone. I just want her back.’

What could he say? Nothing.

‘When she was diagnosed we knew she wouldn’t have long but it happened so
quickly
. Seven months. That’s all we had—that’s all
she
had. Seven months. All the time in the world would never have been enough.’

It was as if a floodgate had opened. Emily’s anguish spilled out, unable to be contained.

‘What happened to her?’ he asked quietly, nestling his hand into her hair and cradling her scalp protectively.

It took a few attempts for her to get the words out. ‘She had Progressive Bulbar Palsy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A form of motor neurone disease. Very aggressive. So cruel....’ Her words tailed away.

‘Is that why you took all that time off work?’ he asked, his stomach clenching. He’d assumed it had all been tied to her father’s recent mental breakdown; he’d had no idea it stretched back so long.

She rocked into him. ‘I had to be there. So little time.’ Emily couldn’t speak any more, her vocal cords choked by her grief.

Since the diagnosis, Emily had worked on autopilot, on the go all the time, never sitting still long enough actually to face what was happening to her mother full-on. It had been the same when she’d died.

She hadn’t cried since the funeral, too worried about her father to grieve for the woman they’d all adored.

‘Let me ask you something.’ Pascha spoke in a gentle tone that soothed her as much as the tender movements of his hand in her hair, massaging her scalp. ‘When your mother died, did she know how much you loved her?’

She tilted her face to look at him. His face was crinkled, his eyes a litany of emotion. She nodded in response, still unable to speak.

‘Then you did have enough time,
milaya moya
.’ His finger brushed against her cheek, his grey eyes swirling with emotion. ‘I know it doesn’t feel like you did and you’re right—all the time in the world would never have been enough. But for your mother to go to her grave knowing how much you all loved her is the greatest gift you could have given her. For that, you were blessed with all the time you needed.’

Even through the pain of her grief, Emily could feel the sorrow beneath the empathetic tone of his words. Her hand moved on its own accord to touch his face. Dark stubble had slowly spread along his jawline throughout the evening, a roughness to the touch that felt impossibly comforting.

She shifted a little, moving her face up his chest so her cheek rested on his shoulder. ‘Are you thinking of your father?’

His jaw clenched but he nodded. ‘I never got the chance to say goodbye or to—’ He cut his own words off, tilting his head back to look at the sky thickening with clouds once again. ‘I never told him how much he meant to me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

He looked back down at her, his usually composed features raw.

Emily had been there at the end, holding her mother’s hand when she’d slipped away. They’d all been there. It was a comfort knowing her mum had been with the people she loved most when the end had come, that she hadn’t left this life alone.

All Pascha had was regrets. She could feel them as keenly as she felt their mutual sorrow.

She had no idea how long they sat there gazing at each other, his hand nestled in her hair, her fingertips tracing his stubbly jawline.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to feel those wide, firm lips upon hers and learn for herself what they’d feel like upon her mouth. And from the deepening of Pascha’s breath and the growing intensity in his eyes she could tell that he wanted it too.

His head dipped at the same moment she raised her chin, their lips coming together in a whisper of movement. He exhaled at the same moment she expelled the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and, inhaling again, she breathed him in, a dark, masculine essence that filled her with such deep longing.

She pulled back to stare at him, recognising the same puzzlement in his own stare as she knew must be in hers.

But then their lips came together again, his strong arms enveloped her and he was kissing her properly, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, filling her senses with his exotic taste.

As if they had free will, her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders and she pressed her hands to his skin. It was smoother to the touch than she could ever have imagined and she traced her fingers over it in circles.

The deeper his kisses, the more she wanted, soaking in as much of his taste and touch as she could consume.

Time slipped away, the world shrinking just to them, a mesh of hungry lips and tongues devouring each other.

His hand swept down her back to clasp her thigh over the restriction of the blanket she was nestled in.

Her blanket.

For the first time, she considered how cold he must be in the whipping wind.

While she was all snuggled up in the fleece blanket, Pascha was sat in nothing but a pair of shorts.

It wasn’t just the wind lashing around them either; the rain had started again, not as fierce as earlier but picking up quickly, big, fat droplets of it.

‘We should go back inside before we get pneumonia,’ she said, disentangling her arms from around him, swallowing hard.

Pascha hadn’t noticed the rain. He’d stopped feeling the cold.

One kiss and he’d forgotten himself.

He’d forgotten his health.

For the first time since the age of five, he didn’t care.

How the hell had that happened?

Emily slipped off his lap—when had she climbed onto it?—and got back to her feet in such an unsteady fashion he grabbed her arm to stop her falling.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered, stepping back with wide, pained eyes before disappearing back into the shelter.

Pausing only to collect the seat covers on the bench, he followed her in, locking the door behind him.

She’d disappeared into the bathroom. He took the moment of solitude to inhale deeply and calm his racing thoughts.

Never had he felt desire so strong.

Or so wrong.

To allow anything more than a kiss to develop between them was to take the first steps on the road to madness.

Emily was nothing like the women he usually entertained for his gratification. She was all too real. All too human. And she was vulnerable.

But his good intentions died when she reappeared from the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around her, accentuating her feminine curves.

All the moisture left his mouth. All the words he’d planned to say left with it.

She passed him a hand-towel with which to dry himself. Wordlessly he accepted it, rubbing it over his hair and face.

She closed the gap between them and placed a hand on his chest. The heat from her skin warmed him more than any fire ever could have.

Slowly Emily traced her fingers over him. It was every bit as beautiful as the tantalising glimpse she’d caught on the veranda had promised, his chest hard and golden, the dark hairs covering it soft.

His chest rose, as if he were struggling for breath. He caught her wrist. ‘Emily, I do not want to take advantage of the situation.’

She could see the pain on his face as he spoke the words. As she closed the final gap between them, pressing herself so her mouth was against his collarbone, she could feel the strength of his erection through his shorts, a movement that sent a bloom of heat straight between her thighs. ‘You might not want to take advantage of the situation, but
I
do,’ she whispered.

How could she not? The whole day felt like a dream. So many emotions had been churned up, so much desire. And right then it was the desire that burned the strongest, enough to drive out all the other emotions living within her, all her fears.

Stepping back, she tugged at her towel and let it fall to the floor, watching as his eyes widened, the grey darkening.

It was her turn for eyes to widen when a strong hand clasped her waist and wrenched her to him. Before she had time to breathe, Pascha’s hot mouth had found hers, his hold on her the only thing keeping her boneless legs upright.

She wound her arms around his neck and clung to him, kissing him back with everything she had, her tongue winding around his, dancing a tune she never wanted to end.

When Emily had been a child she had always adored watching couples kissing on the television and had eagerly anticipated her own first kiss. In her head, she’d envisaged it would be just like the movies and would send her into a frenzy on the spot. Needless to say, her first kiss had been a disappointment. It was nothing she could put her finger on but kissing had never sent the shockwaves through her that she had always secretly hoped for.

She could kiss Pascha for a lifetime. His kisses were everything she had yearned for and more, sending ripples of pleasure careering through her veins and tingles of electricity zipping through her skin. His kisses were perfect.

She wanted to cry out when he broke away and stepped back. Without any preamble, he slid his shorts off and kicked them away.

He stood before her, fully erect.

Her breath caught in her throat. He was beautiful in every way.

He reached out a hand and placed it on her breast, simply resting it there, his fingers gently cupping the swollen skin. Fresh desire shot through her and she sucked in a breath, fighting the urge to close her eyes. She wanted to see everything. She wanted to feel everything. Beneath his touch, her nipples puckered and hardened and she arched slightly into him, her mouth filling with moisture, the heat between her legs growing and bubbling.

Mirroring his movement, she splayed a hand on his chest and tugged the silky hair between her fingers, adoring the feel of his warm skin beneath her touch, the hard satin-smoothness of it.

His free hand clasped her neck and began a lazy trail over her collarbone and down past her breasts. Down his fingers trailed, skimming lightly over her belly before slipping further down still.

A gasp escaped her throat and their eyes widened, mirroring each other. Pascha was dumbfounded. He’d known she wanted him but he’d had no idea how deeply her desire ran or how closely it matched his own throbbing need.

Jaw clenched, he fought to keep his head, to keep some basic control.

Snaking one hand around her waist, he used the other to capture her chin and gaze deeply into those mesmerising eyes, the flicker of fire burning from them; they were like precious jewels. Slowly he brought his mouth down and kissed her, her lips parting at the first touch as they forged back together in a fury that threatened to unravel his restraint.