The Russian's Ultimatum

‘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

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.