Emily and her father had stayed at the party for a polite hour before making their escape.
She doubted her escape from Pascha’s office would be as successful.
‘I asked you a question, Miss Richardson. I suggest you answer it.’
‘But you’ve just answered the question of who I am yourself,’ she answered with more bravado than she felt. Her memory of Pascha Virshilas was vivid, yet in this office he appeared magnified. Impossibly tall and broad, even the crispness of his white shirt and impeccably pressed grey-striped trousers couldn’t hide the muscularity of his physique. If anything, it enhanced it. And that face... Chiselled perfection a sculptor would struggle to replicate.
‘Don’t play games with me. What are you doing in my office?’
Her gaze flickered to the small stick poking out of the side of the laptop. From Pascha’s vantage point, he would only be able to see the upright lid. He might not see the stick at all. If she was lucky, she might just be able to escape with the data.
Using all the nonchalance she could muster, Emily leaned forward so her chest rested on the desk. ‘I was passing and thought I would pop in to see how you’re settling in.’ As she spoke, she inched her fingers forward, placed her knuckles either side of the memory stick and tugged it out, enfolding it into the fist of her hand.
If he saw what she’d done, he gave no visible sign.
She got to her feet and casually placed her hand in her back pocket, releasing the stick into its tight confines. She had no choice but to brazen this out, whatever its conclusion may be. ‘As I can see you’ve settled in fantastically, I shall leave you to it.’
‘Not so fast. Before I let you go anywhere, empty your pockets.’ Pascha’s English was delivered with curt precision but with a definite trace of his Russian heritage in its inflection. Deep and rich with a hint of gravel, it sent the most peculiar tingle whispering over her skin.
‘No chance,’ she said, inching her way round his desk, slowly closing the gap between herself and the door to her side. She silently cursed herself for not paying more attention to the internal door Pascha had appeared through. She’d seen it when she’d first stolen into the office but had barely registered it; she certainly hadn’t given it more than a cursory glance.
‘I said empty your pockets.’
‘No.’ Her eyes darted to the door. She might be twenty-six but she’d been a nimble runner in her school days. She was half his size and figured she must be quicker than him...
It didn’t surprise Pascha in the least when Emily made a run for it, shooting to the door and tugging on the handle.
‘It’s locked,’ he informed her calmly.
‘I can see that,’ she snapped.
‘It won’t open until I press the button to release the lock, and I won’t do that until you give me what’s in your pocket.’
Her pretty heart-shaped face glared at him, defiance pouring off her.
It was hardly surprising he hadn’t recognised her from the camera that piped to a small screen in his private room. When he’d met her at his buy-out party, she’d been dressed in a long, black lace dress with ruffles, complemented by a pair of black biker boots and dark, dramatic make-up. All the black had contrasted sharply with her porcelain skin.
While the other women at the party had made an effort with their attire, Emily had deliberately set out to subvert. All she’d needed was a black veil sitting atop her long, dark ringlets which had spilled out in all directions and she’d have been the perfect gothic bride.
Today, though, she had tamed her curls into a bun—although tendrils were falling round her face—and was dressed in ordinary business attire of a knee-length navy skirt with a matching blazer and a delicate cream blouse. On her feet were ordinary, businesslike black court shoes and her face was make-up free. No wonder he hadn’t recognised her, not until she’d raised those dark-brown eyes to meet his.
He would have recognised those eyes anywhere, dark but with flickers of yellow firing through them. Under the light of the function room the party had been hosted in, the colours had melded together, glimmering like a fire opal.
Those same eyes were staring at him now, loathing radiating from them.
He held his hand out and waited. If necessary, he would wait all day.
It wasn’t necessary. Emily slipped her hand into her back pocket and pulled out a small silver device. She dropped it into the palm of his hand and stepped straight back, away from him.
As he’d suspected: a memory stick.
He strolled round to his seat, still warm from her bottom, and folded his arms. ‘Sit down.’
After a beat, Emily grabbed the chair opposite him and dragged it to the other side of his office, literally as far away from him as she could get it.