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.