The Russian's Ultimatum(2)

'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.

'So, Emily, it is time for you to start talking. Why were you trying to steal the files from my laptop?'

'Why do you think? I'm trying to prove my father's innocence.'

'By stealing my files?'

'I had to do something. According to my sources, you haven't even   started the investigation into the missing money you've accused him of   taking. The stress of it all is making him seriously ill.'

Emily would do anything in her power to clear her father's name.   Anything. She had to give him something that would make his life-make   him-feel as if it were worthwhile again.

As much as it pained her heart, Emily knew she would never be a good enough reason for her father to go on.

She'd watched him go through these dark times as a child, long periods   where he wouldn't get out of bed for weeks on end. It had been   terrifying. Back then, her mother had held them all together: had held   him together. But now her mother was dead. The rock they'd all relied   upon was gone.

In the space of three months her father had lost the wife he'd adored   and been suspended from the job he'd taken such pride in. The threat of   the police knocking on his door and a subsequent prison sentence loomed   over him. With hindsight, it had been obvious he would try to kill   himself. He'd very nearly succeeded.

Losing her mother had been the single most devastating thing that had   ever happened to her, a fresh, open wound that couldn't begin to heal   while her father's mental and physical health were so precarious. If she   were to lose him too...

Pascha gathered the file Emily had been reading when he'd caught her. So   she had sources within his company, did she? That was something to   think about later on. There was a much more important factor to consider   first, namely how much of the file she'd read. He had no way of  knowing  how long she'd been in his office before he'd caught sight of  her on  the monitor. No longer than ten minutes, that was certain, as  that had  been the length of time since he'd left it. But long enough to  read  about things she had no business knowing.

'We will move on to the subject of your father shortly,' he said. 'In   the meantime, tell me what you read in this file. And don't say you   didn't read anything, because you were engrossed in it.'

For long moments she didn't answer, simply stared at him, her eyes   squinting as if in thought. As if she were weighing him up... 'Not much.   Only that a company called RG Holdings is buying out Plushenko's.'

Plushenko's was a Russian jewellery firm whose trinkets were regarded as   some of the most luxurious in the world and came with a price tag to   match, the Plushenko brand rivalling that of the other famous Russian   jeweller, Fabergé. At least, it had been regarded as such. In recent   years the jewels had lost much of their lustre and sales were a fraction   of what they had been a decade ago. Amidst the highest secrecy, Pascha   was gearing up for a buyout, using a front company.                       
       
           



       

'Oh, and I read that you own RG Holdings but that your name is being   kept off all the official documents between RG and Plushenko's.' Her   brow furrowed, as if she were trying to remember something, then her   lips twisted into something resembling a smile. 'What was the phrase I   read? Something along the lines of, "it is imperative that Marat   Plushenko does not learn of Pascha Virshilas's involvement in this   buyout". Was that it?'

Only with the greatest effort did Pascha keep his features still.   Inside, his stomach lurched, his skin crawling as if a nest of spiders   had been let loose in him.

Her brown eyes held his, as if in challenge, before her lips curved   upwards-amazing lips, like a heart tugged out at the sides. Her eyes   remained cold. She leaned forward. 'It's obvious this buy-out is   important to you and you need to keep it a secret. I suggest we make a   deal: if you agree to withdraw the threat of legal action towards my   father, I will keep the details of the Plushenko deal to myself.'

Pascha's fingers tightened on the document in his grasp. 'You think you can blackmail me?'

She raised her shoulders in a sign of nonchalance. 'You may call it   blackmail but I like to think of it as us making a deal. Clear my   father's name. I want it in writing that you'll exonerate him from any   potential charges or I will sing from the rooftops.'

Emily could see by the whitening of Pascha's knuckles that he was fighting to keep his composure.

How she kept her own composure, she did not know.

She'd never been a wallflower, not by any stretch of the imagination,   but she'd never been one for making war before either. To stand up   against this powerful man-a man capable of destroying her father; of   destroying her too-and know she was winning... It was a heady feeling.

From despair and anger at getting caught and failing her father, she'd found a way to salvage the situation.

'I can have you arrested for this,' Pascha said, his voice low and menacing.

'Try it.' She allowed herself a smile. 'I'll be entitled to a phone   call. I think I'll use it to contact the firm Shirokov-is that how you   pronounce it?-and see if they'd be interested in representing me.'

How Pascha stopped his tongue rolling out the volley of expletives it wanted to say, he did not know.

Shirokov was the firm representing Marat Plushenko in the buy-out.

She dared to think she could threaten and blackmail him? This little   pixie with a tongue as curling as her hair dared to think she could take   him on and win?

He'd spent two years trying to make this deal happen, had even bought   Bamber Cosmetics a few months ago as a decoy to avert any suspicion.

And now Emily Richardson had the power to blow it all to hell.

If Marat Plushenko heard so much as a whisper that Pascha was the face   behind RG Holdings, he would abandon the deal without a backward glance   and Plushenko's, the business the late, great Andrei Plushenko had  built  from nothing, would be ground to dust. His legacy would be gone.