The Russian's Ultimatum(29)

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Pascha sat in the back of his Lexus gazing absently out of the window.

It had all gone to hell.

Everything.

His driver turned the corner onto the road that housed his London office. A flash of curly black hair made him do a double-take.

Craning his neck for a better look, he soon realised the Monday morning   street was so thick with bodies he must have imagined it.

He'd imagined he'd seen her a handful of times that day already. And a dozen the day before, when he hadn't even left his house.

If he was to see her now, in the flesh, he didn't know how he would react.

They pulled up outside his building and he got out, heading inside.

As usual, he was greeted by a bustle of activity. Normally he enjoyed the vibrancy and energy. Today he could do without it.

Today he wanted to be alone.

He didn't know what had propelled him to leave St. Petersburg late on   Friday evening and come to London. After his confrontation with Marat,   he could have gone anywhere. Why here?

Ignoring all the welcoming although still nervous smiles, he went   straight up to his office. As he punched in the code to his office   floor, he remembered he still hadn't changed it since Emily had sneaked   in.

Cathy, the executive secretary he'd inherited when he'd bought Bamber   Cosmetics, was there to greet him. His PA must have warned her to expect   him.                       
       
           



       

'Can I make you a coffee?' she asked once the pleasantries were out of the way.

'No. I don't want any visitors or calls today either.' He swept into his office, closing the door firmly behind him.

The morning dragged.

He'd spent the weekend in his London home doing nothing but going over   the events of the preceding week in his mind, which had culminated in   his disastrous encounter with Marat.

He rubbed at his eyes with his palms and got to his feet. He needed to   find some energy. Regardless of what had happened with Marat, he still   had a business to run. More coffee should do the trick.

In his private room he switched the coffee machine on and read an email from Zlatan.

He was about to pour his coffee out when movement on the monitor caught his attention.

He stared. And stared some more.

No. He wasn't seeing things. There really was someone in his office. A pixie with a cascade of curly black hair.

Eyes fixed on the monitor, he took long, deep breaths and swallowed away the enormous lump that had formed in his throat.

Only when his composure was assured did he pour his coffee out and step through the door to her.

'You seem to be making a habit of breaking into my office,' he said, striding over to his desk.

Emily was sat on the visitor's seat. As he passed her he caught a waft   of her earthy honey scent. He tightened his grip on his cup, glad to   place it on his desk as he took his seat.

Finally he could look at her properly.

What he saw made his heart wrench and his stomach dip.

She looked dreadful-really dreadful. Her skin was pale, her eyes   red-raw, her hair even wilder than usual. She wore a deep-red jersey   dress and thick black tights, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist   as if for warmth or protection.

'I'm sorry for having to break back in,' she said, speaking tentatively.

'Evidently not sorry enough or you wouldn't have pulled the same stunt twice,' he said icily.

She blanched. 'I needed to see you. I didn't want this conversation over   the phone. Cathy let me know you'd come in. She said you weren't   accepting visitors so I waited until she went on her lunch break before   sneaking in.'

'You know Cathy?'

She nodded.

And, just like that, everything fell into place: Cathy was the mole. His   own executive secretary had given Emily his schedule and the code for   the floor.

And, as all the pieces of the jigsaw slotted together, Emily's face crumpled as she realised what she'd given away.

'Oh, please, please don't punish her. Please. She did it for my family.   She's worked here as long as my dad has-years ago, she was his   secretary. She was my mum's best friend and used to babysit me and   James. Please don't sack her. It's my fault. She didn't want to tell me   anything but I used emotional blackmail to get your movements and the   code out of her.'

Pascha held up a hand to stop the torrent of words spilling from her lips.

He had too much to think about as it was; his brain was overloaded. 'I will think about Cathy later. Tell me why you're here.'

A fat tear rolled down her cheek. She let it fall all the way to her chin.

He would not react to it. He would not react to her.

She reached into her large handbag and pulled out an envelope which she handed to him.

Wordlessly, he opened it. Inside was a cheque made out to him for the sum of a quarter of a million pounds.

'What is this?'

Emily's chin wobbled, her lips trembling, her eyes filling. 'It's the   money I blackmailed you into paying my father. His bank account was   credited late last week. I couldn't figure how to return it. Pascha,   I... My...'

He waited while she tried valiantly to compose herself, hating that he had to fist his hands to stop them reaching out to her.

'You...were right all along,' she finally dragged out, her words stark. 'My father stole the money.'

Emily was still having trouble digesting it. For the past few days she'd   thought of little else. She'd been so certain her father was   innocent-one-hundred per cent positive. Doubt had never entered her   head.

It wasn't just her father's actions she was trying to comprehend, though. The magnitude of what she'd done had hit her too.

She'd broken the law. She'd wilfully broken into Pascha's office with   the sole purpose of stealing his files...had been prepared to use   blackmail to get what she wanted...and for what? Because she'd wanted to   fix her father.

Because she wanted him to love her when he was in the darkness as well as the light.

She couldn't fix what was in his head any more than she could fix him if he broke his leg. It was time to accept that.                       
       
           



       

'I already knew your father had taken the money.'

That shook her. 'You did?'

'It took Zlatan five minutes to learn that the money trail led straight   to an account held by Malcolm Richardson.' Something that looked like   sympathy flickered in his cold eyes before he cast his gaze back down to   the sheaths of paper spread out before him.

Why was he being so cold?

Why wouldn't he look at her?

'He gave the money to the hospice Mum spent her last days in.'

'That doesn't surprise me.'

'How long have you known?'

'Zlatan told me an hour before the beach party.'

'Why didn't you tell me?' she whispered. 'Why did you transfer all that money into his account when you knew he was guilty?'

'Your father is ill. I do not want the money back and I will not be   pressing charges.' To compound his point, he picked up the cheque and   ripped it into little pieces. 'Keep this money. Use it to pay for   full-time nursing care until he's well enough to care for himself.'

'It's too much,' she whispered.

'As far as I'm concerned, this is the end of the subject.' He indicated   the door. 'Go home and tell your father he has nothing to fear from me.  I  wish him nothing but the best.'

What was wrong with him?

There was something...unkempt about him. A barely contained anger she   hadn't picked up on initially because she'd been too full of the need to   purge herself of her guilt.

He picked up an expensive-looking pen and made a mark on a sheet of paper. 'Emily, I have a full schedule.'

'Too full to spend ten minutes with me?'

'Yes. Please leave.' He picked up a folder and opened it.

Legs shaking, she stood.

He really was dismissing her. After everything they'd been through, he   was dismissing her as if she were nothing but a lowly employee.

Something inside of her went ping, a rush of fury that fired out of her   fingers and had her leaning over his desk to wrench the folder from his   grasp and toss it in the air.

As it fell to the floor, dozens of pieces of paper fell from it, floating and landing around her.

'What the hell did you do that for?' he snarled, his face contorting.

'I had to do something to get your attention. You're acting as if I'm   nothing to you, as if I'm some stranger who's parked herself in your   office. You won't even look at me!'

'That's because looking at you...' Whatever he was going to say, he cut himself off, punching his desk with a roar.

Shock at his response rendered her mute. All she could do was stare at   the man she loved and watch the unprecedented fury flow from him like a   torrent.

Something was badly wrong.

'Why are you still here?' He got to his feet. 'I told you to leave.'

'What is wrong with you? Did something go wrong with the Plushenko deal?'

It was the mention of the word 'Plushenko' that sent Pascha's fury erupting through his skin.