The Russian's Ultimatum(5)

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.