The Russian's Ultimatum (14 page)

Pascha had held onto his temper by the skin of his teeth. He was almost a foot taller than his adopted brother and, with around ninety-five per cent more muscle mass, all it would have taken was one punch to floor him and curb his cruel mouth.

Instead, he’d straightened his tie, dusted his arms down and said, ‘It was never about Plushenko’s. It was about family. Goodbye, Marat.’ He’d left the office, striding past the waiting room where the lawyers were holed up, through the foyer and out into the cold St. Petersburg air.

He felt it now, as raw as if he were still in that conference room with his brother.

‘The Plushenko deal is dead. It’s
over
.’

Ignoring the ashen pallor of Emily’s skin, he kicked his chair back and stormed over to stand before her. ‘Plushenko’s was built from my father’s sweat and my mother’s tears and now it’s
gone
. Marat’s hell-bent on destroying our father’s legacy and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.’

‘You told him the truth?’ she asked, her voice a choked whisper.

‘Yes, I told him the truth. He threw my offer back in my face.’

Marat hadn’t wanted anything to do with the
cuckoo in the nest.

Why had he ever been foolish enough to believe otherwise?

‘You wonder why I can’t bear to look at you? You have
everything
—a family who loves you. You made me believe I could have that too. You gave me hope that Marat would accept me. You made it sound so easy. It was all a lie, a big, damnable lie, and every time I look at your face all I see is what could have been!’

Because of Emily, and that strange alchemy she had spread over him that had re-awoken his desire for a family of his own, everything had blown up in his face.

The path to his mother’s forgiveness had been detonated. And that was the worst part about it.

‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you hoped it would,’ Emily said, breathing heavily, her face no longer pale, angry colour staining her cheeks. ‘But at least you can look at yourself in the mirror and say that you tried, that you fought for a relationship with Marat.’

‘It’s destroyed everything. What hope is there for my mother to believe in me now?’

‘Oh, get over yourself and stop being so defeatist!’ Her fury seemed to make her expand before his eyes. ‘As if presenting her with the gift of Plushenko’s would magically have made things better between you—it hardly worked when you bought an island in her name, did it? Give her the one thing she hasn’t got—her son.
You
. If I can love a stubborn fool like you, then I’m damn sure your mother can as well. She is
not
Marat. If you allow your stupid pride to kill your future with her, you have no one to blame but yourself.’

Leaving him standing there, his head spinning, she turned on her heel, pushed the door open and strode out, her head held high.

She didn’t look back.

* * *

The miniature castle Pascha’s mother called home was a world away from the small, dark house he’d been raised in. No flickering lights, no heaters where the oil level was checked with an anxious look, always quickly disguised if her young son happened to be watching her.

If Plushenko’s shares continued to drop and its revenue continued to plummet, this beautiful home, with its bright, spacious rooms and indoor swimming pool, in theory would have to be sold.

Whatever the outcome of this meeting with his mother, he would ensure this home remained hers. He would buy her a dozen homes if she let him.

He’d arrived unannounced but she hadn’t looked surprised to see him at her door. She’d invited him in with hardly a murmur.

Sitting on the sofa in the immaculate living room while she fetched them refreshments, his eye was caught by a photo above the fireplace of his mother and Andrei’s wedding day. Everything about them looked cheap, from their wedding clothes to the cut of their hair.

The love shining between them, though, was more valuable than any Plushenko diamond.

He rose as his mother came through the door carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits.

‘You’re looking well,’ he said after she’d taken the seat across from him. There was nothing cheap about his mother these days. Her salt-and-pepper hair had been expertly coloured a pale blonde, her calloused hands smooth from regular manicures.

‘Thank you,’ she said, with a warmer smile than he’d been expecting. ‘You’re looking good yourself.’

After a few minutes of small talk while they caught up on each other’s lives, she rose to sit beside him. She patted his thigh. ‘I know about you trying to buy Plushenko’s from Marat.’

He stiffened.

It was the first time his mother had touched him in three years, since slapping him on his face after Andrei’s funeral.

And no wonder that she had. In his arrogance, he’d thought she would be happy with the return of her prodigal son, that the promise of an island in her name would be enough to wipe out five years of hurt.

‘I also know Marat...declined your offer. But that was to be expected.’ She gave a sad smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘That boy always did have a problem with you. He was jealous.’

‘Jealous of what?’

‘Jealous of Andrei’s love for you. Angry that he had to share his father.’

Emily had said the same thing.

She’d also said not to allow his pride—his
stupid
pride—to kill his future with his mother.

It had taken him two long, dark weeks to see how right she was.

Pascha took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry for cutting you and Papa out of my life all those years ago. I’m sorry for changing my surname out of spite. I’m sorry for rejecting all of your and Papa’s attempts to reconcile with me, and I’m sorry Papa died thinking I didn’t love him.’

‘He knew you loved him.’ Her voice was sad. ‘You were his little shadow. He used to laugh and say if you could fit in his pocket to be carried around then you would. He was so proud that you wanted to be involved in the jewellery business with him. He always said that, without your drive, Plushenko’s would have stayed a little firm floating along keeping its head above water.’

She reached out a hand to cup his cheek. ‘You’re not the only one to have regrets, Pascha. Andrei had them too. He blamed himself for your leaving, for forcing Marat onto the board against your wishes. And I regret spurning you after the funeral—my only excuse is that I was grieving. But I have no excuse for not reaching out to you since.’ Her eyes flickered with emotion. ‘I think you must have inherited your pride and stubbornness from me. You’re my son and I love you. I’ve always loved you. Andrei loved you too.’

She must have caught something in his eyes, because she continued, ‘What he said about Marat being his blood—he didn’t mean it to be taken that that made Marat more important than you. He meant that Marat was
as
important—that you were
both
his sons. He couldn’t choose between you. He never gave a thought that you were not of his blood—to him you were his son and he loved you as fiercely as if you
were.
’

Pascha swallowed away the lump that had formed in his throat.

Emily had been right. Again.

Of course she had.

Her words had echoed in his head for the past fortnight, smothering his thoughts until he’d hopped onto his jet and demanded he be taken to St. Petersburg.

Emily understood love. She gave it freely, without conditions...

‘Has Marat spoken to you about this?’ he asked.

‘I rarely see him,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Since Andrei died he doesn’t bother with me. It wasn’t just you he didn’t want in his life. He didn’t want to share Andrei with anyone. With me, he was just more subtle in showing his dislike.’

Pascha sighed and leant his head back. Now he thought about it, he could never remember Marat displaying any affection to her. He was always polite and cordial but never affectionate. Never a son.

And never a brother.

‘If Marat didn’t tell you, how did you know I tried to buy the company off him?’

This time his mother’s smile carried to her eyes. ‘I will show you.’

She left the room for a few minutes, returning with a folded up piece of white paper. ‘This arrived last week from England. It was sent by courier.’ She laughed. ‘I think the sender used some kind of Internet translation for her Russian.’

Her?

His heart thundering, Pascha took the letter from his mother’s hand and opened it. He knew who the sender was before he even started reading.

Printed out from a computer, he saw what his mother had meant. Emily’s sentences were all jumbled, a literal translation from English of what she had tried to say. But her meaning was clear. Her words were heartfelt. Her plea was transparent: for his mother to understand just how much her son loved her and how their estrangement was destroying him.

‘This Emily, she must love you very much,’ his mother said after he’d read the letter all the way through three times.

He inhaled deeply, trying to hold on to emotions that threatened to smother him more than his thoughts had.

‘Does this mean there is a wedding to look forward to?’ she asked hopefully.

He shook his head slowly before dropping it forward and cradling it in his hands.

After everything he’d said to her, the blame he’d unfairly heaped on her shoulders, Emily had done
this
for him?

It had been a fortnight since he’d seen her. A whole two weeks without a word.

He’d missed her, badly enough that some nights he couldn’t breathe through the pain.

How quickly the world could turn and change everything.

In all his years he’d never met a woman like her. Someone full of life. Someone with such intense loyalty... And an infinite capacity to love, just as Andrei had had...

He’d spent two weeks torturing himself with thoughts about whether or not she really had said she loved him. Her words had been shouted out in anger, to make a point.

Now, for the first time, his heart dared believe...

‘I need to go,’ he said, gripping his mother’s shoulders and kissing her cheeks. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe soon you can take me to this island you named after me?’

‘I would like that,’ he said.

‘And maybe I’ll be able to meet this Emily?’

He attempted a smile of his own. He failed. ‘I’m going to try my hardest to make that happen.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

P
ASCHA
COULDN
’
T
REMEMBER
the last time he’d been to a photo shoot. When he’d first started buying fashion brands, he’d been fascinated with every aspect, but the novelty had soon worn off. Photo shoots were the worst. He was more than happy to leave the experts to deal with the day-to-day matters. After all, what did he know about fashion? Regardless, he didn’t buy companies to tear them apart. He bought them to make a profit. Some needed restructuring or, in the case of the luxury luggage company he’d bought three years ago, a new marketing strategy. A few simple changes and that particular company had seen a four-thousand per cent increase in turnover—in its first year. Now that company alone had an annual turnover of half a billion dollars.

As he stepped into the vast white room filled with bodies hanging around not doing much at all, a small man with a silly flat cap on his head looked at him. ‘You’re too late. You were supposed to be here eight hours ago. We got a replacement for you.’

Taken aback, Pascha said, ‘You must have me confused with someone else.’

‘Aren’t you a model?’

‘No.’

‘Shame. You could make a fortune.’ He winked at him.

Too exhausted to react, Pascha said, ‘I’m here to see Emily Richardson. I was told she was here.’

‘She’s through that door,’ the small man said, pointing at the far end of the room. ‘She’s fitting Tiana into the last dress, so keep it quick—some of us want to get home tonight.’

Nodding his thanks, Pascha strolled to the door, aware of jumbled whispers around him. Someone had recognised him.

He opened the door.

‘Two minutes,’ the figure on the floor said without looking up.

Emily knelt barefoot at the feet of a statuesque model he assumed must be Tiana, doing something—he couldn’t see what—to the hemline of the dress she was wearing

‘Hello, handsome,’ the model said, her eyes glittering.

‘I will wait,’ he said, ignoring her and parking himself on the nearest uncomfortable chair. On a rational level, he knew the model was beautiful. On a base level, she barely registered.

It was Emily he was here for. Emily, who he could see was a million miles removed from the gothic vamp he had first met, dressed in a pair of silver leggings and a green-and-orange-striped top that fell to her knees. He would wait for her for ever if he had to.

Tiana squealed. ‘Ow! Watch what you’re doing, will you?’

‘Sorry,’ Emily said, pressing her thumb to Tiana’s ankle where she’d just inadvertently stabbed her with a sewing needle.

Hearing that voice for the first time in two weeks and in such an unexpected place had shaken her with the force of a battering ram.

Too scared to turn around and look at the waiting figure, she forced her concentration on the job in hand. Except her hands were shaking. She could feel his stare fixed upon her. How she didn’t stab the model again, she would never know.

Only when she was done and she’d sent Tiana back into the studio for the last shoot did she take a deep breath and turn her head.

She tried to speak, give a greeting of some kind. Her tongue wouldn’t move.

She hadn’t believed she would ever see him again.

She’d told herself she never
wanted
to see him again, but deep down she’d known it to be a lie. She would never seek him out, though. She was not a dog; she would not beg for scraps. Ironically, it was Pascha who had shown her she was worth more than that.

‘How are things, Emily?’ he asked, breaking the ice.

She nodded vigorously and forced herself to speak. ‘Good. Good. Thanks.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

There was something different about him. She couldn’t place what it was but it was there all the same. His hair? It didn’t look quite as well groomed as it usually did. And he could do with a shave. The only animation on his face was his eyes boring into hers.

Unable to bear the weight of his stare, she began packing her things away, waiting with her lungs only half-working for him to give his reason for being there. There had to be a reason.

Did he know what she’d done?

‘Are you enjoying working for Gregorio?’

‘It’s fabulous,’ she said, forcing an injection of enthusiasm into her voice. It really was fabulous—she was loving every minute of it; she could hardly believe she’d landed the job so quickly.

She’d left Pascha’s office full of anger and anguish, but also full of resolve.

Pascha had made it perfectly clear on his yacht that they had no future. Their awful confrontation in his office had made her accept it.

She could either allow herself to fall apart—and she knew it would be easy to do that; too easy—or she could pick herself up and carry on. And the best way to carry on was through work.

So she’d gone straight to the House of Alexander and spoken to Hugo, who was already feeling guilty for sacking her. He’d offered her her job back. She’d thought about it for all of two seconds before shaking her head. Working for Hugo, as great as it had been and as much as she’d learned, had stifled her. Instead, she’d asked if he would write her a reference.

The next day, armed with her portfolio and a glowing recommendation, she’d hit the London fashion houses. By the time she’d returned home, her phone was ringing. The House of Gregorio wanted her to come in for ‘a chat’. Two days later, she’d started her new job.

Gregorio had a much more collaborative approach to design than Hugo. He wanted to see his designers’ ideas whether or not they fitted with his ‘visions’.

Work had kept her sane.

She’d tried to push Pascha firmly from her mind. And she thought she’d succeeded.

Seeing him again, though, only went to prove that all she’d been doing was suppressing her emotions.

The constant numbness in her belly had evaporated, jumbled knots tightening in its place.

‘How’s your father doing?’

‘Much better.’ At least she could speak coherently. ‘The medication he’s on is finally working and we’ve got him proper home help. It’s making all the difference.’

‘And is James now pulling his weight?’

She actually smiled, only fleetingly, but a smile all the same. ‘I don’t give him any choice.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

Looking him straight in the eye, she said, ‘It’s down to you. And for that I thank you.’

‘You
thank
me?’

She nodded. ‘Our time together...it made me see how much of myself I’ve supressed over the years, always trying to mould myself into what I think other people need. Now I have the courage to just be me, and if I need help now I ask for it. I know I can’t fix everyone on my own. At least, I’m trying...’ Her voice lowered as she considered what she’d done just a week ago.

Still on her knees, Emily used her hands to sweep the scraps of thread and material littering the floor around her. All she could concentrate on was breathing, trying with all her might to control the acceleration of her heart.

She’d regretted sending the letter the minute it had left her hand and gone off with the courier.

‘I know about the letter you sent to my mother.’

She paused and dipped her head, closing her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I don’t know what possessed me.’

‘I do.’

She jerked to feel his warm hand on her wrist, opened her eyes to find him on his knees beside her.

He put his palm on her cheek. ‘You did it because you couldn’t
not
do it. You did it because you have so much love flowing in your veins that you can’t bear to see someone you love suffer, even if that person isn’t deserving of your love.’

The feel of his skin on hers was almost too much to bear. ‘Please tell me I didn’t make things worse.’ It was the one thing that haunted her.

He shook his head. ‘You couldn’t have made them worse.’

‘I just felt so guilty for suggesting you to speak to Marat—’

‘That wasn’t your fault,’ he cut her off. ‘You made a suggestion, that’s all, and I’m sorry for ever blaming you. I was hurting and full of guilt and I lashed out at you.’

‘But...’

Before she could say another word, he kissed her, a gentle pressure that sucked all the air from her lungs.

‘But nothing,’ he said, his breath hot on her cheek. ‘
I
made the choice to speak to Marat, knowing damn well what the outcome might be. The letter you sent to my mother made a difficult situation easier. She was prepared for me to turn up on her doorstep.’

‘I should never have interfered.’ She turned her face away, tried to break away from him.

Such was his strength that he pulled her down and onto his lap, holding her tightly to him as she tried to move away. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ His large hands stroked her back with a firm tenderness.

‘I swore I was going to stop trying to fix people.’

‘But I love that you try and fix them.’

She froze.

‘It’s how you’re wired,’ he said gently. ‘When you love someone, it’s with everything you have. And I understand it now, because I know there is nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for you.’

She raised her head to look at him.

‘I always thought love was finite, that people were born with a certain amount they could give. I believed Marat when he told me I was the cuckoo in the nest and that our father could never love me like he loved him. You’ve shown me how wrong I was. The love I have for you binds me more tightly to you than any drop of blood ever could.’

He traced a finger down her cheek. ‘I would give my soul for you and I can’t ever apologise enough for the way I spoke to you in my office. I swear on everything I have that I will never speak to you like that again.’

He meant it. She could see it in his eyes. ‘You were in pain,’ she whispered. ‘That’s why I wrote to your mother—because it hurt me to see it.’

‘Yes, I was hurting, but I should never have taken it out on you.’ He breathed in deeply, inhaling her scent. ‘I was scared. I’ve spent so many years believing myself to be unworthy of love that I couldn’t see past it. That letter you sent to my mother—I can’t tell you how that made me feel, knowing you had done that for me. If I could capture that moment I would cherish it for ever.’ Now his eyes burned into hers, searching. ‘You said on my yacht that if you loved someone you would cherish them for what they could give you and not what they couldn’t.’

‘I love
you
, Pascha. Sterile or fertile, it makes no difference to me.’

‘I know you do. If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it’s that love is infinite. Andrei loved me, truly loved me. And if you and he can love this stubborn fool of a man then I know I can love a vulnerable child who’s desperate for a home.’

Pascha couldn’t hold himself back any more. He needed to kiss her. Properly. He crashed his lips onto hers, holding her so tightly, kissing her so thoroughly, being so thoroughly kissed in return that all the tightness inside him loosened.

‘Please, say you’ll marry me? Will you become Emily Plushenko?’

‘Of course I will...’ That familiar groove formed in her brow. ‘Emily
Plushenko
?’

He smiled sadly. ‘I kept thinking of the butterfly tattoo in the small of your back and what a personal memorial to your mother it was. It made me think. If I can’t restore Andrei’s legacy, then I can honour him personally. I’ve changed my name back to Andrei’s. I should never have turned away from it in the first place. But one thing I don’t want to change is
you
. I love you for who you are, exactly as you are.’

‘And I love you exactly as you are too.’

Suddenly it dawned on him,
really
dawned on him, that this passionate, crazy, loyal woman loved him. She loved
him
. She belonged to him just as he belonged to her. The only thing that bound them together was love.

And as he smothered her mouth in a kiss full of all the emotion pouring out of him, he knew their love would last a lifetime.