Catherine Richardson’s death had unhinged the entire family and, no matter what Emily did or how hard she tried, she couldn’t fix it back together.
She couldn’t fix this dress either. She’d finished her markings but without a model or a mannequin she would be sewing blind.
How could she not have thought to bring a mannequin with her when she’d remembered everything else?
Sighing, she gathered all her stuff back together and put it neatly away before wandering out onto the veranda.
As she leaned over the wall, she couldn’t help but peek up to her left, where Pascha’s hut jutted out. Nothing. If he was in there, he was out of sight.
She forced her attention onto the calm blue lagoon before her and breathed in the salty air which, mingled with the mass of sweet frangipani growing everywhere, created the most magical scent. If she could bottle it, she would make a fortune. She wanted to be out there in it.
She’d been shown a huge wooden hut that held a host of items for outdoor entertainment. She’d been told she could use whatever she liked when the mood took her. It was kept unlocked. She skipped down from her cabin and let herself in. Tennis and badminton rackets, sets of boules and kites all lay neatly shelved amongst kayaks and surfboards. So orderly was it all that she found what she was looking for with no effort at all: a row of snorkels and flippers.
Kitted out, she headed for the lagoon, delighting to feel the warmth of the fine white sand between her toes and the beam of the sun heating her skin, a breeze tempering it enough to make it bearable. In the distance, a boat sailed away from the island, going quickly enough soon to be a speck on the horizon.
Just one day in paradise and she had to admit she was already revising her opinion of the sun. Beneath the top heated layer, the water in the lagoon was deliciously cool, and she waded out in her flippers to waist height before donning the snorkel and diving under the surface.
What a sight there was to behold. She’d seen so many pictures in the media of coral reefs dying, but here it thrived—blooms of colour in all shapes and sizes, an abundance of fish and other marine creatures, their individual colours and features clearly delineated.
Utter heaven.
Sitting on the ledge earlier overlooking the waterfall, she’d felt a sense of peace. She felt that same tranquillity now. It was just her and the lagoon. Nothing else. Down here, the rest of the world might not exist, and she was going to revel in the feeling. Even if just for a short while.
* * *
Emily’s hut was still empty.
Pascha swore under his breath.
He’d searched the rest of the lodge. He needed to speak to her and she’d done another disappearing act. The only place now he could think she might be was at the waterfall she’d been so enamoured with. It was a good forty-minute walk, which wasn’t the greatest length of time, but with the latest weather developments every second was precious.
Stepping out onto her veranda, he spotted the figure far out in the lagoon. He didn’t even have to blink to know it was her.
Pascha cursed again, descending the outdoor stairs that led to the beach at a much quicker rate than usual.
In an ideal world he would send someone else out to her, but to do so would be to tear a member of his staff away from jobs that were now being undertaken as a matter of urgency.
As soon as he reached the sand, he kicked his deck shoes off.
After far too long standing, waiting vainly for her to notice him, he sat down and stripped off his polo shirt, ready to swim out to her. Except during that small action she’d disappeared from view.
Where was she?
Eyes narrowed in concentration, he scoured the area she’d been but could see no sign of her. His heart thudded harder. Where was she?
And then she emerged feet from the shoreline.
For the briefest of moments, his heart stopped.
Emily was wearing the same modest khaki bikini she’d worn earlier but she’d removed the shorts to reveal brief bikini bottoms. She’d donned a white T-shirt—sensible in this heat; he would give her credit for that—but the water made it transparent, the material clinging to her like a second skin.
He didn’t think he’d ever witnessed such an erotic sight. Her dripping hair was longer than he could have imagined, the water pulling her curls out so it hung in a long sheet down to the small of her back.
Unable to tear his eyes away from the tantalising sight before him, his mouth went dry and heat pooled in his groin.
It wasn’t until she started wringing water from her hair that she noticed him.
Something that was a cross between a scowl and a smile played on her lips as she removed the flippers and headed over to him.
‘Come out to play?’
Mouth dry, he swallowed and shook his head, partly to refute her question and partly to clear it from the haze that had engulfed it.
He wanted to reach out a hand to her waist and pull her down to him. He wanted to roll her onto the sand and...
‘Next time you decide to go out into the lagoon, make sure you let someone know,’ he said in a far harsher tone than he’d intended.
Suddenly he felt furious. He should be in Paris finalising the documents that would make the completion of the Plushenko deal a formality, not worrying about the safety of the woman whose actions had been the catalyst preventing him from being in Paris. He certainly shouldn’t be fantasising about making love to her, and certainly not right now when there was an emergency afoot.
She eyed him coolly before a tight, emotionless smile formed on her face and, so quickly that he had no time to react, she gathered her thick hair together and wrung it out again, this time over him, cold droplets falling onto his chest.
He jumped back. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Because I felt like it,’ she answered with a shrug. ‘And because I’ve possibly just spent the most relaxing, wonderful hour of my entire life and you’ve ruined my mood completely with your irrational sanctimony.’
‘I am being neither irrational nor sanctimonious.’ He gritted his teeth together. He would hold on to his temper if it killed him. ‘Anything could have happened to you out there. You might have got cramp...’
‘Anything could have happened, but it didn’t.’
‘But if it had there would have been no one there to help you. In future, I would appreciate it if you let someone know when you’re planning an activity with danger attached to it.’
Her eyes held his, narrowing, studying him, before he caught an imperceptible shift in them, as if they’d melted a little. Her clamped lips relaxed, a wry smile playing on the corners. ‘Message received.’
‘Good.’ All the same, he made a mental note to warn his staff to keep an extra eye on her. Emily had a reckless streak in her. He would not have anything happen to her when she was on his island and under his protection.
‘Was there a particular reason you sought me out? Or are you just stalking me? Only, it’s the second time you’ve come looking for me today.’
He ignored her flippancy. ‘The tropical storm I mentioned earlier has changed paths—only slightly, but it’s now heading for us.’ He’d been given the news on his way to the dining hall.
She blanched and tilted her face upwards. ‘I thought it felt a little breezy.’
The wind was slowly picking up speed, a few tendrils of her drying hair lifting with the breeze.
‘These storms can turn from nothing to something very quickly.’
A sharp breath escaped her pretty lips. ‘Okay, so what do we do?’
‘What we do is go to safety,’ he said grimly.
‘Are we leaving the island?’
‘No. We have the necessary shelter and provisions here.’
‘The way you were talking, it w
as as if we had to move to safety now.’
‘We do. The ocean currents are already strengthening. I’ve sent the last of my staff who live on the neighbouring islands home so they can be with their families, but the rest of us need to move to higher ground.’
* * *
Emily had been a touch sceptical about Pascha’s insistence that they head straight for the shelter. Now she understood. The weather was changing far too quickly, even for her liking.
When they’d started walking the trail, a different path to the one she’d followed to the waterfall, the sun still blazed down on them. They finished guided by Pascha’s powerful torch.
He’d insisted she carry a torch too, which she’d nestled in her rucksack with the few other items he’d permitted her to bring to the shelter. He’d chivvied her along in her hut, glaring at her while she’d debated what she needed to take.
In the end, he’d snapped with exasperation, ‘The lodge and its huts are designed to the highest of standards. The chances of it sustaining any significant damage are very slim. Your possessions will be fine.’
‘Then why are we going somewhere else for shelter?’ she’d asked.
‘Because a slim chance is worse than no chance. The shelter’s on high ground and is designed to withstand the worst the weather can throw at us. I can guarantee your safety there.’
The wind had picked up as they walked but had no more strength than a mildly blustery English day. She knew this would increase, could feel it in the air around her. And she could see it. It wasn’t yet full sunset but thick, black clouds covered what was left of the sun, the previously cobalt sky now a dismal dark grey.
Yet, now she saw the fortress he’d brought her to, she felt total confidence they would make it through the night unscathed, at least in terms of any damage by the storm. The shelter was a small concrete building in a small clearing, close enough to be protected by the surrounding trees but far enough not to sustain any real damage should any of them fall. When she followed Pascha inside, she was further encouraged that no damage could befall them, the interior walls of the shelter being reinforced steel.
But whether or not a night spent here presented dangers of a different sort...
‘Where’s everyone else?’ The lodge had been deserted when they’d set off up the trail.
‘They’ve gone to their own shelter.’
‘What, this one is just for you and me?’
Pascha nodded, his mouth still set in the grim line it had held for the past couple of hours.
‘Why didn’t you tell me it would be just the two of us sharing?’ she asked, not bothering to hide her irritation.
‘I didn’t think it important.’
‘Well, I do. If you’d told me, I could have camped out with Valeria and the rest of the staff in their shelter.’
He raised a bored brow. ‘My staff are all, in one way or another, extended family to each other. I deliberately built them their own shelter so in events like this they could be together as a family. You might be a guest, and I might be their boss, but they deserve their privacy away from us.’
How could she possibly argue with that? Although, she wanted to. She really wanted to. Sharing a confined space with Pascha for the foreseeable future could only bring trouble.
The interior of the shelter was practical but luxurious, with a large double bed, a plush sofa, a dining table and a small kitchenette with a bar at the end. The only privacy came in the form of a bathroom which was, by anyone’s standards, opulent.
When Pascha shut the door of the shelter, the silence was total, making Emily realise just how loud the wind had become.
She peered through a small round window which reminded her of a ship’s porthole, the only source of natural light in the shelter.
Shelter? It was the same size as her London flat.
Turning her head, she found him opening cupboards and rummaging through drawers.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, not looking at her.
Taken aback at the offer, she stared at him. ‘What have you got?’
‘Everything.’
‘Rum and Coke?’ she said flippantly, wanting to test him.
His grey eyes met hers. ‘Do you want ice in that?’
‘Seriously?’
He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of rum, arching a brow as he displayed it for her.
She had to admit, she was impressed. And an alcoholic drink might take the edge off her angst. Might. ‘No ice for me, thank you.’
‘A thank you? You shock me.’
‘I like to keep you on your toes.’
‘You’re doing an excellent job of it.’
While Pascha mixed them both a drink, her curiosity overcame her and she wandered into the kitchenette to rifle through the cupboards.
Amazing. There was enough food here for them to live like kings for at least a fortnight. A month, if they downgraded to princes.
‘I take it there’s a back-up generator?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
Something in his tone made her look at him. He looked furious. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve left my phone charger at the lodge.’
‘And?’
‘And I don’t have enough battery left to get through the night.’
‘I would suggest going back for it but looking at the trees through the window I can see it wouldn’t be the brightest of moves.’
‘Finally she says something sensible.’
‘I didn’t leave the charger behind so don’t take it out on me.’ She wasn’t any happier about it than he was—what if there was an emergency at home? James wouldn’t be able to get hold of her.
She forced herself to think practically. If an emergency did occur, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it anyway, not from Aliana Island.
A whole evening of peace.
She couldn’t even bring herself to feel guilty about it. Peace had become such an elusive thing in her life.
It was just a shame she had to spend it with Pascha Virshilas. It would be more relaxing to spend it with an angry bear. Though she had to concede that an angry bear wouldn’t have the sex appeal...
Where had that thought popped out from?
No, no, no. If she was going to get through the night with even a semblance of sanity left, she had to tune out the fact she was in a confined space with the sexiest man alive.
Sexiest man alive?
Ten minutes in the shelter and she was clearly suffering from cabin fever.
‘I’m not taking it out on you,’ Pascha said.
‘Good,’ she shot back, the scowl on her face still evident.
He expelled a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Technically speaking, it wasn’t Emily’s fault, but if he hadn’t been so determined to get her to the safety of the shelter, and wasted all that time at the beach with her, he would never have forgotten something as vital as his phone charger.
He could kick himself. He should kick himself.
Pascha should be with his lawyers. They’d spoken and corresponded throughout the day, none of them prepared to leave anything to chance, but it wasn’t the same as being in the same room. There was too much that could go wrong and scupper the Plushenko deal, and he was thousands of miles away. And soon he’d be totally cut off from all communication.
He finished mixing her drink and handed it to her.
‘Thank you.’ She turned away and strolled into the living area. Her behind really did sway beautifully when she walked, he noticed, curving nicely in her modest shorts and causing a whole heap of improper thoughts to race through him. Those improper thoughts were not helped by her silver top with its slanting neckline, which displayed a whole heap of porcelain shoulder,
transparent enough for him to see the bikini she wore beneath it.
‘So, what is there to do for entertainment in here?’ she asked briskly, curling up on the sofa.
He held back the answer that formed on his tongue by the skin of his teeth. ‘I’m sure a resourceful woman like you can make her own entertainment.’
She took a sip of her drink. ‘Maybe enough of these will send me to sleep and then I’ll be able to wake up and the storm will be over.’
‘You’ll have a headache if you drink too many of them.’
‘Then I’ll take a headache tablet.’
The woman had an answer for everything.
‘Are you hungry?’
Her face scrunched up. ‘A bit.’
‘I’m not the greatest of cooks but I know how to make eggs on toast. Do you want some?’
She jumped back to her feet. ‘I tell you what, I’ll cook.’
‘Can you cook?’ Why did that surprise him?
‘Yep. It’ll give me something to do.’
‘Are you bored?’
‘Yep. Anything you don’t like to eat?’
‘I’ll eat anything.’
She practically skipped to the kitchenette. Opening the cupboards and the fridge, she started examining ingredients, selecting some, rejecting others.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ she warned. ‘I can cook but it won’t be the haute cuisine you’re used to.’
‘I didn’t grow up eating haute cuisine,’ he said drily.
‘Someone with three chefs at his holiday island is not someone who eats simple food.’
He’d followed her to the kitchenette and his huge form blocked her way to the utensil cupboard. A masculine scent with a hint of citrus filled her senses.
‘Excuse me,’ she muttered.
He shifted to the left.
Emily knelt down and snatched at a saucepan, tugged it out and immediately lost her grip, the pan clanging to the floor.
She picked it up and shoved it on the work surface. ‘Look, you’re getting under my feet. Why don’t you sit down while I get on with dinner?’
What was wrong with her? Her entire body was flushed, as if she’d been heated from the inside out; her hands and fingers were refusing to cooperate with her brain.
The Russian's Ultimatum Page 6
