if you need to go into the office. I’m only asking you to come for a week—you’ll be fine. Amsterdam will still be there when you get back.’
She disconnected the call and immediately put the receiver back to her ear, dialling yet another number. This time, she relayed that an emergency had come up and asked whoever was on the receiving end to tell someone called Hugo that she needed to take a week’s leave of absence.
‘Are you done?’ Pascha asked when she’d replaced the receiver.
‘Yes.’
‘No boyfriend to call?’ He didn’t even attempt to hide his sarcasm.
In response, she threw him the hardest look he’d ever been on the receiving end of, and in his thirty-four years that was saying something.
‘No.’ With that, she went back to the freshly boiled kettle.
‘I take my coffee black with one sugar,’ he informed her as she tossed a teabag into a mug, poured hot water onto it, followed by a splash of milk, and gave it a vigorous stir.
‘That’s nice.’ She picked up the mug and swooped past him.
‘It is good manners to offer guests refreshments.’
She came to an abrupt halt and spun around, somehow managing not to spill a single drop of tea. ‘You are not a guest in this house and you never will be.’
For a moment, Pascha seriously contemplated forgetting his promise to send Emily somewhere safe and simply lock her in a sound-proof cupboard for a week.
Keeping close to her tail, he followed her up the stairs. When they reached the top, she turned back to him. This time she whispered, although she still perfectly managed to convey her hatred towards him. ‘This is my father’s room. Do not come in. Seeing you might just tip him over the edge.’
‘Then keep the door open. I want to hear what you’re saying.’
‘You’ll find our conversation scintillating.’ She rapped her knuckles on the door, pushed it open and stepped over the threshold into a dusky bedroom, curtains drawn.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Emily said, speaking in such a gentle voice he could easily have believed it was someone else talking. ‘I’ve made you a cup of tea.’
Pascha watched as she went to the window and drew the curtains back.
‘Let’s get some air in here,’ she said in the same gentle voice, opening the window. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Honestly, Dad, you would love it out there. It really feels like autumn now.’
The daylight streaming into the room allowed Pascha to spot the full-length mirror on the wall, which gave him a perfect view of the still figure in the bed.
With Emily keeping up a stream of steady, gentle chatter, the figure slowly rolled over and lifted his head an inch before slumping back down.
Pascha’s jaw dropped open to see him.
Malcolm Richardson was unrecognisable from the man he’d suspended just a month ago.
He looked as if he’d aged two decades.
A stab of something Pascha couldn’t place jabbed in his guts.
It wasn’t long before Emily re-joined him. ‘Get a good look, did you?’ she shot as she sidled past and over to a room on the other side of the landing.
‘Don’t be facetious,’ he snapped, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘When will your brother be here?’
She hadn’t been exaggerating. Her father really was in a bad way.
‘As soon as he finishes his meeting.’
‘And he can care for your father?’
‘Yes. He runs his own business—he’s a financial advisor and sets his own schedule. The next-door neighbour pops in during the day when she can.’
‘We need to make a move soon,’ Pascha said, trying to ignore the new insistent jabbing in the pit of his stomach. However much his conscience might be turning on him, he couldn’t let Emily stay. The risk was too great. ‘We have a flight slot to fill.’
‘You’re taking me abroad?’
‘Yes.’
‘I expected you to leave me in a dungeon somewhere.’
‘That’s a very tempting thought.’
She opened the door with a scowl. ‘You can come in, but only because I don’t want my dad finding you out here.’
Emily took a deep breath and admitted Pascha into her room.
He made no comment, just stood there taking it all in.
To her chagrin, she was embarrassed for him to see it. She’d done her best, but comparing it to the sterility of his office made her see all the flaws. It was as tidy and as organised as she’d been able to manage but it was hard cramming an entire life into a childhood bedroom.
She thought with longing of her cosy flat, could only hope her short-term tenants were treating it with respect.
She pushed the thought aside. It could be months before she was able to move back. Torturing herself wouldn’t change her circumstances.
‘It’s going to take me a while to get my things together,’ she said, mentally shaking herself. ‘Feel free to take a seat.’
‘And where am I supposed to sit?’ he asked. The small armchair in the corner was piled high with old clothes she planned to recycle into something new.
‘On the floor?’ she suggested with faux sweetness, yanking open the wardrobe door, glad she could hide her flaming cheeks.
Her room wasn’t messy but it was filled with so much stuff. A lifetime’s worth. If she didn’t need to keep James’s room free for the times he came to stay, she would appropriate it.
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
