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‘Why does he hate you so much? You’re his brother.’
His chest expanded to see her outrage on his behalf.
You’re his brother.
He’d always wished that to be true.
‘I don’t know. I don’t have any memories of life without him. But he was older when our parents married. He has memories of life without me.’ He shook his head and raised his eyes to the ceiling before leaning back into his chair some more and placing his feet on the chair beside her. ‘Maybe a more pertinent question to ask is why I’m telling you any of this.’
Her gaze still resting on him, she raised a shoulder in a rueful shrug, the expression on her face indicating she didn’t know the answer to that any more than he did.
He breathed heavily and got to his feet. ‘More wine?’ As a rule, he didn’t drink much alcohol, too conscious of the effects it had on the body. Tonight, he was prepared to make an exception.
She covered her glass with her hand. ‘Not for me, thank you.’
‘Have you abandoned your idea of drinking yourself into a stupor?’ he asked lightly.
‘I’d only get really giggly and annoying, and we both know I’m annoying enough as it is,’ she replied, her light tone matching his.
‘In that case, how about I get you a glass of milk?’
She laughed but her eyes remained troubled. ‘I might take you up on that later. Right now, I think I need a shower. My hair is still full of sea salt.’
‘Okay, well, while you do that I’m going to check in with my lawyer.’ He didn’t hold out much hope that his battery would last long but he needed something to distract him.
Sharing his past did not come easily to him, but then he’d never found himself in this kind of situation before, where talking really was the only way of passing the time. The only way apart from the obvious, that was, which categorically could not happen. It just couldn’t.
No matter how tempting he found her: a bundle of sin with porcelain skin and ebony hair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILY SPENT A long time in the shower, clearing her muddled thoughts.
Pascha Virshilas was the enemy. She had to remember that.
But she was hanging on to her hate by the tips of her fingers, the threads she’d gripped her loathing onto loosening to such an extent she couldn’t keep a proper hold on them.
Simply enjoying his company felt like stepping into enemy territory. This was the man who hadn’t given her recently widowed father the chance to defend himself before suspending him without pay; the man who’d left her father to flounder in a pit of despair rather than start the investigation which would have cleared his name. This was the man who had left her father to rot.
He’d looked out for her, though.
Donning a knee-length black dress—when had her wardrobe become so dark? She really needed to inject some more colour into it—she went back into the main part of the shelter and found Pascha sitting on the sofa reading a book.
‘I thought there wasn’t any form of entertainment here,’ she said mock-accusingly.
He held the book up. ‘I’m afraid all the reading material in here is in Russian.’
‘Never mind.’ She wandered past him and over to the kitchen.
She needed something to do, something to keep her mind occupied so it wouldn’t be so full of him.
‘If I’d known I would be having an English guest, I would have arranged for some books of your own language to be stocked.’
‘I’m hardly your guest, though, am I?’ She said it for her own benefit as well as his—a reminder to them both.
He put his book down and raised a brow. ‘While you are on this island, you are my guest and you will be treated as such.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to rebuke him, to point out that guests were generally allowed to communicate with the outside world. And that, oh, as a rule, guests weren’t usually forced on to their host’s island.
For once she kept her tongue still.
They both knew the facts. There was little point rehashing them.
They had a long night ahead of them. Better to try and sustain the strange kind of harmony they’d managed to establish.
As long as she continued to keep her guard up, she would be fine.
Rooting round the kitchenette for something to do, she found a large tub of vanilla ice-cream in the freezer. There was nothing better than ice-cream to aid harmony.
‘Do you want some?’ she asked, holding it up for him.
‘Sure,’ he replied with a shrug, closing his book and placing it on the arm of the sofa.
Grabbing two spoons, she took it over to the table.
Pascha pulled out the chair opposite her and nodded at the tub. ‘No bowls?’
