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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.
