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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.’
