Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (17 page)

For the first time in hours, he smiled.

God, she was gorgeous. Happy too, having fun as she danced with her friends. Such a change from the isolated girl who celebrated her birthday alone. Whatever grief she caught back home for coming here, he hoped she’d have good memories too.

Would he be one of them? A memory, just like Amsterdam?

He shook the thought away. Right now, there was business to take care of. Valentin. Where was he? To Anton’s relief, the reigning king of pair skating—silver medal notwithstanding—was there, sitting alone at the bar.

“Is Princess Olga dreaming sweet dreams?” Egorov asked, in a voice that dripped sarcasm. He signaled the pretty bartender hovering nearby. She poured two glasses of Stolichnaya Elit and served them with a seductive smile, seemingly unaware that the best she could hope for was a big tip.

“She and Alina already had words today,” he went on. “I fear if you hadn’t...removed her, she would have embarrassed herself. You have more talent than I, managing her when she’s drunk.”

“It’s not a talent. I’ve just had more practice,” Anton said. “But Olga’s too proud for public scenes. She prefers subtle attacks. If Alina’s smart, she won’t let her skates or Fedor out of her sight in Lake Placid.”

Valentin saluted with his glass and they drank, then fell silent, watching the dancers. Egorov moved his shoulders to Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.” It was obvious he wanted to be out there with Adrian, and why shouldn’t he? Anton gestured with his glass. “Go on.”

Valentin snorted and slanted a disdainful look. “I’ll wait for something less obvious. Cher, perhaps.”

Whatever. It wasn’t his business anyway. Anton signaled for more vodka. Then he took the rental car key from his pocket and placed it on the bar.

Egorov turned it in his fingers. “Are you concerned for my transportation comfort, or is there more to the story?”

“Call it a favor you owe me. Tomorrow, you’re driving Olga back to Lake Shosha. In her state of mind, she’ll welcome privacy.”

Egorov sipped his fresh drink. “So the Italian getaway is off? Or have you chosen a different traveling companion?”

Anton glared. “Carrie’s going to visit her family. This had nothing to do with her.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, through pursed lips. “And I’m sure Olga will see it that way.”

He sighed. Valentin was right, but even so, it changed nothing. He’d done the right thing. Come to think of it, going to Italy wasn’t a bad idea. Time alone would bring some perspective. But those concerns were for tomorrow. Olga was in good hands. He turned back to watching Carrie dance.

She had a natural connection to music he couldn’t fully enjoy when they were skating. He was happy just to watch, the way he had in Beijing...or years ago, in Amsterdam.

What did it mean that he was now free to be with her? Carrie was still the daughter of a man who wanted to be president, and Anton was still Russian. What’s more, he intended to stay in Russia, building a career and a life near family and friends—if not in the same city, at least in the same country.

Carrie’s plans? Beyond this season, he had no clue. She’d never said. But whatever her plans were, they surely didn’t involve staying permanently. By spring, she’d be gone. He’d set himself up for heartbreak by bringing her here, but would he have done differently, knowing he’d fall in love?

No.

In some ways, she was like Olga, who kept people at arm’s length and lashed out when they got too close. It was a defense—hurt before you could get hurt—but that didn’t make it any more pleasant to be on the receiving end. But the comparison wasn’t altogether fair. Carrie had the secretive part down, but not the lashing out. She was kind, loving and wanted someone to love her in return.

Lady Gaga segued into another American pop singer, this one with a high, candy-sweet voice. The new song was slower, slightly melancholy. Carrie swayed more slowly, but as the music grew faster, her movement did too. With a ballerina’s grace, she whirled around, her hair a flash of spun gold. Their gaze locked and held. His heart stood still, as it seemed she was dancing only for him. Then she turned away, to dance alone.

* * *

How long had he been watching? She hadn’t seen Olga, but that meant nothing. Everyone else was here, why not them? Olga must be in the ladies’ room, powdering her perfect little nose. In no mood to watch the happy couple, Carrie left the dance floor. Adrian’s velvet jacket hung from the back of a nearby chair. She grabbed it, and ducked into the courtyard.

A few others had come out to cool off or smoke and the high walls blocked the wind. The brick path down the center was clear, and around the corner, it ended at a silent, snow-draped concrete fountain. On a summer night, this would be a lovely spot in a city chock-full of them. Saint Petersburg was beautiful, even under a foot of snow. A shame she’d never see it green and blooming.

The city lights bleached most of the darkness from the sky, but a few stars were visible. Was it possible to see the northern lights? She’d asked Anton about it once, but he told her Moscow was too far south. She hadn’t thought to ask about Saint Petersburg.

“You can’t see them here, either,” said a soft, low voice. She whirled around. Anton stood a few feet away.

“Too much light,” he said, coming so close their shoulders touched. He gazed up too. “But you’ll like summer night here. We call it White Night because sun doesn’t set.”

“I won’t be here in the summer.”

“You could come back, maybe.”

If only it was that simple. Thumping dance music and the sounds of traffic filled the silence. She shivered in a cold breeze, which carried Anton’s alluring scent. Citrus blended with something else. Jasmine? No, more masculine. Familiar, though she couldn’t place it. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you and Olga had gone upstairs.”

“She had too much to drink so I took her back to her room.”

“Her room,” he’d said, not “our room.” She caught a faint whiff of vodka, but his speech was clear. The caress of his breath against her ear made her stop watching the sky. She gazed up into dark eyes more captivating than any cosmic light show, and shivered again, though this time, it wasn’t the temperature. “I should go. I have a long day tomorrow.”

“Your father, will he be angry?”

“I don’t know.”

“I didn’t think about problems you might have for skating with me. You did brave and generous thing. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“It’s okay, you already apologized.” She turned away. “Good night, Anton.”

He caught her hand. “Don’t go.”

“I have to.” The words echoed Amsterdam. Had their parting been as painful for him as it had been for her? She smiled sadly, gazing at their still-joined hands. “Sometimes I forget that in a few months, I have to give you back.”

He stroked his thumb across her fingers, and a little smile played at his lips. “What is this ‘give me back’ stuff? Makes me sound like pair of shoes.”

This was so much easier for him. He and Olga had an open relationship; all very European and sophisticated. A Southern girl who considered herself a one-man woman was at a distinct disadvantage. “Right...you and Olga aren’t exclusive.”

“Carrie. Olga and I aren’t anything. Not anymore.”

Her lips parted. “What?”

“We broke up tonight. It’s been coming, long time. We want different things, different lives. I’d made my mind up before, but wanted to wait until after competition to tell her.”

She breathed in, scarcely able to grasp his words. “It wasn’t...because of me, was it?”

“No,” he said gently, still holding her hand. Then he smiled. “Look, we don’t have to talk now. This is night to be happy.”

“Are you?”

“Happy? Very much.” The breeze ruffled his hair, and she reached to touch it, the texture like fine sable between her fingers. Even without the stage makeup, she saw the passionate, forbidden lover who held her this afternoon. She stroked his jaw with the back of her fingers, liking the contrast of rough beard over smooth skin. When she lightly traced the sensuous swell of his bottom lip, he gave a lazy smile. “Are you?”

“Yes.” The word caught in her throat. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

Suddenly, Carrie’s senses ignited, flooding everything with heat and light. Anton drew her into his embrace and she rested her palms against his shoulders. At first, his kisses were gentle, as if testing to see if she responded or fled. She provided the answer, wrapping her arms around his neck, combing her fingers through his thick, silky hair. Her heart thudded, her body ached for more. Craving him as she craved air and sunlight, she opened her mouth to receive him.

Anton’s tongue danced with hers as he explored, taking his time, prolonging every sensation. Her knees felt weak, her body relaxed against him, and tingling sensations spread to her fingers and toes. She closed her eyes, as pulsating curtains of light danced, waving, beckoning, hypnotizing.

She ought to resist. Think this through. This was her skating partner. He’d just ended a years-long relationship. What would her family say? What was the matter with her? What was she
thinking
?

That his kiss was everything she’d imagined, that’s what.

Smoldering heat melted fear, like thin ice. She gave in to the desires that had raged for months and infused every move, every lift, every look. He kissed the sensitive place behind her ear. Her stomach fluttered and a soft groan rose from deep within. “Oh yes, yes,” she whispered.

“Come with me to Italy,
solnyshko
. We’ll swim in the sea, drink wine. Make love.”

How badly she wanted to say yes, to frolic with him in the Italian sunshine, rather than brave an ugly confrontation with her father. But she couldn’t avoid the inevitable and the longer she put it off, the worse it would be. “I can’t.”

“Your family?”

She nodded. If it was this hard to leave him for a week, how hard would it be when she had to leave him forever? But maybe she wouldn’t have to. If she could make her father understand she’d done this not to hurt him, but out of love for Anton...maybe there was hope.

He brushed a kiss across her brow. “I understand. Family means everything.”

Laughter and music spilled into their private world, as more people came into the courtyard. Carrie brought her hands down and stepped from his embrace. Anton smiled and tucked her hair back into place. He tugged at his jacket and straightened his collar. Feigning a casual attitude, they returned to the bar—skating partners who had stepped out for a breath of air.

Inside, she quickly made excuses. Her flight left at seven. She still had to pack. She accepted affectionate, sloppy hugs from Adrian and Yulia; less sloppy ones from Brigitte and Anya. As she was about to leave, Anton caught her hand.

His smile suggested only a friendly farewell, but his eyes held something more. He brought her close and wrapped her in his arms. She held him, imagining all the things that could strand them on opposite sides of the globe. Wars, coups, plane crashes, natural disasters of assorted shape and size. No. She would be back. In seven days, she would be with him again.

“A week,” he said, giving voice to her thoughts. “Seven nights from tonight, you’ll be back.”

“That’s the plan. Enjoy your trip to Italy.”

“Enjoy your time with your family.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can’t wait.”

He laughed, then his expression grew serious. “You’re sure you have to go?”

She nodded, and took a step back. Their hands parted, but their eyes still held.

“We’re good, you and me,” he said, and she had no troubling hearing, even over the loud music.

She smiled and turned away, but stopped. Before she left, there was one thing she had to know. “That name you call me, ‘
solnyshko
.’ What does it mean?”

“Means
sun
. It’s good word for you.” He smiled. “See you in seven days,
solnyshko
.”

Chapter Eighteen

Sometimes her life felt like a country song, but tonight it was a Christmas carol. There was no place like home for the holidays.

In the back of the cab, Carrie hummed along with Perry Como. On the flight from Europe, she’d rehearsed the conversation with Dad. She would apologize for keeping her plans secret, but then she would explain her feelings for Anton and, she was now convinced, his for her. Then she would invite Dad and Lolly to come to Lake Placid. Once they met Anton, they would see the kind, wonderful man she’d fallen in love with. Her family would be happy. She and Anton would be happy.

Everything was going to work out just fine.

The cab wound past Turtle Creek Country Club, then the sprawling homes that were built when she was in middle school. Grandma Matilda had called them tacky. Momma had wanted to move into one. Sweetspire Boulevard ended at the understated entrance to the Parkers’ driveway. Pulling in, the driver chuckled. “I know this house.”

Everyone knew this house.

The circular driveway fronted the Greek revival mansion Great-great-great Grandfather Parker built in the 1870s, over the ruins of a plantation the Yankees burned down. In the 1920s, the old cotton fields became the country club and golf course. In the 1950s, Grandma Matilda threw legendary parties on the veranda. Every year on the first day of school, Carrie had posed for pictures on the front steps.

But tonight the house was dark. They’d known she was coming. Were they so angry they’d stayed away?

She dragged her suitcase up the ice-glazed front steps. Inside, the chandelier lit the deserted foyer with a soft glow. The polished oak staircase curved gracefully up to the shadowed gallery, which extended to the east and west bedroom wings. Four generations had lived and died here. She’d always sensed there were ghosts. Suppose Momma suddenly drifted out from the dark east wing, shrouded in one of her silky white nightgowns and gazed down, with drooping, medicated eyes?
Welcome home, baby girl.

Quickly, she hit the row of light switches beside the door. “Dad? Lolly? Anybody home?” The words echoed in the stillness. Where could they be? As much as she dreaded Dad’s anger, this was worse. There was no note on the spindly legged table at the foot of the stairs. The small parlor Lolly used as an office was dark. Neat too, as if no one had touched it in weeks.

In the living room was a twelve-foot artificial spruce trimmed with white lights, gold ornaments and red bows, as impersonal as a magazine spread. She fingered a delicate glass snowflake, embedded with golden flecks. The old plastic ornaments were either in the attic or the trash. Ice-skating reindeer had no place on this fine tree.

In the dining room, another chandelier cast low light on the polished mahogany table and cabinets filled with heirlooms from the Parkers and Lolly’s family, the McAllisters. She turned on more lights as she reached the rear of the house, and as a bonus, got a stereo playing Christmas music. Andy Williams’s Velveeta-smooth tenor wished her “Happy Holidays.”

“Same to you,” she murmured to Andy and the ghosts.

The open kitchen, with its seldom-used professional-grade appliances, spilled into a den, decorated with memorabilia from University of Georgia-Athens and Ole Miss, Dad’s and Lolly’s alma maters. At the fireplace, she flipped another switch and gas flames leaped to life.

Photos arranged on the mantel told the story of the Parkers. The public one, anyway. Carrie and Dad, at a skating competition when she was ten. Her high school cap and gown portrait—though she’d graduated in December and never officially wore one; in bare shoulders and pearls, senior year at UCLA. Dad and Lolly, on vacation, playing golf, posing with a former president at a political convention. In Hawaii for their wedding, six months after Momma’s funeral.

The picture rekindled the bitterness she struggled—unsuccessfully—to hide that day, as Dad married his so-called “marketing consultant.” The fact he’d tried to hide who Lolly was to him had hurt as much the affair itself. After all, it wasn’t as though Momma had been faithful, either.

Andy Williams segued to Dean Martin crooning “Baby, Its Cold Outside,” as rain beat against the atrium windows. She ought to put salt down. God forbid Lolly slipped in her Jimmy Choos and cracked her skull.

She went to the garage and found the salt. Dad’s and Lolly’s cars were here. They must still be in Washington. Carrie’s blue convertible sat between Dad’s black Mercedes and Lolly’s silver one.

Momma had always preferred white.

“You packed a lot for a week in Valdosta,” Carrie said. Assuming that’s where they were really going. The trunk of the Mercedes was crammed full of stuff, including both of Momma’s guitars.

“You didn’t.” Momma glared. She wore the fringed white halter top Granny Matilda said made her look like redneck trash. “What about your green velvet dress? You need something pretty to wear to church.”

“At Christmas,” she muttered. Momma shot her another look. “I packed it. Jeans and sweaters too, just like you said.”

Clothes she wouldn’t need for months. Momma stuffed her suitcase in beside a pair of hand-tooled cowgirl boots.

“But why do I have to bring my ice skates? Valdosta only has a roller rink. “Momma gave her usual stressed-out sigh and reached for the Hello Kitty skate bag. “Can’t you just for once do as you’re told without a bunch of questions?” She slammed the trunk shut and walked around to the driver’s side. Her high heels clicked on the concrete floor

* * *

With the salt spread, Carrie returned to the relative coziness of the den and tossed a Georgia Bulldogs throw onto the leather couch. No way would she sleep upstairs alone. She grabbed a cup of yogurt from the almost-empty fridge and sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through her photos from Saint Petersburg.

There was Anton, outside the Church on Spilled Blood. Her, looking up at a mosaic. The two of them, beside Griboyedov Canal. The framing was tilted. He had a goofy expression and she held up two devil-horn fingers behind his head. She could almost hear their laughter.She folded her arms across her chest. If Anton was here, he would hold her, banishing the cold with his warm embrace and hot kisses. She closed her eyes, willing herself back to Sunday night, in the courtyard, the feel of his mouth joined to hers, the thrill of his whispered invitation to join him in Italy. If only she’d said yes. She could be there now, making love to him under Mediterranean moonlight, instead of here, alone with ghosts.

Damn, was she crazy? She ought to hop the first flight to Rome. This time tomorrow, they could be—

A car door slammed. She returned to the foyer as Lolly came through the front door, rolling a suitcase behind her. She greeted her stepmother with a one-armed hug, and helped Lolly out of her rain-dotted cashmere coat. “Is Dad with you?”

“He decided to stay a few more days. There’s so much to do before he takes office. I would have been here sooner, but my flight was delayed. I’m sorry you came home to an empty house.” In the gilded-frame mirror, Lolly smoothed her blond hair. She was ten years younger than Dad and looked ten years younger than she actually was. Lolly’s coolness suggested there was more to Dad’s absence than a busy schedule, but she took Carrie’s arm and turned toward the kitchen. “Let’s have tea and we’ll talk.”

On the way, she paused to admire the Christmas tree—the work of a decorator hired sight unseen. “We’ve planned a little get-together for Thursday night. Just a few close friends. The Wards. The Davidsons. Marv and Margie. And the three of us. You’ll still be here, won’t you?”

She hadn’t planned to leave until Saturday morning, and it was sort of nice to be included in their plans. But spending an evening with Marv Lewis, Dad’s campaign manager, and his gossipy wife, who never had a kind word for anyone? She gave a noncommittal smile. “We’ll see.”

Lolly brewed Earl Grey as she chatted about her week in Washington. With her chic, understated style, poised manner and old family money, Lorelei McAllister Parker was a born political wife—light-years from the big-haired, busty redneck beauty queen who’d been the first Mrs. Lester Parker, Jr.

Lolly filled two mugs. Carrie lifted hers and stopped before her first sip. Bergamot. The scent in Anton’s Armani fragrance that smelled like jasmine, but wasn’t. With Lolly here and Dad coming home in a few days, she could hardly jet off to Italy now.
I miss you so much.

“...your daddy wanted to be home to see you, but you know how things just pop up and you can’t avoid them. We should have told you sooner. Of course...” Lolly paused and gave Carrie a pointed look. “There are things you should have told us too.”

Oh yes, things. Skating for Russia. Her new citizenship. Those things. Her shoulders tensed. “How did he take it?”

Lolly pursed her lips and gazed out the dark window behind Carrie. “I can’t deny this would be an easier pill to swallow if you were skating for France. The last thing we need is to give that Macon ambulance chaser and Larry Ray Parnell any more ammunition.”

“But the campaign’s over. What can Larry Ray Parnell do?”

“You weren’t here during the worst of it. The Macon people were plain vicious and in a three-way race, we had to fight for every vote. Larry Ray spent days talking about your suicide attempt. The ambulance chaser is one of his biggest advertisers, you know.”

“I didn’t attempt suicide,” Carrie reminded her, though it seemed lies had become truth because of some loudmouth on the radio. “And I’m going to compete in Lake Placid. That’s a good thing.”

Lolly frowned. “Even so, once people find out you ran off and became a Russian, it’ll just get them riled up again, screaming for a recount or something. You need to keep a low profile while you’re here.”

“I hadn’t planned to go anywhere besides morning practices. But in a month, everyone’s going to know anyway.”

“Well, by then we’ll be up in Washington and your dad will be all sworn in. When we come back in the summer, the Winter Games will be over and people will have forgotten all about it.”

* * *

The next morning, when Carrie arrived for her 6:00 a.m. ice time, the rink parking lot was empty except for a gray minivan with a figure skater decal above the dented rear bumper. Suzy, the owner, always drove nice cars, so obviously she’d handed Carrie off to one of the part-timers. Inside, no one was around, but the lobby and the concession stand were lit. Christmas music was playing and a welcoming smell filled the air. The dented-van driver had made coffee.

“Hello?” she called out.

“Be right there!” The voice from the manager’s office was familiar, but lacked Suzy’s clipped New England accent. Who else from the old days might still be around?

The Ice Palace hadn’t changed much from when she’d first started coming here in fifth grade. Dad had just been elected mayor, Momma had finally agreed to quit putting her in pageants. She’d embraced skating wholeheartedly, never complaining about sore limbs or bruises. Could she have known even then where it would lead?

The wall outside the pro shop was still covered with photos, and though it took a moment, she found one of her old Silverettes team. She was in the front row, dark-haired and smiling. The way she’d looked when she first met Anton. Unsurprisingly, there were no pictures of her with Cody.

Then a woman in a navy blue hooded sweatshirt came out of the office. Carrie’s eyes widened. “Oh my gosh! Is that you?”

Sarah Canfield laughed. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Carrie returned her hug and stepped back. Sarah was a bit heavier then she’d been in high school, and her hair had returned to its natural dishwater blond. No more hair color. Or makeup. The old Sarah wouldn’t have left the house barefaced, even at 6:00 a.m. “What are you doing here?”

Sarah’s mouth twisted into the expression she used to make when caught doing something she shouldn’t. “Long story. If you’ve got time after practice, we can talk.”

As Carrie skated, Sarah stacked hockey equipment in the corner and cleaned the Plexiglas partition around the rink. She was the last person Carrie expected to see here. She wasn’t a skater. They’d been cheerleaders together, and best friends until senior year, but they hadn’t spoken since just after Momma’s funeral. Sarah’s mother had gossiped with Margie Lewis and the other Women’s Club biddies, while Sarah had simply stayed away.

As she came out of a layback spin, Sarah applauded from rinkside. “My daughter would like nothing more than to watch you do that,” she said.

“You should have brought her.”

“I will Thursday, once winter break starts.” They went to the concession stand. Sarah poured coffee into a foam cup. Carrie chose Earl Grey. “Maddie’s the reason I work here and you’re the reason she’s skating.”

“Seriously?” She dunked her tea bag, releasing the smell of bergamot.

“We watched your competition on TV, and when I told Maddie we grew up together, she got all excited and begged for lessons. We couldn’t afford it then, but I promised that once I got back on my feet, I’d see to it she had them.” Sarah stirred a packet of sweetener into her black coffee. “I don’t know how much you heard about me after high school.”

“Not much. Lolly told me you dropped out of Florida State and got married.”

Sarah shook her head. “The dumb things you do when you’re eighteen. Don’t get me wrong, Trent was great when life was one big party. But after Maddie was born, somebody had to grow up and it wasn’t going to be him.”

“That’s too bad.”

She shrugged. “It’s the same story lots of people have. A baby, bills, no money and crappy jobs. I had two. He had one, but was laid off. He agreed to clean house and take care of the baby, but mostly he hung out with his friends and watched TV. Then one day I came home, and he told me he’d bought a Harley. Here I was, busting my butt sixty hours a week to keep food on the table, and he drops twenty grand we haven’t got on a motorcycle. After five years, I’d had enough. So I moved back here and filed for divorce.”

“And you’re doing better now?”

“We’re staying with my folks, which is...well, you know.” Sarah chuckled ruefully. She and her mother had never gotten along. “But they’re paying tuition so I can finish my degree, and Maddie loves living there. And I work here part-time to pay for Maddie’s lessons.”