Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (21 page)

Beside the ornaments was a shelf of tabletop figurines, nesting dolls, candles and snow globes. He picked one up and shook it. A blizzard of artificial flakes whirled around Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden.

“Cute, but I prefer Santa and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” she said.

Anton looked perplexed. “American Christmas has reindeer with red nose? Why? Did he catch cold?”

But she didn’t answer. Something else had caught her eye. A snow globe containing a miniature Saint Basil’s, complete with colorful onion domes. She shook the globe to send up the flakes, and instead of Red Square’s bricks, the cathedral was surrounded by a rolling winter landscape. A little sleigh. Snow-dusted evergreens. A tiny frozen pond where two skaters circled.

Anton smiled broadly. “Look at that, it’s us.”

Cupped in her hand, the small ornament seemed terrifyingly fragile. Vulnerable, something she could crush like an eggshell, as snow-flaked liquid drained away like tears.

“You should get it.”

She gazed up into his face, his happiness real and unguarded. Had it once been that way for her parents? Heaviness settled in her chest and arms as she returned the globe to the shelf. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

The bright day was nearly over by the time they returned to her flat. While she put away the groceries, he set up the tree in the corner. Together, they wrapped it with strands of lights and hung the ornaments from its small branches, though she’d forgotten a star for the top. When it was finished, her drab flat looked cheerful and festive.

“I bought something else too,” he said. From his jacket, he drew out a small plastic bag with the logo of the discount store and placed it in her hands. The Saint Basil’s snow globe. “It reminded me of us at Gorky Park.”

She stared down at the skaters, almost ready to cry. This wasn’t a gift he’d give to a one-night stand. It was a treasured memory of them.

Gently he touched her shoulder. “And I want you to come celebrate New Year and Christmas with me and my family. They like you a lot, Irina and Nika especially. All of them are happy we’re together.”

But for them to be together, Anton had to know her...really know her. Suddenly, the little tree became a heart-wrenching reminder of childhood memories that were anything but merry. Her family’s Christmas tree, decorated with long-gone plastic ornaments, and in the next room, her parents fighting.

“Goddamn it, you knew what you were gettin’ when you married me. But I guess back then, the size of my tits made up for a lot.”

“That’s just what I’m talking about. Do you have to go out of your way to be vulgar? Can’t you at least make an effort to fit in?”

“I did make an effort. And every one of those high-toned bitches made it clear I wasn’t welcome. What did you do about it? Not a Goddamned thing.”

Even if she could find the courage to revisit all those dark memories, Anton would want nothing to do with her once he’d seen them. She set the little globe on the table and forced a smile. “That sounds nice.”

The mood seemed to cool, and he said no more about it. He stayed over that night, but left in the morning to meet his friend Pyotr at the hockey rink up in Izmaylovo. “You should come and watch game,” he said, sipping coffee she’d brewed. “Bad hockey, but great kids.”“No thanks.” She stirred milk into her cup, a vortex forming at the center. “I’ve got lots to do to get ready for tomorrow.”

Alone, she paced, starting tasks but not completing them. Each time she passed through the living room, the snow globe caught her eye. Maybe she should have gone with him, just enjoyed the moment and not worried about the future.

But the future loomed anyway. Getting close meant revealing herself, trusting someone, only to be let down. Her entire adult life, she’d avoided any relationships beyond the most superficial. Now she’d made herself vulnerable, in the worst possible way. There was only one thing to do. End the relationship before it went any further.

The realization sat like a rock in her stomach. Anton would be hurt. She’d be devastated. God only knew how it would affect their skating. But then again, they were professionals. They would get past this. And one day, after he’d found a nice Russian girl with maternal instincts and a normal upbringing, he’d thank her.

Tomorrow. She would do it tomorrow.

Resolved, she returned to the laundry piled on the bed. Still a question remained. She found her phone, and opened the translation app, which she hadn’t used in months, preferring Anton’s old college dictionary. Unsure of the spelling, she typed in the word, and when the definition popped up, she knew she had it right.

Lyubimaya:
Beloved.

* * *

As if he somehow knew her intentions, Anton wasn’t at the gym Monday morning. Carrie fumbled through her workout, then as she came upstairs, spotted him rinkside with the coaches.

Ivan held a stack of papers and got down to business. “While you enjoyed holidays, your coaches have been hard at work.” He handed Carrie a photocopy of an article from an Arizona newspaper. Cheating Skater Knows No Shame.

“Congratulations, Carrie, you have succeeded where decades of diplomats have failed. Russians and Americans at last agree on something—they hate you. And Anton, what they are saying about you isn’t much better.” He read from the next page in the pile. “‘Olga Zelanskaya’s former boy toy.’ ‘Less grace than a dancing bear.’” He chuckled. “I like this...’good only for one thing...and ice skates aren’t required.’” He waved the bundle, accusingly. “Some are unhappy about Lara Zhukova. Others don’t want cheating Americans to represent the Motherland at the Winter Games. Articles, sports TV, fans online. All of it bad, bad, bad.”

She felt sick, knowing she’d destroyed Anton professionally. Because of his faith in her, he’d been turned into a punch line. No matter what, she always seemed to hurt those she cared about the most. First Momma, then Dad, now Anton.

Anton crossed his arms and scowled at the coaches. “Do you take this garbage seriously? Judges aren’t reading fan boards.”

Galina sighed impatiently. “If everyone else is thinking this way, the judges are too. But we have a solution.”

“To make the judges love you, first we must make the fans love you,” said Ivan. “Now one thing in your favor is your chemistry on the ice. Some of our most beloved pairs have been real-life couples. Gordeeva and Grinkov. Rodnina and Zaitsev. The Protopopovs.” Ivan sighed reverently. “Then a few nights ago, the most amazing thing occurred.”

He lifted another page from the stack. “I received this from a young man whose fiancée was seriously injured in a terrible car accident. Watching the national competition—especially your performance, was the only thing that brought her relief from pain.”

How did this involve them? Did Ivan want them to visit her? “Will she be all right?”

He snorted, dismissing the question. “Yes, yes, she’s fine. But the poor couple has been forced to delay their wedding several months. They had reserved the Griboedovsky registry for next week. Lovely place. Very popular. And New Year. Such a festive date!” Ivan gave a diabolical smile and cackled with glee. “They want you to have it.”

Carrie’s stomach rolled and her hands prickled with sweat. Ivan clapped Anton firmly on the shoulder. “Congratulations! You and Carrie are about to become husband and wife.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Married?
Carrie was too stunned to speak.

“We cannot walk in and get married seven days from now. That’s crazy.” Anton shook his head in dismay, though the laughter in his voice suggested he didn’t hate the idea.

“But you underestimate me,” Ivan said. “I thought of this weeks ago. Even as we speak, you have applied for marriage—quietly, of course, through your coaches, so as not to attract undue attention. Now, our plan is to contact this lovely couple, Viktor and...” he glanced at the letter, saying, “Jana, thank them publicly and accept their generous offer.” He produced another folded sheet. “Your signatures are all that is needed to proceed with a New Year’s Eve wedding.” He held out a pen.

Carrie made no move to take it. Her mouth opened and closed, struggling to form the words in Russian or English. No language felt adequate. “You think the only way we can win is to resort to stupid publicity stunts?”

Anton flinched. “Stupid publicity stunt? Is that all it would be to you?”

Her heart pounded, feeling trapped. “How could we call it anything else?” She turned to the coaches, desperate for support. “That
is
all it would be. Just for the season, right?”

Galina nodded. “You would compete in Lake Placid, then at World Championship, as husband and wife. When season ends, Anton will return to Russia, and begin his new life out of the public eye. You can go wherever you please. In a year, you will quietly divorce, explaining it as whirlwind romance that did not work out.” She smiled coldly. “No one expects celebrity marriages to last.”

The idea of a false marriage was almost as devastating as a genuine divorce. But bizarre as it seemed, she couldn’t dismiss the idea. She’d damaged Anton enough. If there was a chance a made-for-TV marriage would help them, help
him
, she would do it. “A year,” she said quietly. “Okay, I’m in.”

“You would do this?” His voice dropped. “Marry me as a lie...and then divorce?”

“You know what we’re up against. If Ivan and Galina think this will help, then yes, I’m willing.”

His face was rigid with anger but beneath it was the grief of a tenderhearted man devastated by a conniving turn, straight from Olga’s playbook. He must hate her, but she squared her shoulders, determined to remain strong. “Fine,” he practically spat the word. “Plan the fucking thing.”

He grabbed his skate bag and left the arena. The swinging door slammed behind him.

* * *

What a fucking mess.
Anton drummed his fingers on the bar, toying with the sticky coins left there. Three days ago, she’d talked about never wanting to marry, and now she was probably shopping for dresses with Galina. Who would have believed it?

“
Eshyo
?” The bartender gestured toward Anton’s empty beer glass. He considered it a moment, and then shook his head.

“Vodka?” The man grinned and set a short tumbler on the bar. Clearly, he felt Anton needed more than a few beers. Maybe, but given that he was two hours from Moscow and five minutes from Olga’s place in Lake Shosha, getting drunk was a very bad idea.

He’d hadn’t come to see Olga, though if he and Carrie went through with this madness, he’d have to tell her. But not today. No, the only woman he wanted was his soon-to-be fake fiancée/bride/ex-wife. The woman he’d made love to Saturday night now had their divorce date scheduled. Unbelievable. Anton shook his head. “
Nyet, spasibo
.”

The bartender shrugged and left. Anton rubbed at the dull ache in the back of his neck and turned back to the hockey game he’d been staring at for the past hour. CSKA Moscow versus Dinamo Minsk. Normally, he’d have his eyes glued to the score, but right now, he didn’t give a shit about hockey.

He’d left the rink with no destination in mind. He’d gone home, but after fifteen minutes, thinking of Carrie’s quick agreement to marry and divorce for profit, he was ready to climb the walls. He couldn’t go see his family or Pyotr. He couldn’t tell anyone. So he got in his car and out of habit, drove north. By afternoon, he was in Lake Shosha.

She must have agreed to this out of fear she’d damaged him somehow. True, if he was skating with Lara Zhukova, no one would be comparing him to a dancing bear. He’d be on track for a medal. But he’d also be miserable, and every time he looked at the damn thing, he’d remember the people he stepped on to get it. Galina. Carrie. Some victory.

And he wanted a victory, not just for himself, but for them too. Carrie deserved to be at the top of her sport. Galina had devoted her life to making him and Olga into champions. Olga repaid her by leaving. He would repay her by winning.

If the coaches believed their public image needed help, it probably did. Ivan was a bastard but he knew the skating world and the media. Galina wouldn’t push this unless she was convinced it would improve their chances. After a respectable showing, he and Carrie could end their careers on a high note, and move on to post-skating lives.

Yet Carrie didn’t seem to know what hers looked like. Though she had been quick to deny wanting marriage, her sad voice didn’t suggest someone contentedly single. Something was holding her back. Damned if he knew what.

The bells on the bar’s door jingled as a couple came in, dressed in business clothes. The workday was over, and fading daylight filtered through the bar’s small front window. He ought to get on the road. God forbid Valentin strolled in, or if on the way to his car, he ran into Olga, coming out of the hair salon.

He left, walking through the small town, and turned onto a cobblestone side street lined with buildings at least three hundred years old. He’d parked near the bistro where he and Olga had eaten one evening last summer. It had been a white night, and after dinner, they’d gone to a midnight concert in the park. Carrie had arrived in Moscow the week before, but he hadn’t given her a thought.

Actually, that wasn’t true. That night, he’d dreamed of the Amsterdam Girl.

Face it. You love her.

Bringing Carrie to Russia had started as a way to rescue a damsel in distress, but instead, she’d rescued him. He was happier now. He was a better skater. He was a better man. She feared she’d ruined him, but really, she’d set him free.

She had changed too. He sensed it that night in Gorky Park, and again in Saint Petersburg. But something was different since she’d returned from visiting her family. The old defensiveness was back, and true to form, she kept everything inside. Almost as if she was scared to reveal too much.

Honestly, it scared him too.

For all of Carrie’s sunshine and sweetness, there was also darkness. She wasn’t cruel like Olga, yet she hid behind walls he wasn’t sure he could ever climb. Then again, wasn’t love itself a little scary? Love wasn’t easy. It often wasn’t pretty. God knows, he’d seen that watching his dad care for his mom. But when love was real, turning away was unthinkable.

He got in the car, and when he turned the ignition, U2’s “One” blasted from the speakers. Carrie didn’t want to go through life alone. She was desperate for someone to love, who loved her. Someone who belonged to her. Someone she could trust. If he could be Carrie’s one, maybe a year from now, they wouldn’t be talking about divorce.

* * *

Carrie was relieved when Anton told his family about their marriage without insisting she come along.

“Pyotr offered the back room of his restaurant for party afterward,” he said the next day, as they circled the rink, hands clasped in an uneasy alliance. “Unless you wanted something...?” He seemed to be searching for the right word.

She shifted her eyes to their stroking skates, black-and-white, left to right. “No. I like Pyotr’s place.”

“He sent menu to look at. For main course, he suggests Chicken Kiev or beef shashlik.”

“Shashlik,” she answered, then glanced over, inexplicably irritated. True, someone had to take on the arrangements. He was certainly more familiar with Russian wedding customs. And it wasn’t as though
she
wanted to do it. Still, his anger yesterday was almost preferable to his new role as wedding planner. “You’re taking this awfully seriously.”

“Marriage is serious business,
solnyshko
. What kind of example would we set if we didn’t treat it as such?” She answered his raised brow with a glare, and returned to watching their skates. Back and forth. Black-and-white. Anton continued. “My grandmother offered to call Father Konstantin to arrange religious ceremony.”

She gaped at him. He couldn’t be serious. Deceiving his family and the rest of the world was bad enough, she wasn’t about add lying to God to her list of sins. “Absolutely not,” she said, though with the anger came a stab of regret. Under different circumstances, she would have wanted a church wedding. “It sounds like your family took the news well.”

“Couldn’t be happier,” Anton said quietly. “Irina and Sveta want to bake the wedding cake. Nika will take pictures. Sasha offered to play music. And Papa is bragging to everyone how I’m marrying into important American family. He can’t wait to meet them.”

Bittersweet became simply bitter. How nice that his precious family had jumped into this project with such enthusiasm. Hers had greeted the news much differently. “Actually, they aren’t coming.”

He stared, incredulous. “They’re going to miss your wedding?”

She shut her eyes, as if that would block the memory of the awful conversation.
“Did he knock you up, or is it a green card he’s after?”

Heat rose in her face. “Hey, he’s got a lot to do in Washington. Important things. More important than coming to Moscow for this,” she snapped. “It’s not like it’s a real wedding.”

“They don’t know that.”

Just had to point that out, didn’t he? “Come on, we have work to do.” She jerked her hand free and skated ahead, picking up speed for a double lutz. She flung herself into the air, and let the sensation of flight and a solid landing remind her she was in control.

* * *

A week later, the night before the wedding, Galina came by her apartment.

“Anton told me your family is unable to attend,” the coach said, as Carrie ushered her in. She opened her purse and took out a small black box. “I know it is tradition for American brides to wear something old, borrowed and blue. I have such a thing, a gift from my parents when I turned sixteen. If your mother were here, she would provide, but since she cannot, I would be honored for you to wear them.”

The box held a pair of delicate sapphire earrings. Moved beyond words, Carrie clasped her hand over her mouth. Her legs felt weak and she dropped onto the couch as tears welled to the surface. Her shoulders shook, as she fought to keep control. Gently, Galina asked, “This is not easy for you, is it, child?”

Carrie’s sobs gushed forth. “I...”
love him
, she wanted to say. “He’s...he’s...”
the only man for me.
The words caught in her throat. She her coach’s hand, as Galina sat quietly absorbing Carrie’s sadness. Then she took a packet of tissues from her purse and patted Carrie’s arm in a soothing, maternal gesture.

“When I was young, I was passionate about two things. Skating, and a boy. The skating...” Galina shrugged. “Others were much better. Yet with boy, I had a chance. Andrei was handsome, talented. But he was not serious, and my parents did not like this. They said I could do better, so I respected their wishes and ended things. Then he went to Poland for competition and met a girl. They married soon after. My friends all said, ‘Don’t worry, Galinka. It won’t last.’ But for thirty-five years, it has.”

Carrie swallowed. She wasn’t the only one with painful memories. “I’m so sorry, Galina.”

Like a flamingo suddenly ruffled, Galina tilted her head. Pink-tipped bangs framed sharp, scowling features. “This is not so you can feel sorry. I am your coach. My job is to teach. Family’s wishes are important, but also are yours. Anton is like son to me, and you are good for him. Never forget that as you do this for his sake, he does it for yours. Each puts the other first. That makes you true partners, not just on the ice. This marriage will be real, even if it is short. And there’s no reason it could not last.”

She shook her head. “Actually, Galina, there is. But thank you. It was kind of you to come, and I’m honored to wear your earrings.”

The Russian woman’s dark eyes narrowed, and Carrie braced for an argument. Then Galina nodded slightly, conceding. At least for now.

They chatted a few minutes more, about travel arrangements to Lake Placid, and Galina rose to go. Carrie walked her to the door, feeling a swell of tenderness toward this gruff woman with magenta-tipped hair. “Galina...once the season is over and we’re gone, what will you do?”

“I am not sure. Find another pair, maybe.” Her thin brows furrowed. “In some ways, I know it will be sad, but if life never changed, there would be no room for good things that are still to happen.”

Good things that were still to happen. Could it be that way for her?

When Galina was gone, Carrie took the earrings to the bedroom and placed them in her suitcase. The room was filled with bags and boxes, bound for either the trash, or Anton’s apartment. As a married couple they couldn’t keep separate addresses. Or separate beds, though it was hard to image that now, given that they’d regressed to the cold, businesslike relationship they’d had before. Their few conversations about post-wedding life had ended in silly arguments—coffeemaker verses teapot, TV on or off in the morning—that skirted the true question; just how real would their fake marriage be?

She sighed, gazing into the open suitcase on the bed. There was still room for the last few things in the closet. Her robe. A pair of jeans. The photos she’d brought from Sweetspire. They sat on the top shelf, beside the teal-and-black duffel bag.

Aren’t you ever going to look inside, baby girl?

No need to.
She knew what was inside; an envelope addressed to her, which she’d snatched from the floor beside Momma’s bed and hidden before Dad saw. Never opened. Her little secret.

She went to the closet and gingerly touched the bag’s black vinyl trim, now brittle with age.
You have to look sometime. Or are you going to keep running forever?
She’d gone seven years without opening that bag, though it had traveled with her everywhere. So far, the strategy was working.