Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (3 page)

This was too weird for words, and she’d had enough weird to last a lifetime. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

Chapter Three

Her suitcases, piled by the rink’s front door, seemed to mock her. Some fresh start.

A slim girl with a skate bag slung over her shoulder came in, gave Carrie and her luggage a passing glance, then waved to a friend lacing up by a locker. “Katya!
Privyet
!”

The girls’ laughter and unintelligible conversation echoed in the quiet lobby. Were they competitive skaters or simply teenagers dropping in for an afternoon lesson? Maybe they were part of a synchronized skating team, like she’d been back in the day. At a place like this, it was hard to tell.

The rolling skate bag at Carrie’s feet held two pairs of custom skates, each worth about a thousand bucks. Harlick boots and John Wilson blades. Any skater would be thrilled to have them. Maybe she should offer them to the girls. A warm gesture of goodwill and generosity, to go with her retirement announcement. If this fool’s errand proved anything, it was that the time had come to move on. Top-level pair partners didn’t grow on trees, especially when one’s reputation was...sullied. But as she thought about it, the girls left and the moment was gone.

She dragged her stuff to the curb.

She sat on a suitcase and took out her phone to call a cab, tilting it away from the bright glare of the sun. The little screen suddenly went black and the low battery signal appeared. Perfect. Just perfect. She tossed the useless thing in her purse.

Ten minutes felt like an hour. Not a single cab went by. The scorching, late afternoon rays beat down; her bare upper arms tingled with the start of a sunburn. Where was the Vomit Comet when she needed it?

Then, a sleek black Audi pulled up. The trunk popped open. The window lowered. It was Anton. “Get in.”

Get in?
Could he possibly be any ruder? “I am perfectly capable—”

“Of what? Sitting here all afternoon? You’ll never find cab.” Shaking his head, he got out. “In Moscow, you need ride, you wave down car and someone stops. We’ll pretend you did this and I stopped.” He extended the handle on her biggest suitcase and rolled it to the car. “Are you only going to sit while I load?”

She almost told him not to bother. Riding to the airport with him, after what just happened, would be beyond awkward. If he pressed, how could she justify her refusal to skate with him? With a stroll down Amsterdam’s memory lane? By explaining the lingering Cold War prejudice among her father’s constituents? Both sounded awful. But she was exhausted, starving and almost out of cash. At least he knew enough English to understand “Slow down!”

When everything was loaded, she climbed in and let the soft leather seat cup her tired body. The air-conditioning blew out welcome coolness. This car was as nice as Dad’s, except Anton’s stereo played droning Euro-punk rather than the Eagles or Fleetwood Mac. Without a word, he got in and slammed the door.

“You can drop me at Dovo-dah-domo Airport,” she said.

He reached for his seat belt. “It’s Domodedovo. And if you think I’m taking you there, you’re crazy.”

She sat up as he pulled away from the curb, trapping her. She’d heard about things like this happening to lone American women traveling abroad. He might have ties to the Russian mafia. They could ransom her for millions, though who knew if her family would cough up the cash. “You’re not kidnapping me, are you?”

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Did you think you would just walk in and catch plane home? You would wait all night with your suitcases. Perfect person to rob. Galina arranged apartment for you. It has bed. I’m taking you there.”

Outrage danced on the tip of her tongue. Then she realized what he meant. A bed. A quiet, safe place to sleep where she wouldn’t have to spend the night guarding her purse and skates. Frayed nerves and exhaustion raised a lump in her throat. She swallowed it and blinked to clear her stinging eyes. “
Spasibo
,” she whispered.

He gave a curt nod and turned up the music.

The warehouse district around the rink gave way to a picturesque neighborhood of painted brick three-and four-story buildings. Cafés, shops, bars and even a McDonald’s were sandwiched in between. She glanced over at the scenery inside the car. Anton had been handsome at seventeen, but as a grown man, he was a work of art. His hair was longer than it had been at Worlds, and it framed his face in lustrous brown waves. His features were beautifully proportioned, high cheekbones, eyes with a subtle Eastern tilt, straight nose and an alluring, kissable swell in his bottom lip. His snug, cream-colored shirt hugged his biceps, nicely displaying golden skin and muscular arms.

She’d never forgotten how it felt to be cradled in those strong arms, or his gentle caress as he’d gazed down at her in the dark. How long had it been since anyone had held her that way, or smiled as if she was the most important thing in the world? And the question he’d asked in sweet, broken English.
Did I make you hurt?

The answer had truly mattered to him. Her boyfriend back in Sweetspire wouldn’t have thought to ask. Wouldn’t have cared. Neither would Cody, nor the handful of men she’d been with since.

But Anton had cared. And she’d never forgotten...just like she’d never forgotten him.

He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to remember at all. Their paths had crossed a few times last season, but except for the awkward moment last fall at the Cup of China, they’d never spoken. After today, it wasn’t likely they ever would again.

The treasured memory of the caring boy in Amsterdam had been permanently supplanted by thoughts of this awful day, and an angry, scowling man who didn’t even remember her.

They crossed a bridge and to the north was an enormous gothic-style building with an octagon-shaped tower. Exiting the bridge, Anton turned onto a traffic-clogged street lined with high-rise apartments. They crept past an old-fashioned building with Grecian pillars that had been turned into something that looked like a movie theater and another McDonald’s, both identified with Cyrillic signs. If she craved a cheeseburger, she was all set.

Not that she ever allowed herself one.

He parked in front of a white building with burnt-orange trim. She followed him to the back of the car, and grabbed her teal-and-black duffel bag from the trunk.

“If you want to leave rest, I can drive you tomorrow to Domodedovo.”

She looked away. She didn’t want his help, not after this. She yanked another bag free. “I’ll call a cab. You needn’t go to any more trouble.”

“Suit yourself.” He unloaded the rest, then closed the trunk and stood beside the car, drumming his fingers on the hood. He seemed about to say something, but instead, he dug a key from the pocket of his jeans and tossed it to her. “There’s food upstairs.” His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. “So nice to have met you.”

He drove off and she was alone.

* * *

The eleventh-floor apartment was furnished in drab IKEA. White kitchen. Beige living room. Taupe bathroom. Dusty sheer curtains covered the windows, and the high-rise next door blocked most of the view. She let the curtain drop. She’d only be here one night.

She collapsed onto the bed and kicked off her sandals, wiggling her blistered toes. Twenty-four hours of travel had left her aching and filthy. She massaged her brow, trying to soothe the headache between her eyes. It was a bad one, and unfortunately, meant she needed to eat. Somewhere along the line, food had become the enemy.

In the kitchen were cans of soup, salmon and tuna, or at least that’s what the pictures on the labels suggested. In the refrigerator was a six-pack of water, a loaf of dark bread, a small wheel of cheese wrapped in red wax, apples, yogurt and a little plastic jug with a yellow label. The Nesquik bunny smiled back.

According to her now-defunct website, it was her favorite drink. Her online bio also said she was careful to get eight hours of sleep and eat her vegetables. It was all part of being a good role model, something she’d cared about not so long ago. Cody had chafed at their squeaky-clean image, but she’d gotten a kick out of autographing chain-store ice skates for star struck eight-year-olds.

And look how well that had turned out. Now, she was all but banned from her sport. Her career was in shambles. She’d embarrassed her family. Anyone who tried to be nice, as Anton and Galina had today, she pushed away.

She skated as a pair, but life off the ice was a different story. Cody made that easy. To him, she’d been a means to an end, nothing more. The rare occasions she craved something deeper, she’d learned to suppress the longing with the same discipline she applied to skating. Power on through, bruises be damned.

Unlike the bruises she took from skating, these were bruises no one ever saw.

The Nesquik bunny’s happy face blurred. She drew her arms close, and crumpled to the floor. Rocking, hugging. Longing for comfort, finding none. Keening sobs filled the empty rooms, until she’d wrung out every tear. Then, numb to anything beyond her excruciating headache, she staggered to the bathroom. The harsh fluorescents illuminated every line. Hard to believe the faded, lank-haired woman in the mirror was only twenty-four. She fumbled through her cosmetic bag until she found the brand-new prescription bottle of her headache medication. With trembling hands, she fumbled it open and shook out two tablets. Instead, dozens spilled into her palm. She stared down. Her breathing slowed.

She shook violently, remembering. Momma, lifeless in a king-size bed, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling. An empty pill bottle on the nightstand. An envelope on the floor, addressed to Carrie.

Would she look the same, lying in this strange bed? Then again, who would find her? She was alone in a foreign country. There was no one to come and check on her, to say they loved her, and that they were sorry. No one to collapse, sobbing at her bedside, when they saw the result of their cruel, selfish words.

Stop it! You aren’t like her. You’ll never be like her!

She plucked two pills from her palm, dumped the rest into the toilet and flushed. Another tremor snaked across her shoulders and she grasped the edge of the sink.
Let it go. Let it go. Don’t think about it.
She gulped deep, calming breaths until the image returned to the dark corner where it belonged. Then she splashed her hot, puffy face with cool water. She combed her hair and washed her sore feet. At least she looked better.

She washed down the pills with a bottle of water, then still parched, chugged another. The single apple she ate only sharpened her hunger, so she grabbed the bread and cheese. She wasn’t a skater anymore. The hell with calorie-counting. The bread was tangy and chewy, a cross between rye and sourdough. The cheese, pleasantly smoky. She ate four slices of bread, half the cheese, then opened a can of tuna and polished it off. She finished with another apple, and tried to remember the last time she’d eaten so much at once.

Sated and suddenly drowsy, the last thing she wanted to do was make flight reservations. A short rest would give the pills time to work on her headache. She stretched out on the couch and closed her eyes, lulled by the hushed hum of the air conditioner.

When she awoke, the headache was gone. Outside, it was still sunny, though according to her watch it was close to 10:30 at night. Very strange. She set her laptop on the coffee table, and checked email. There was a message from her stepmother. She smiled, feeling a rush of warmth. Dad and Lolly were making sure she’d arrived safely. But the message was entirely campaign news. A big rally in Athens. A successful fundraiser in Savannah. In a close three-way race, Dad was leading in the polls. Not a single word about Carrie, or her trip to Moscow.

But that was good, right? Dad must no longer be angry she’d come here to train. Think how happy he’d be to hear she was coming home.

She was about to reply, when she saw that she had a new message. It was from Cody; the subject,
A GREAT Opportunity!!!!!!

Now what? Her ex-partner had reinvented himself as the new It-Boy of reality TV, starring in sleazy-celebrity dating shows and sleazy-celebrity lost in the jungle shows. His recent DUI had opened up an exciting new world of showbiz opportunity. A sane person would delete the message, but like a driver passing a car wreck, she had to look.

It’s what we’ve been waiting for! You and me on Celebrity Detox. And not just Celebrity Detox but a totally new concept just for us: Celebrity Detox: Intervention! I’m the out-of-control star and you’re my heartbroken friend who just wants me to get my life together. Isn’t that HOT?!?? Frank has negotiated serious $$$. We HAVE to do this. Don’t ignore me, because I’m NOT giving up. This could be seriously big.

Love, Cody.

Celebrity Detox: Intervention? This
was what she was going back to do? Dodge Cody for the next six months? Hide out in Sweetspire while Dad and Lolly campaigned for the senate and tried to pretend she didn’t exist? She deleted Cody’s message and typed
Zelanskaya and Belikov split
into her search engine.

A month-old blurb on Eurosport’s website provided the basics. Olga and Valentin Egorov were Russia’s newest superstar pair, after Valentin’s former partner announced her pregnancy and subsequent retirement. The baby was due in November. Olga’s former partner, Anton Belikov, was “considering his options.”

Ouch.

November? It was late July now. Carrie did the math in her head. Her eyes grew wide. Valentin must have known since April when, according to the article, he and his partner left the European Ice Champions Tour. He would have asked Olga shortly after...and she had waited until
summer
,
before the most important season of their career, to tell Anton she was skating with someone else?

That sucked.

Anton and Olga had been one of those partnered-at-birth Russian pairs. Well, maybe not quite at birth, but even seven years ago, when Carrie and Anton had their passionate encounter, Olga had been his skating partner.

Online, she found videos of them competing. Olga, a delicate platinum-blonde, was the star of the pair. Anton dutifully lifted and tossed her, but as Olga flitted across the ice like Tinker Bell, he was slower and at times, even awkward. In one clip, a TV analyst sighed and said, “He’s fortunate to have a partner so talented.”