Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (6 page)

Olga preferred him short-haired and sleek-skinned. Right now, he was neither. It was the perfect excuse. Gently, he stepped away.

* * *

He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, where wooden planks formed a perfect V overhead. There was a faint aroma of wood smoke, either from the bonfire outside or the now-dark fireplace at the foot of the bed. The room was private, and for a dacha, downright luxurious. But tonight, the only thing it would be used for was sleeping.

On her side of the bed, Olga sighed contentedly. If she’d been upset by his rejection, she wasn’t showing it. “Mmm. Life’s better with thousand-count sheets, don’t you think? Tonight I met a producer for
Celebrities at Home
. She’s doing a show on Valentin’s dacha and I’ll get to be in it.”

“You’ll be great. I’ll be sure to watch,” he said.

“They might put you in it too, if I ask. But only if you’re very good and...” She toyed with a lock of his hair. “...if Vera cleans you up.” She nestled against him and closed her eyes, one hand clasped around his upper arm, the other resting on his stomach, assurance he was still near.

From the time they were kids, he’d been her refuge in a scary life, as she and her alcoholic mother drifted from one dingy flat to the next. When her mother finally put a bullet in the head of an abusive boyfriend and went to jail, he, his family and Galina were there for Olga. He’d never hurt her. But his trust in her was badly shaken, and her decision to skate with Valentin only made things worse. There was also her temper, and the fact that they wanted vastly different things. And just as Olga’s wishes had defined their skating partnership, they would define their married life.

Most of the time that was okay. He wasn’t the type of guy who always needed to have his way. He liked making her happy. But she didn’t appreciate it, she merely expected it—a price he ought to gladly pay for the privilege of being with her. Lately, he’d been wondering if the price was too high.

Awake in the dark, he listened to the far-off sound of a storm brewing. Just when he thought she was asleep, she whispered sadly, “I love you.”

The words broke his heart. He pulled the sheet up over her bare shoulder. “I love you too.”

It wasn’t a lie. A part of him would always love her. But he no longer wanted to marry her.

Chapter Seven

The next afternoon, headed back to Moscow on the M10, he made good time until south of Klin. Then he crept along the rest of the way, caught in traffic and thinking about Carrie Parker.

Brigitte’s comment about Carrie’s former partner explained how they had synched so quickly. Just as he had always adapted to Olga, Carrie had adapted to Cody. The one with mean eyes. That explained a few things too, like her fear when they worked on lifts and throws. And not once had he seen her eat anything besides apples and celery. Was deWylde the reason? Or was he?

He’d been cold, indifferent. Instead of talking to her during practice breaks, he plugged in his iPod. He left to run before she finished her workouts without so much as a “see you tomorrow.” He’d been exasperated when she missed jumps, but pretended not to notice when she landed them well.

Be honest, you’ve been a jerk. She probably thinks you’re the mean one.

She’d be stunned to know the real reason.

He’d first noticed her at the Cup of China when he and a friend dropped by a late practice. As Misha had chatted with a hot Canadian ice dancer, Anton peered into the arena, mostly curious about who was skating to the Foo Fighters. But instead of some Asian kid getting his macho on, the skater was a beautiful young woman.

Small and slender, with a shiny blond ponytail sailing behind her, she was lost in the music, skating for no one but herself. The loud, hard music complemented her athletic, though elegant, skating. She was breathtaking, but at the same time, her distant expression was undeniably sad. She wasn’t on the ice to practice. She was there to escape.

Who was she? Misha shrugged, but the Canadian girl knew. “Carrie Parker. She’s an American.”

He recognized the name. She was part of a lower-ranked pair competing in their first Grand Prix event. A pair he’d not given much thought, until now.

The next night, he approached her, but she froze him out cold. He took it as a sign to patch things up with Olga, but never forgot her. When Olga left to skate with Valentin, Carrie was the only partner he wanted.

But now that she was here, he wasn’t treating her any better than deWylde had. She was uncomfortable around him, afraid even. Worse, she’d lost confidence. She’d been made to feel worthless, when she deserved to be treated as something rare and wonderful.

Fear and harsh treatment pushed some skaters to excel, but Carrie needed a friend, not a taskmaster. Unless she trusted him, they’d never gel as a pair. Despite his growing attraction, the wall he’d built had to come down.

He reached Moscow and had to park six blocks from his apartment, walking home though the narrow, winding streets. Parking in this neighborhood was a pain, but even so, he loved living in Zamoskvorechye. There were good places to eat, decent bars and it was close to the rink. Maybe it wasn’t as flashy or glamorous as Tverskoy, but neither was he. He’d grown up poor on Moscow’s outskirts, in a run-down Soviet apartment block and had done pretty damn well, even if Olga wasn’t impressed.

Coming up the street, he heard Incubus blasting from the open windows of his flat. His neighbors must love when Nika and Sasha came to house-sit.

No one heard him come in. Four guys and two girls, all wearing tight jeans, black T-shirts and with hair that was spiked, dyed or bleached, lounged in his living room. Two guys were playing “Halo.” In the middle, Sasha rocked some serious air guitar. All of them were drinking beer—his beer. He waited until the song was over, and then called to Sasha. “Hello, sunshine. I’m home.”

His future brother-in-law whirled around and swore loudly. Sasha’s hair was combed into an exaggerated 1950s pompadour; he sported a soul patch and a shitload of eyeliner. “What are you doing here?”

He dropped his duffel bag in the hallway. “I live here. Didn’t my sister mention it? I hope you didn’t drink all my beer.”

Sasha had the decency to look embarrassed. “Uh...we were going to replace it. We didn’t know you were coming back—”

“Anton?” Veronika came out of the rear bedroom. She wore the same skinny, black rocker clothes as Sasha, and almost as much eye makeup. “Why are you back so soon? Is everything all right? It’s not Papa or Babushka, is it?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said, hearing the edge in her voice. “I wasn’t in the mood for a three-day party, that’s all. I didn’t know I was having one here.”

She gave a guilty smile. “Sasha invited them over before his gig. I hope you don’t mind.”

She followed him to the kitchen. He got a bottle of water from the fridge and sat at the counter. Nika took the opposite stool and studied the newly painted room. He’d been skeptical when she suggested the color scheme, but the gold walls, deep green countertops and dark purple cabinets looked good together.

“I like it,” she said. “Even the eggplant on the cabinets.”

“You sound surprised.” Nika was an artist with an advertising agency, and he assumed she knew something about color.

“You never really know how something’s going to look until you see it all finished.” She glared. “Don’t give me that look. You wanted advice on painting your apartment. I gave you advice. If you want to play it safe, stick to beige.” She tapped the countertop with a black-polished fingernail. “What’s next?”

“The bedroom. I’m thinking red.”

Nika raised an eyebrow. “Not good for sleeping, but fine for other things. What’s Olga think?”

“She thinks I should sell and move to Tverskoy.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her fingertip in a drop of water. “Are Olga and her minions still mad because you’re skating with Carrie Parker?”

He shrugged. “It’s skating. People will always find something to talk about.”

“Carrie’s pretty,” she said carefully.

“Yes, she is.”

Nika narrowed her eyes. “You know, Antosha? I’m glad it happened. Not glad you got screwed over, but glad Olga showed her true colors before...before it was too late. You gave everything. She took everything. You deserve better.”

He tensed, ready to defend Olga and preserve his pride. But Nika knew him too well. “Don’t make excuses for her,” she snapped. “I know about her mother. I know about all those so-called uncles they lived with. But lots of people have tough childhoods.”

No argument there. He and his sister had lived through one. She put her hand over his. “I know it hurts to hear, but I can’t say nothing. If Sasha wasn’t being good to me, you would speak up.”

He glanced at Nika’s boyfriend. Sasha was twenty-one, Goth-pale and wore more makeup than most girls he knew. He was the younger brother of Anton’s best friend, and growing up he and Pyotr had to let Sasha play on all their teams, even though he sucked at every sport. When the kid took up guitar, they’d all been relieved.

But he loved Nika and was good to her. His sister could do a lot worse, even if Sasha didn’t need to know that. He nailed the guy with his meanest big brother glare. Sasha gave his little beard a nervous stroke. “Look, man, about the beer...”

He cracked a smile and shook his head. Only a few years separated him, Nika, Sasha and their friends, but he’d always felt much older. It was like that with skaters, who spent more time with adults than with kids their own age. In any case, he wouldn’t begrudge Sasha and his broke friends a few bottles of Baltika 4. “No worries. It’s cool.”

Nika squeezed his hand. “Come with us tonight. It’s been months since you’ve seen the band. You won’t believe how good they’ve gotten. Pyotr and Tania are coming. Some of my work friends are too. The bar’s a neighborhood place, just good music, friends and cheap beer. It’ll be fun.”

Fun? Maybe, maybe not. He’d dated one of Nika’s coworkers last fall, and showing up would likely make him fodder for Monday morning conversation in the Saatchi & Saatchi art department. No thanks. But staying home alone on a Saturday night was too damn depressing. He hadn’t come back early from Lake Shosha to sit around and feel sorry for himself.

He could invite Carrie, introduce her to everyone. She’d like Nika. Galina must have her number. He took out his phone, and brought up Galina’s speed dial. But he paused, remembering Adrian’s and Brigitte’s twitchy smiles when he’d gone on about Carrie’s skating. And asking her out, even as a friend, on a Saturday night when he was supposed to be with Olga, felt too strange. He put his phone away.

In the end, he accepted Nika’s invitation. His sister was right; it was fun. The bar was full of T-shirts-and-jeans types, not the beautiful people who decorated the face-control clubs up in Tverskoy. Sasha’s band rocked. The ad agency girls danced with wild, sweaty abandon. He and Pyotr talked hockey, and Anton agreed to help coach his son’s team again this year, time permitting. Tania showed off pictures of the new baby.

Toward the end of the night, the jukebox played a song he hadn’t heard in a long time, but always took him back to the same time and place.

Amsterdam, just before he turned eighteen.

Poets like to spin flowery verses about love and destiny. Anton had little use for poetry. He was an athlete who liked rock music and action movies. But when he thought about the Amsterdam Girl, he understood what they meant. He’d only known her for one night, yet had never been able to shake the feeling that she’d been something more than a quick lay at a party.

The morning after, in the airport, he’d watched the crowd, aching to see her once more. If he knew her name, he could write to her.
In just a few months, he would move to London for university. London was closer to America than Moscow. Maybe she could visit. Then they called his flight.

He never saw her again.

Life went on. He moved to London, had other girlfriends, and then after two years, returned to Moscow and Olga. The Amsterdam Girl became a sweet memory he liked to visit now and then.

Though at times she felt close enough to touch. Like the night in Beijing when he spoke to Carrie for the first time. The soft drawl in her voice was a vivid reminder of the dark-haired dance girl.

But emotions did funny things, like mix memory with reality, confusing this girl with that one. The Amsterdam Girl was a long-lost dream. He, Carrie and Olga lived in the real world.

He had to be careful.

Chapter Eight

Andrew Lloyd Webber’s score swelled to a crescendo as Carrie glided beside Anton. Evoking the dying Eva Peron, she stretched out her arms in a final farewell to the heartbroken people of Argentina.

They picked up speed for the throw triple loop. Anton grabbed her hips and she tightened her muscles. She sprang into the air and let his strength propel her higher and farther. Her reference point—the Zamboni gate at the rink’s far end—passed once, twice, three times. As she came down and her toe pick hit the ice, the force of landing slammed her exhausted body. Her leg held for a split second, and then she collapsed onto the rock-hard frozen surface.

Again.

Damn. Another blown throw. How many was this for today? Ten? Twelve? She’d lost track. When she got home, she could figure it out by counting the bruises.

Anton skated over and offered his hand. She let him help her up, but kept her gaze trained on his black skates to avoid seeing the frustration in his eyes. The music had stopped, but she called to Galina in the control booth, “I want to try again.”

“Not me,” Anton said. “I’m taking a break.”

She slowly followed him off the ice, uneasiness heavy on her shoulders. It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking. What good was a partner who couldn’t land her throws and jumps?

She was training hard, even returning to the rink in the late afternoon while the synchro team or junior skaters practiced. She’d done the same when she first trained with Cody, mastering moves it took other less determined skaters months, even years to learn. Day and night, she was a calorie-counting fanatic. The constant headaches and ravenous hunger were a small price to pay to be light enough, but for every element she landed clean, she blew five. She couldn’t seem to recapture the single-minded focus of her early Cody days. It was only a matter of time before they gave up on her.

She let out a deep breath, trying to shake off her frustration. As badly as she wanted to help Anton win and restore her trashed reputation, sometimes it felt hopeless. These programs weren’t hers, they were Princess Olga’s. She was merely a hired gun brought in to skate them. Pachelbel wasn’t bad. But
Evita
was another story.

She despised it, from the overblown beginning to the cringe-worthy close, where Evita blew a sweeping kiss to the masses she rose from while Anton’s Che, a fiery working-class revolutionary, fell to his knees at her side.

Given that she would be skating for an audience who believed the worst of her, she couldn’t imagine a more presumptuous ending. And she didn’t even want to think how offended Dad’s constituents would be by her love duet with a Communist revolutionary as a member of the Russian team.

While the real Eva Peron had admirable qualities, the character in their long program was a shallow glamour queen who would have fit right into the pageants Carrie had competed in as a little girl, at least until Dad stepped in, and told Momma no more. Little Miss Cotton Blossom. Little Miss Georgia Peach. Miss Pre-Teen Southeast. The pageant directors always compared the girls to Cinderella. Carrie had big issues with Cinderella.

The whole thing felt wrong on so many levels, she didn’t even know where to start.

She sat on a bench and unlaced her skates, wiggling her toes inside the snug boots. She took an apple from her bag and polished it with the hem of her red practice skirt. On a bench nearby, Anton chugged from a blue plastic water bottle, then rummaged in his bag. He made his way over, his expression more serious than usual.

Oh boy, here it comes. They’re done with me. Back to Sweetspire I go.
Shoulders tensed, she braced for the devastating words, flavored with a Russian accent.
“We’ve decided you just aren’t working out...”

Instead, he sat down on her bench and set a plastic-wrapped bundle between them. It was a sandwich.

“You aren’t listening to Galina and you aren’t listening to Max, but you’re going to listen to me. I want you to eat this and I’ll sit here while you do.”

She stared, shocked by his rudeness. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

“And you’ve got no strength. It’s why you can’t land anything. How long since you ate something besides fruit?”

She tucked her apple under her skirt, as though she’d been caught doing something illegal. “I had a Big Mac...recently.”

“Recently.” He sounded less than impressed. “How much Big Mac?”

She sighed. “A bite. I wanted to see if it had caviar on it.”

“Caviar?” He furrowed his brow at her, then shook his head. “Max said forty-five kilos he wants you to weigh. Why aren’t you doing that?”

“Because that’s what I weighed before and as we all know, my partner had to resort to...extraordinary measures because I was too damn fat for him to lift properly!”

She might have just given him a reason to fire her, but it was a relief to get it out in the open. No matter how hard she tried to pretend otherwise, Cody and their coach’s joking threats to replace her with a skinny teenager had hurt.

“Carrie,” he said, softly. “Look at me.”

Um...okay.
Slowly, she took in every stunning inch. He was like a Greek god in the flesh, with thick, wavy dark hair, chocolate-brown eyes. Her gaze lingered on his muscular shoulders, and chest, then moved down to his flat stomach, powerful legs, strong arms and tawny skin. But only because he asked.
Yeah, right.

Anton gave a cocky little grin. “I’m a big guy, right? Big guys skate pairs. That’s how we do it here. I’ve worked with Max long time. He knows what I can lift. Olga weighs forty-five, you can weigh forty-five.” He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, then slipped them inside her sleeve. “Too fragile,” he murmured.

Fragile? He meant physically of course, though the word and the warm brush of his fingers made her shiver. Not because she was afraid of him. Far from it. He was big and strong, yet gentle. What frightened her was the attraction that grew stronger each day.

“Go on,” he said. “Eat.”

He released her arm, and she unwrapped the sandwich. Turkey and cheese, on the chewy black bread she’d eaten that first night. Borodinsky bread, they called it. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled. She was starving as usual, and was damn tired of the feeling. She wanted to eat. He wanted her to eat. She took a bite and chewed slowly. Then she took another.

When the sandwich was gone, she sat quietly, unaccustomed to a full stomach but liking it anyway. And it wasn’t simply the food. Anton’s concern made her almost believe she was more than his last-ditch hope. She wadded up the sandwich wrap. “Thanks.”

“No problem. You need to forget what that guy before used to say. I could lift him, if I had chance.” The cocky grin returned, and her heart fluttered. “We’re partners, Carrie, not just two skaters making tricks. If something’s wrong, we talk. If still wrong, we try something else. Easy as that.”

If I told him I wanted to drop the
Evita
program, he’d probably change his tune real quick.
But wrapped in his warm gaze, still feeling his touch, everything else faded away. The tenderness in his dark eyes took her back to the night in Amsterdam, after they made love.

Made love
. Strange, how she always thought of it that way.

* * *

Her good mood lasted until she checked her email during the cab ride home. Nothing from Dad or Lolly, but after a welcome ten-day absence, Cody had slithered back into her life.

Subject: Come out, come out, wherever you are!

She ought to change her email address, but kept remembering Dad’s advice to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That approach had served him well on his rise through politics. It seemed like a smart way to handle Cody.

Let me guess, you’re hiding out with your mom’s trailer-trash kin, working at WalMart. Okay, time to take off the blue vest and quit fucking around. I need an answer on Celebrity Detox, pronto. My new GF wants to be on it with me, but Amber’s got Playmate of the Year in the bag, and poor you, this might be your only chance. It’s not like anyone wants you to skate! We both know who the real talent was.

Bastard. Wouldn’t he just die to know that not only was she still skating, she was skating with one of the world’s best pair guys, and he thought she was just fine. She hit Reply. If she had to read Cody’s garbage, at least she could give as good as he gave.

But what would it do to Dad’s campaign if Cody learned she was in Russia?

He might say nothing. In the six years she’d known Cody, he never did anything unless it gave him a clear advantage. She couldn’t imagine what that might be here, but could she risk her father’s election chances?

She’d hurt him already—arguing with Momma that awful night, sneaking out to a football game when he’d asked her stay home. If she could take it all back she would, but then she’d made things worse by getting dragged into a sex scandal in the midst of his Senate race.

She turned off her phone.

The less Cody—or anyone else—knew, the better. Despite the snark about Momma’s family, Cody knew next to nothing. She’d been careful about what she revealed. As Dad was quick to say, family business stayed in the family.

* * *

The next afternoon, in Max’s gym, Anton shared her mat.

She snuck glances as he stretched. For a big guy, he was incredibly flexible. When he eased down into a full split on his right leg, she blew out a breath. Son of a gun, he and Olga must have mind-blowing sex.

“So that’s how it happened?” she asked, when she’d finished kettlebell reps. “Someone just said ‘you’re big, skate pairs,’ and bam!” She snapped her fingers. “You became a pair skater?”

“No. Not like...” He grinned and snapped his fingers. “‘Bam!’ Happened like this. Galina and my mom taught skating together and Olga was their student. She was very talented, but not strong to skate singles. I was hockey player, but also good figure skater.” He lifted his chin, looking proud. “I had best toe loop of any goalie in youth leagues. Anyway, they decided to pair us for one competition. We won, and it went from there.”

“So you had to give up hockey?”

“In time.”

She sensed it hadn’t been an easy decision. It might not have been his decision at all. “Was that hard?”

He gave a slight nod. “It was even harder on my dad, he’d been my coach. But it was the right thing.”

His hooded eyes suggested this was sensitive territory, so she dropped the subject. Across the gym, Galina waved goodbye, then left. “What does Galina do after she works with us?” Carrie asked.

Anton took a pair of kettlebells from the rack beside the mat. “She owns rink. That’s how we afford ice time.”

“So that’s why you don’t train at the CSKA rink, or up in Saint Petersburg.”

“We trained in Petersburg for short time, but Olga didn’t like it. Too much pressure. Here is good. Max leases downstairs gym space, so it’s convenient. Plus, skating federation is less involved, so we have more freedom. But they don’t provide as much money for travel or competitions. Gets expensive.”

“It’s expensive in the U.S. too,” she said, though she’d been lucky. Her family had paid most of her training costs, and Cody’s too. Though the top singles competitors landed endorsement deals, most of the pair skaters she knew relied on skating association grants, loans and part-time jobs. “Do you work outside of this?”

“Olga and I performed in summer ice shows, and I’ve taught with some youth training camps, but nothing full-time. I only finished university this spring. Almost seven years it took.”

“Gosh, don’t apologize for it. I think it’s great you finished your degree, no matter how long it took. Training and studying at the same time is tough.”

“Is that what you did?”

She nodded. Her four years at UCLA had been a blur of classes, studying and training. The busier she stayed, the less time she had to think. But she didn’t want to talk about that. “What did you study?”

“Kinesiology and sports management. I spent two years at University College in London, then finished at Moscow State.” He lifted the kettlebells. “I just got offer to be director of new training center up in Lake Shosha. I’ll use my management diploma and get to coach. What about you?”

“My degree’s in broadcasting. Of course, after Cody and Halifax, the networks aren’t exactly beating down the door.”

He grinned. “Not now. But after success in Lake Placid, that will change.”

Carrie didn’t want to talk about that either, so she turned it around with another question, one that had been on her mind for several days. “Why is Olga so taken with Evita?”

“Olga believes that in past life, she was Evita,” he said, between kettlebell reps.

“That’s weird.” Then she remembered his defensiveness when she’d criticized Olga before. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just don’t believe in reincarnation.”

He shrugged. “Me either. I think in Evita, Olga sees girl who came from nothing and grew to be rich, famous and loved by everyone. That’s what she wants.”

Kind of like a girl from a South Georgia trailer park who parlayed a regional pageant title into a Nashville recording contract, and snagged an old money Prince Charming. Carrie felt unexpected sympathy for Olga. “Why do people think if they’re rich and famous, they’ll automatically be happy?”

He paused, one dark brow raised. “Spoken like someone who never lacked anything, let alone place to sleep.”

She couldn’t deny she’d been more fortunate than most. She had also been here long enough to realize the standard of living was much different. “Did you?” she asked, carefully.

“Not me. But Olga and her mother were very poor.” He resumed his reps.

“Being rich doesn’t mean you won’t have problems. It only means you have different ones.” Aware of his gaze, she began her plyometrics workout with unusual vigor. Instinct always warned when she revealed too much.

* * *

The next morning, Galina scheduled an early practice in the pool, to work on lifts and throws. Carrie donned her conservative red tank suit and came out onto the pool deck, shivering. Too damn cold. She could only imagine the water. Through the window into the gym, she spotted Galina talking to Max. Was she asking him to turn up the heat? Probably not. Russians seemed accustomed to hardship.