Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (20 page)

“Sure. She’s Cody deWylde’s ex-partner.”

“That’s right. Uncle Ivan is their coach.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “So you’re descended from Russian skating royalty? You realize this makes you more intriguing, not less.”

“Like I said, it’s a long, strange story.”

Hannah settled back against him, her bare feet propped on the ottoman. “I’ve got time.”

He supposed a few details wouldn’t hurt. “I was once a skater, too, competing in ice dance. Not at professional level, at least not yet. Ivan provided a lot of money so I could continue training, but when I was seventeen, my partner and I had a bad fall. She broke her hip and after that decided she was through competing. My uncle tried to persuade me to find a new partner, but I’d lost whatever heart I had for it, which even at best of times wasn’t enough.”

“And he was so angry that he never spoke to you again?”

“Nothing like that. He was disappointed but not so much that he shut me out of his life. No, it was decisions I made later that had more to do with it.” This part of the story was much harder to share, but it would help her see how wrong he was for her. “I got involved with some very bad people.”

“Criminals?”

He nodded. “I wasn’t doing anything illegal myself, just working for people I should have had nothing to do with. Ivan tried to warn me, but I did not listen. When my mom died, he tried again, and I still did not listen. We have not spoken since. He does not even know I am in the United States, let alone what I do. If he did know, he wouldn’t be happy.”

“Are you sure? He might be glad just to know where you are and that you’re okay.”

“He might. But I disappointed him, and to me, that matters. Those are the times it’s better just to walk away.”

“But if he loves you—”

“Hannah, no. I have told you enough. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.” She smiled a little and shook her head. “Listen to me. It takes one to know one, right?”

“Right,” he said, toying with a soft curl of her brown hair.

She gazed out at the water, letting the hush of tide fill the silence. “Any progress on your book?”

“It’s been hard to find time to write, but I have the heroine figured out.”

“Can you tell me about her?” She turned to look at him, and in the dim light, her eyes were so dark they appeared black, fathomless. Another detail he would add to his story.

In a hushed voice, he answered. “She reminds me a lot of you.”

She dropped her gaze, and the soft breeze ruffled her hair. “You still haven’t told me why you came on
Last Fling
, other than the money.”

“That is the reason.” Vlad took a deep breath and looked away. “If I want to start a new life, I need money to do it. My uncle used to talk about how important it was to be a man of honor and respect. I am far from that, but more than anything, it is what I want to be. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would go a long way toward making that happen.”

“Which you’ll win by breaking up someone’s engagement?”

“Another reason you should stay clear of Vlad the Bad.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“Maybe you’d be better off.”

“Maybe I should be the judge of that.”

She leaned forward and lightly touched his face, then pressed her lips to his. The warm pressure of her soft mouth sent his heart racing, and his lower body throbbed a passionate response. More than anything, he longed to give in to his desire for her, to luxuriate in the sweet warmth of her mouth, tart with wine, to cup her lush breasts his hands. But he couldn’t. She was committed to another man. He could not have her, he should not kiss her, and to forget that would only hurt them both.

Aware of his resistance she pulled back, and her mouth tightened into a line. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Sensing he had embarrassed her, he touched her hand. “It’s not because I don’t want you. I do. But you and I do not belong together. You love Jack, and what you think you’re feeling for me is only because of the show.”

“I’ve always thought that I loved him. But how real is that love, if it’s so one-sided? A man in love wouldn’t treat a woman the way he’s treated me. You wouldn’t.”

“No.”

“This show has made me question so much.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I feel anymore. Or what I want.” She rose from the love seat and he felt the empty space beside him. “I need to go,” she said, and hurried away.

Alone, he watched her return to the hotel, wondering if she would ever be back, and if it would make a difference. It wasn’t as if they had a future together. They had formed an alliance out of mutual need. She wanted her fiancé back; he wanted to sell a book. Each had something the other wanted, and that is all it was. No reason to turn it into anything more.

Still, he’d longed to reveal parts of his life he’d not revealed to anyone else. Maybe not the most private things, the wounds he bandaged with secrecy. He knew the pain it would bring to reveal them, but if he was to ever have the life he wanted so badly, it had to happen. He’d tried when he went to see the counselor, only to find he didn’t have the courage. Now, he felt lost and alone with his shame.

His life in Miami was about living in the present, because what future did he have? He didn’t want to spend his life alone in the shadowy world that had claimed his mom. He’d occupied that world far too long. He wanted to be a man like his uncle, worthy of respect. He wanted to be worthy of Hannah’s love.

So walk away from it. You don’t have to live the way you do. Write your book. Go to school. Find a cheap apartment and sell your Hummer. Do you think Hannah cares what car you drive?

But there was so much more to it than that.

After he left skating, he hadn’t known what to do with his life. He’d turned down Uncle Ivan’s offers to pay for university, or to arrange an audition with a folk dancing troupe in Saint Petersburg. His mom’s boyfriend had another, more lucrative, suggestion: a job with a private entertainment company that was always looking for dancers.

The International Review was a far cry from folk dancing, and how much his mom knew about it, he wasn’t sure. They only discussed the money he made—which was excellent—and her boyfriend’s disapproval should he decide to leave. It would have been a sign of disrespect to someone who had helped them.

Vlad couldn’t help but feel taking the job had been a sign of disrespect to Uncle Ivan, but he tried not to dwell on it. After his mom and her boyfriend were killed, he was too grief-stricken to consider leaving, but eventually discovered he couldn’t, at least not without a powerful ally. He had done what he had to do to get one, and survived, but could never forget the terrible mistakes he had made.

Hannah deserved better.

Chapter Eighteen

Week six came and went; seven days of sunrises that Eric never saw because he spent them belowground. Just as he was tonight, sitting at his desk, his mind void of inspiration.

Chris and Tammy. Tammy and Chris
...the names kept turning in his mind. He scribbled them on the notepad at his elbow, and twirled the pen between his fingers. He added the names of a few of their flings. There had to be a story here, but what?

Cody deWylde barged in without knocking and sprawled in the chair opposite Eric’s desk. He propped up his feet and swigged from his ever-present can of Red Bull. “So, Story Boy, whaddya got to wow me?”

The last thing Eric needed right now was deWylde popping in with demands to be wowed. He leaned back in the pricey ergonomic desk chair he’d come to loathe and tossed his pen across the photos scattered on his desk. “Nothin’. I got nothin’.”

Cody made a tsk-tsk, and shook his head. “That’s
not
what the network wants to hear.” He gazed at the glossy black-and-white cast photos Eric had hoped would provide inspiration and tapped divemaster Will’s headshot. “Too bad about him. You’d think an Australian in a Speedo would have drawn an audience.”

Eric shook his head. “He and Tammy just never clicked. She’ll be sending him home for sure.”

“When are eliminations again?” Cody shuffled the photos Eric had arranged in careful order.

Didn’t this idiot ever bother to read the production schedule?
Eric rubbed a triangle over his brow, trying to soothe his frustration and answered in careful tone. “Next week, after talent night. Which you’re announcing
this
week.”

“Oh right. Sure. Just testing you.” Cody smirked. “What about Chris? Which of his lovelies will be saying adios?”

“Not sure yet. Daphne’s more entertaining, but this one’s hotter.” Eric tapped the photo of Miss October.

“Number one rule of television. When in doubt, go with the hot one. But she and Chris have no chemistry.”

That was the crux of Eric’s problem. Audiences had not invested in any of Chris’s or Tammy’s potential pairings, the way they had with Jack, Hannah and Robynne. Beneath the Harley-shirted, redneck exterior, Chris was a stand-up guy, too much in love with his fiancée to create heat with any of his women. Even worse, Tammy was equally in love with Chris. The story team had spent weeks trying to cultivate a Tammy-Will love match, only to see a collective yawn from social media. Now Will had to go, and Eric had to come up with plan B.

Cody picked up the photo of Alison Michaels. “You keep fighting me on it, but I think she’s your best option.”

Eric tensed. He’d already sold Hannah down the river and the thought of another woman’s character assassination repulsed him. Though Alison was counting on being chosen, he kept thinking about the repercussions. Once she realized that to truly contend for the big prize, she’d have to sleep with Chris, she would hate him for not being completely honest when he talked her into the show. If she went through with it, she’d jeopardize any chances at future projects. Real projects, like the one he had in mind. Though it wasn’t in keeping with the kind of woman she seemed to be, desperation could make people do all sorts of things. “That’s just a rehash of the Team Blue storyline. Scheming hot girl goes after the not-so-hot girl’s fiancé.”

“Which has worked extremely well from a ratings standpoint. But if you want to continue to work the Tammy angle...?” He slid Vlad’s photo across the desk. “You’ve already laid the groundwork. We’ve yet to use the initial interview footage. The way he looked when he talked about his murdered mom made me think he did it.”

Eric had seen the stripper’s torment, too, but didn’t blame a guilty conscience. “It read more like tragedy to me. And we found nothing in his background to support that.”

Cody snorted. “What are you talking about? All we have to do is play up Mama’s mob ties and let people draw their own conclusions. Or there’s his tour of duty with the International Review. Maybe not as good as a few porno credits, but definitely something we could work with.”

Eric grimaced. The little he knew about the International Review made him feel soiled. “That’s too dark. Not the direction I want to go, and I doubt the network wants us to go there, either.”

Cody shrugged. “Well, I still say him or your dream girl are the solution to our Chris and Tammy problems. But I’m sure you’ll come up with something brilliant.”

Eric gave a hollow laugh and glanced at his desk clock. “Why do you think I’m still here at 12:30?”

“All work and no play. You never took my advice. This series is almost over, and I have it from reliable sources that you haven’t hooked up once.”

It was true; though Eric was interested in only one woman. Her photo smiled up from his desk, making his decision that much more difficult. “You’re right. I do need to get out of here.”

He took the elevator upstairs, and as always, felt disoriented by the passage of time. His desk clock had read 12:30 but it could have been lunchtime as easily as the middle of the night. He passed the deserted studio, walking toward rear of the hotel, and came to the small bar that had become the unofficial watering hole of Renegade Productions. Cynthia Bishop and a couple of the stylists sipped margaritas at a table near the front, but Eric didn’t feel like socializing.

He went out the back doors to the empty terrace, pausing as the day’s pressure fell away. From opposite ends of the hotel came the sounds of laughter and splashing from the pool party shoots that were still going on. With any luck, tomorrow morning’s footage would provide the booze-fueled drama he needed to make viewers care about Chris and Tammy.

Right now, he could use a drink himself. Maybe he would hit that little bar down on the beach, the one he’d thought about going to, but hadn’t made it to yet. With only a few weeks left here, what was he waiting for? He started across the beach, but his leather shoes soon felt gritty with sand. He slipped them off, and found the ground pleasantly warm on his feet. The cabana bar was a beacon of low light on the moonlit beach. It was still open, and to Eric’s relief, deserted.

He stepped under the long thatched roof. At the back of the cabana, the bar stretched across the width. Tables, chairs and even a comfortable-looking rattan sofa faced the water. They had ruled out filming here because the sound guys had not liked the acoustics, but Eric could hear the jukebox playing the Rolling Stones’ “Tumbling Dice,” softly in the corner. In his opinion, the acoustics were just fine.

“Evening, senor.” A tall man with a trimmed goatee stood behind the bar. “Can I get you something?”

He ordered a mojito and as he waited for his drink, his thoughts returned to the problem at hand. As crappy as he felt about it, the Jack-Hannah-Robynne love triangle had turned out to be excellent TV, especially with Hannah’s metamorphosis from sad sack to contender. If he could only find something as compelling for Chris and Tammy. The drunken double date had gotten things off to a promising start, only to see the entire team kiss and make up. Alison had become everybody’s kindhearted big sis. Chris, Will and Vlad the Bad were fishing buddies. Team Red had turned into a big happy family, and unless Eric wanted to show a hot-tub sing-along of “Kumbaya,” something had to be done.

The more he thought about it, the more Vlad seemed to be the answer. He wasn’t a bad guy when you got right down to it, but who expected nobility from a stripper with a KGB accent? He had signed on for the show with no illusions and his eye on the money. Other than the sound bites cobbled together here and there, and the interview footage, which they had yet to use, they had not yet exploited his story to the fullest extent. They didn’t have to go full-on dark, and dive into the cesspool of the International Review. His mom had been a mobster’s girlfriend, and ended up with a bullet in her head. Many of them. It wouldn’t take much to imply Vlad had been involved somehow, even if Eric felt like shit about doing it.

Better the stripper than Alison, who could walk away from
Last Fling
with more money than she’d had before, and her reputation intact. He hoped she wouldn’t hate him too much.

The bartender brought his drink. “
Gracias
, Miguel,” said Eric, glancing at the man’s nametag.

“Haven’t seen you before. Are you a star on the TV show?”

“I’m Eric Conrad, producer and creator of
Last Fling
.”

The man looked impressed. “One of the big shots finds his way down to The Smiling Shark. Welcome. Is the drink to your liking? Say the word, I make it stronger. No charge.”

“No, it’s excellent.” He sipped and sat quietly. The jukebox had switched from the Stones to the Grateful Dead’s “Uncle John’s Band.” Eric had never cared much for the Dead. “There is one thing you could do for me.” He pulled his smartphone from his pocket and cued up a playlist. “Play this instead?”

“Oh, no problem. I just run it through the sound system. Only take a minute.”

Eric gazed out at the dark ocean. The speakers thumped with a few electronic pops, and then came the opening guitar solo to Johnny Lee’s “Looking for Love
.
”

Chris and Tammy’s unofficial theme song. Eric listened and let his mind wander. Down-home boy meets downtown girl. Or at least a girl who wants to be downtown, which is more than Chris can give her, so she goes looking for love in all the wrong places with all the wrong faces. An Aussie. A Brazilian. A Russian.

Miguel leaned on the bar. A diamond stud sparkled in his earlobe.

“You like our resort? I do not see your show, because I am always here. You should come back here and film some more. Sometimes people come here at night to meet in secret. They don’t want others to know.”

“Yeah, like who? Not a girl with angel wings tattooed on her back, by any chance? A guy in a Harley shirt with a buzz cut?”

“No one like that. Mostly, I see a Russian man and a girl with curly hair.”

A Russian man? There was only of those on the
Last Fling
set. Eric’s pulse quickened. “What does the girl look like?”

“Dark hair. Big.” He cupped his hands around imaginary breasts.

The description fit Hannah, though Eric couldn’t picture
that
pairing to save his life. At the wedding reception, Vlad hadn’t danced with her once. No, that couldn’t be who the bartender meant. “Do you remember anything else about her? Tall? Short? Young?”

“Young, yes. And short. Or maybe tall. I don’t know.”

Most likely, the girl was a local who worked at the hotel. Vlad the Bad banging a nineteen-year-old laundry maid was of no interest to anyone, but with the story well running dry, it might be worth a chat with tech, to see if they could stash a parabolic mike and GoPro down here. Who knew what they might turn up?

He saluted the bartender with his drink, very glad he had decided to stop in.

Johnny Lee faded out, and the high lonesome sound of Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys flooded the bar. Eric smiled, transported back to a sundrenched, peaceful place that smelled of fresh-turned fields, line-dried sheets and fried chicken. He let the song play, remembering.

“Oh my gosh. I haven’t heard this song in forever.”

The bright female voice made Eric sit up straight and open his eyes just as Alison Michaels walked into The Smiling Shark. Eric blinked to make sure she wasn’t an apparition, but she was very real, in a striped cotton sundress and bare feet. Like Eric, she had carried her shoes across the sand. “Are you a fan?” he asked.

She came closer. “My parents were. They loved bluegrass. My dad tried to teach me to play the mandolin when I was a kid.” Sadness flitted across her beautiful features. “They night they died, they were driving home from a festival in Kentucky.”

“Alison, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, don’t apologize.” Her face brightened with a smile. “The music brings back a lot of good memories.”

“For me, too,” Eric said, as Ralph Stanley gave way to Merle Haggard’s “The Night the Bottle Let Me Down.”
His gramps was never much of a drinker, but he did love The Hag.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you as a Haggard fan.” Alison said.

“My grandfather was.” He nodded at the high-heeled sandals in her hand. “Shoot over for the night?”

She nodded. “But it was too nice to be inside, so I came down here.”

“Are you a regular?” he asked, remembering Miguel’s comment, though Alison’s hair was blond and quite straight.

“Only of the beach. But I heard the music and came over.” She put her hand on the empty barstool next to his. “And here you are, listening to sad country music and drinking alone.”

Her gaze held his. Eric could hardly believe his luck. “Sad country music is always better when there’s someone there to appreciate it. Buy you a drink?”

“I’d like that.” She smiled and sat beside him.

Miguel brought another mojito and Alison sipped before resting her chin on her fist. “Want to tell me about those memories you’re lost in tonight?”

“Ever been to West Virginia?”

Alison shook her head. “Can’t say I have. Mountainous, isn’t it?”

“You could say that. My grandparents had a farm there. I went every summer when I was a kid. My family still owns the place but I haven’t been back in years.”

“Seems to be a pattern with you. Do you ever stop working? I rarely see you outside.”

She’d noticed? “I’m under a lot of pressure to make this show a success.”

“So they’ll pick up
St. Nowhere
. They will if they’re smart.”

Immediately, his spirits lifted. “You liked it?”

“Eric, it’s brilliant! I love the concept, the writing. Everything.”

He turned, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. “The character of Pamela?”

“Her especially.” Eddie Rabbitt’s “I Love a Rainy Night” played in the background and Alison sang the refrain under her breath. She looked over at him and smiled. “Right there’s your theme song.”

“This?” He paused to listen. The song was up-tempo and bouncy. Not at all what he envisioned for the spooky ambiance of a hospital trapped in a mysterious, never-ending storm. Maybe she didn’t get the concept after all. “But it’s...happy.”