Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (31 page)

They fell onto the bed, and she had a momentary regret she wasn’t wearing something sexier than a zippered hoodie and yoga pants, but at least her bra and panties matched. She’d decided European girls were onto something. But as he unzipped her clothes and brought his hands inside to stroke her feverish skin, she knew that soon she wouldn’t be wearing anything at all. Nor would he.

Lying beside him, she unbuttoned his soft flannel shirt, revealing his muscular chest and tight abs. With her lips and the tip of her tongue, she traced his fine form, and he released a guttural moan of pleasure. Though he had been touched and admired by countless other women, Hannah knew that from this moment on, Vlad was truly hers. Desperate to feel his skin against hers, she peeled away the last of his clothes, as he eagerly removed hers.

Reverently, he cupped her breasts in his hands, laving her skin and nipples with his mouth while his hand moved lower, caressing and exploring every part of her, until her nerves tingled with delicious sensation and her center was hot, slick and ready to feel the length of his rigid cock. She rolled onto her back, groping for the small wooden box on her nightstand where she’d stashed a few condoms, on the off chance that one of her dates turned out to be more than a placeholder. Yet somehow, she knew all along that this man, and this moment, was what they were meant for.

Vlad took the packet and ripped it open, sheathing himself with a single, swift motion. Then he was on top of her, between her legs, as she pulled him down and raised her hips to welcome him. He plunged deeply, and they moved in perfect tandem, until delicious friction brought them to a climax that left Hannah breathless and tingling.

In the aftermath, they lay in the tangled sheets, wrapped in each other’s arms. Soon it would be time to dress for their night out, and she looked forward to sharing the shower.

“So what are we doing tonight,” Vlad asked.

“Having dinner with some of my friends, and then going to hear a band.”

“That sounds like fun. I want to meet your friends, and I love going to hear music.”

Hannah did, too, and though the apartment was silent, she heard a song begin to play. A woman’s husky voice purred amid the lush swell of an orchestra, as she sang about love that had come at last. As a make-believe bride, Hannah had danced to the song with Jack, though that night, she’d closed her eyes and imagined another man in her arms.

The man who lay beside her now, and for always.

In the midst of illusion, real love had come along.

Epilogue

Los Angeles, Three Years Later

The moment Vlad closed the door of their luxurious hotel room, Hannah asked the question that had been on her mind since she had first seen him in his custom tailored black tuxedo. Reaching down, she fingered the fine Italian fabric of his trousers. “These aren’t tear-off pants by any chance, are they?”

Vlad laughed and flashed the sexy grin that always sent her heart racing. “You’re insatiable, woman!” He scoffed. “Stripper pants at a Hollywood premiere.”

She stepped into his arms and opened her mouth to receive his hot, hungry kiss. “Not just
a
Hollywood premiere. Your Hollywood premiere. First a bestseller, now a movie. I’d say you’re a success, Vladimir Shustov.”

“Not just my success,” Vlad said. “You shaped the book into what it is. Eric and Alison brought it to life on-screen.”

“And don’t forget Jack,” Hannah added, with a grin. Her ex played the small but pivotal role of a callous yuppie, hideously devoured by monsters early in the film.

“How could I forget him? His death scene is one of the best I’ve ever written.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You looked much too happy during that part. Sometimes you frighten me.”

Vlad chuckled, and then his expression turned serious, as he gently stroked the side of her face. “No need to fear. For stories, darkness is good, but I prefer living in the light with you.”

He nuzzled her neck the way she liked, and she let her head fall back, enjoying the chafe of his cheek on her skin. He planted kisses along her neck, her décolletage, and then slipped one hand inside her red silk evening gown to cup her breast. Hannah’s nipples tightened and she anticipated his touch on her soon-to-be naked body, until a knock at the door startled them both.

Though Vlad’s labored sigh showed his annoyance at the untimely interruption, he went to answer as Hannah tugged her dress back into place. Out in the hall, a young man in a white waiter’s jacket waited with a room service cart.

“A delivery for Mr. and Mrs. Shustov,” he said, as he wheeled in the cart, which carried a bottle of champagne chilling in a sleek black-and-silver bucket.

She and Vlad exchanged mystified glances. Her husband tipped the waiter, and then opened the small envelope propped against the champagne bucket. He smiled as he read the single card inside.
“To Vladimir and Hannah, congratulations on your big night. We can’t wait to see you next week at the London premiere. Love, Ivan and Galina.”

Though they lived abroad, Vlad’s uncle and his wife had become the loving parents Vlad never knew, and Hannah was thrilled beyond measure that her husband had not only found love and career success, but an extended family, as well.

When the waiter was gone, Hannah kicked off her glamorous, but painful, shoes and carried her glass of champagne to the king-size bed. She stretched out, wiggling her toes and watched as Vlad removed his shoes, jacket and black bow tie. Then he joined her on the bed, and touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To you, Hannah, my loving wife, my best friend, my merciless editor and the sexiest woman I know.”

“And here’s to you, Vlad the Bad, bestselling author and most wonderful husband I could ask for. Have I told you tonight how proud I am, and how much I love you?”

He grinned. “Maybe. But I never tire of hearing it.”

After their passionate reunion on a cold November night, they’d married the following summer. With more dreams than money, life in New York City hadn’t been easy, but Vlad worked hard at his jobs, his classes and his book. After a year spent rewriting and polishing the manuscript, he had begun querying agents, only to rack up one rejection after another. Yet he never gave up, and after twenty-five turndowns, finally heard yes from one of the top literary agents in the city.
The Flesh Zone
had sold in a bidding war that netted a handsome advance. Overnight, financial struggles became a thing of the past. The book became a surprise bestseller, sparking a movie deal, and the follow-up novel, released last month, promised to be just as popular.

He leaned back on the pillows piled against the headboard and Hannah settled against him. Her cheek brushed his crisp, starched shirt. “Do you ever think about moving out here,” she asked.

Vlad shrugged and stroked her bare shoulder. “I like LA, but New York feels like home. It’s kind of like Russia, in that it keeps you humble. It’s hard to get too full of yourself when you have to trudge through the snow to the subway.”

“That’s one way to look at it. I feel at home in New York, too, but if we did need to move here because of opportunities, I’d be willing.”

“I know, and that means so much to me. But if the time ever comes when we need to consider it, we’ll make the decision together. For now, it’s just fun to pretend to be Hollywood big shots on the red carpet. You turned heads tonight, even next to Eric and Alison.”

“I’d say we both had our share of attention.” Hannah reached for the remote on the nightstand. “Do you think the show is still on?”

Because of the connection between Vlad, Eric and Alison
The Flesh Zone’s
premiere had turned into something of a
Last Fling
reunion, which the Xposé Network, now headed by Cody deWylde, had broadcast. Hannah surfed through channels until she found the Xposé Network, which was airing a commercial for Fitzgerald Family Funeral Homes.

Vlad shook his head in dismay. “I can’t believe the studio licensed them the right to create monster and zombie-theme funerals. Not an idea I wanted, that’s for sure.”

“It is tacky, but I expect there are people out there who will want them. Jeff Scott’s made a fortune by putting the fun in funeral.”

Then Xposé Network’s late-night gossip and talk show returned. Its glamorous hosts, ex-reality teen bride Cristal Glass and British pop legend Byron Lord lounged on couches as a backdrop of nighttime Los Angeles glittered behind them. Byron started things off. “We’re watching highlights from tonight’s star-studded premiere of the summer’s most anticipated movie,
The Flesh Zone
, and talking with special guest pro wrestling superstar and men’s style guru, Terrance “Crusher” McFadden, whose latest book,
Faking It... Lessons Learned From Reality TV
, is a
New York Times
bestseller. “So, Crush, aside from
moi
, which man do you think made the most stylish impression tonight on the red carpet?”

Crusher gave a manly, suave laugh. “I’d say there were a few standouts. Of course, my fellow author Vladimir Shustov always looks great in Armani. Very dramatic, very European.”

Hannah leaned over and kissed her husband. “He definitely has my vote.”

Crusher went on. “My good friend Heathcliff not only brought style to the red carpet, but also to his film debut as one of the strippers.”

“Personally, I prefer Heath with his clothes off, but that’s just me,” Cristal said, in an aside that made the women in the studio audience scream with approval.

“But I think the most stylish man tonight is producer and director Eric Conrad. Here is a guy who has seen some amazing success in the last two years, launching one of TV’s biggest hits, and moving into film. He’s good-looking, confident and coming into his own. This guy is poised to become a force to be reckoned with in Hollywood.”

“And don’t forget he’s married to the gorgeous Alison Michaels,” added Byron.

“Didn’t you love her draped goddess dress? If there was a baby bump in there, I couldn’t tell,” said Cristal. “Alright, Crush. Which of the ladies wins for style tonight?”

Byron snorted. “I think we can all agree who it wasn’t.”

Everyone laughed as a still of Robynne Lovejoy, in a ruffled pink dress that looked like it came from the Barbie aisle, flashed on the screen. Crusher shook his head in dismay. “Here’s proof that a good stylist would have been worth her weight in gold, especially if one is currently starring as the other woman in one of Hollywood’s most expensive divorces.”

“So, Crush, back to best dressed,” said Cristal, preening in her plunging white gown.

“I’d give the nod to Alison. But I also have to give a shout-out to Tammy Bradford-Tucker who took the opposite approach and put her baby bump out there front and center.”

Byron shook his head. “Most of the time, I’m the world’s biggest Alison Michaels fan, but tonight, I think Hannah stole the show. The red one-shoulder, gathered silk from Stella McCartney, was a perfect blend of old Hollywood glamour and modern sex appeal. Just delicious.”

“Delicious,” Vlad murmured, tickling the soft shell of her ear with his tongue. “I like that word.”

“Well, that about wraps it up for tonight,” said Cristal. “Thanks for joining us, and be sure to get out and see
The Flesh Zone
, which opens Friday nationwide, and is sure to be the must-see movie of the summer. Tune in tomorrow night for—”

Vlad aimed the remote, shutting the TV off, and switching on music. The song had a hard blues guitar riff and a raunchy backbeat. Capturing her face between his hands, he planted a long hard kiss on her eager mouth. “What better way to celebrate than with a private dance for my favorite audience of one?”

Hannah’s eyes widened as he slipped off the bed and began to rock his hips in a most alluring way. Then in a swift graceful motion—

“Oh my God, you
are
wearing tear-off pants!”

* * * * *

To purchase and read more books by Elizabeth Harmon please visit her website
here
or at
http://elizabethharmonauthor.com/
.

Turn the page for an excerpt from
PAIRING OFF
by Elizabeth Harmon, now available at all participating e-retailers.

Now Available from Carina Press and Elizabeth Harmon

With only a few months to train for the competition of a lifetime, can they master technique and their emotions, or will they lose their footing and fall victim to the heartaches of their pasts?

Read on for an excerpt from PAIRING OFF.

Pairing Off

by Elizabeth Harmon

Chapter One

World Figure Skating
Championships
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Were all Americans shameless fame whores?

Anton took one look at the reporters who swarmed outside the hotel, like pigeons around an overflowing trash can. Shaking his head, he turned back toward the harbor.

The morning air was cold on his face and sharp in his lungs as he jogged at a steady pace. The temperature wasn’t a problem. Neither was the saltwater tang in the air. Back in Moscow, it was colder. And compared to bus exhaust, a fishy smell was nothing.

At a little after 6:30, downtown Halifax was quiet, except for the crowd around the Marriott. The world usually ignored figure skating, but offer up a scandal and suddenly no one could get enough.

As scandals went, this was a good one.

It began two nights ago, when an American skating judge and the male partner from the US’s top pair team were caught in bed by the judge’s husband. As if titillating details about whipped cream and handcuffs weren’t enough, within hours, reporters had connected the judge to the absurdly high scores that made the pair US champions.

But justice was swift. Last night, the Americans were disqualified and stripped of their championship. This morning, Carrie Parker and Cody deWylde were going home.

Anton turned up the volume on his iPod, and his feet hit the pavement in time to the music. The song was “Blood Type” by Kino, one of his first favorite bands, and the brooding vocals matched his mood. Old music was comforting, like a favorite food. For years, Olga and Galina had tried to turn him into a lover of classical music, but loud guitars moved him in a way Tchaikovsky simply couldn’t.

He stopped at the end of the pier to admire the bridge in the distance, which resembled the big one in San Francisco. If there had been time, he would have jogged over for a closer look. But there was never time. He and Olga were due on the ice for practice in an hour.

He cut through the little park between the hotel and the casino, and took a shortcut through the parking garage. Even back here, a camera crew lurked in the dank concrete chill. It made sense. Their prey was much more likely to sneak out the back. He skirted the crew, keeping his earbuds in, though he’d turned his music off. In his running clothes and a ski cap, there was a good chance he could have slipped past unnoticed, but the reporter called to him.

He ignored her. Let her think he couldn’t hear or didn’t understand. Few Western reporters spoke Russian and many assumed the Russians spoke no English. His was very good, but he didn’t advertise the fact. Talking to the media seldom turned out well.

Last night, the Russian press had asked him and Olga to comment on the Parker and deWylde mess. “It’s very sad,” he’d said.

Olga had heaved a dramatic, pained sigh. “Yes, it is very sad. Sad that our sport is tainted by those who prefer disgusting tactics over hard work and training. Sad that some will stop at nothing to bring glory to themselves.” Cameras flashed, recorders whirred and clicked, reporters scribbled madly.

The memory made him wince. That wasn’t what he felt at all, but what could he say? That the injustice in all of this made him sick and angry? Or that it was something much deeper, and that Carrie Parker reminded him vividly of a girl he’d met years before—a girl whose name he’d never known and whose face was now obscured through the cloud of time and his unfortunate marijuana buzz. That girl had been dark and Carrie Parker was blond, but still...he seemed to have a thing for American women.

Just what he didn’t want to share with the media, or with Olga, his longtime partner and girlfriend.

The hotel’s lower concourse was deserted, except for one lighted conference room. Passing by, he spotted Cody deWylde holding a hand mirror as a stylist arranged his curly blond hair. The guy had a greasy, scrunched-up face and, as a skater, was vastly overrated.

With deWylde and the stylist was an older heavyset man in a dark suit talking on his mobile. The duo’s coach had publicly disassociated himself from the skaters, so this must be their manager. Anton caught something about lunch next week with someone’s “people.” Disgusted, he walked on.

Around a corner, across from the elevators, he spotted a drinking fountain. Gulping down cold water, he heard the soft chime and rolling door of an arriving elevator. He was about to step back around the corner, but stopped short at the sight of Carrie Parker.

If her partner and manager were show business flash, she was the opposite. In a light gray suit, she looked more like a young businesswoman than the scheming cheat she’d been branded. Her posture was rigid, her eyes closed and her hands were pressed together in front of her face. Was she praying? Meditating? It was impossible to tell, but he couldn’t miss the wet tracks that streaked down her cheeks.

The hot topic last night had been whether Carrie knew about her partner and the judge. Everyone assumed she did. Some even blamed her. But watching now, in his gut, he knew the truth. She’d been blindsided and was still reeling.

His instinct was to go to her, but the one time they’d spoken, she was guarded. Wary, even. No idea why, but he doubted she’d welcome his comfort. He could respect her privacy though, and remain out of sight. After a moment, she let out a long breath, and then her high heels clicked briskly down the tile corridor. He stepped out from behind the corner as she walked away, shoulders squared, chin up. “
Mne ochen jal
,” he whispered.
I’m sorry.

* * *

The haunting image of Carrie alone in that cold corridor stayed with him, even as he and Olga prepared to skate their long program. After a rough start, this season had been their strongest ever. Three years ago, they’d been ranked tenth in the world and just missed making the Winter Games. But if things went right tonight, they would be contenders at next year’s games in Lake Placid. A medal here would prove them ready.

But that evening, waiting to skate, he was drawn to a TV monitor, where a small crowd gathered to watch a news clip of the American pair leaving the Marriott.

They left out the front.

There was deWylde, well-groomed and smiling as if he’d just won gold, not been sent home in shame. The manager did all the talking. But Anton couldn’t take his eyes off Carrie. As her partner preened for the cameras, she was silent, a small deposed queen who’d lost everything but her pride. Her calm dignity stood in stark contrast to the sleaze surrounding her.

When he was a kid, he’d found a little painting of flowers tossed in a garbage pile. He’d tucked it inside his coat so his friends wouldn’t see and brought it home to his mother. As far as he knew, his sister still had it. Beautiful things deserved better.

“They say it was her idea, that she put him up to it,” said the woman beside him, a choreographer from Estonia.

“No. She didn’t,” Anton replied.

Olga had joined them, scented with the combustible sweetness of lacquered-down hair. She and the Estonian exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. “Men!” the gesture seemed to say. Then Olga took his arm. Her touch was cold and her nails dug in. “Come,” she said. “It’s almost time.”

Even as he walked away, he kept picturing Carrie Parker. She might never skate again, all because her partner couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Sad didn’t begin to describe it.

“Anton! Listen to me!” They were in the elevator now and Galina had been talking, but he hadn’t heard a word their coach had said. He forced himself to concentrate. The Americans’ problems were not his concern. The next four minutes and twenty-seven seconds were.

The elevator opened. The chilly arena and applause for the pair that had just skated brought the familiar adrenaline rush. His heart raced and his muscles tensed, ready to perform the moves he’d spent hundreds of hours perfecting.

The French pair waited for their scores as TV cameras aimed at the kiss-and-cry area recorded every reaction. The girl wore a pasted-on smile. Her partner stared down at his hands. Anton held back a grin. Coming into tonight, Labreque and Marceau had been in third place. Now it seemed there was one less competitor to worry about.

At the gate, Galina stopped them and took both their hands. “Your time has come. Go and show the world you are champions.”

Olga skated out, waving to the crowd. But their coach held on to him a moment longer. “Make her proud, Antosha,” Galina whispered.

It was hard to hear over the crowd, but he didn’t need to. In twelve years, the ritual hadn’t changed. “I will.”

Applause thundered through the arena as they were announced. At center ice, he took his position beside Olga and waited for the music to begin.

* * * * *

Don’t miss

PAIRING OFF
by Elizabeth Harmon.

Available now wherever Carina Press ebooks are sold.

www.CarinaPress.com

Copyright © 2015 by Elizabeth Harmon