Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (11 page)

“The way you always had to,” she said, humbled by what he was willing to do. “Even if it means we don’t make the team.”

He paused a moment, thinking it over, then gave a decisive nod. “Even if it means that. But don’t write us off so easy.” A playful glint danced in his eyes. “I know someone who can help.”

* * *

An hour later, she and Anton waited at the Coffee Bean near her apartment. The rich smell of espresso and the bouncy, background jazz were welcome relief from the raw, wet night. Students, groups of friends and a few serious-faced creative types hunched over laptops filled the surrounding tables. Anton sipped his tea. “Adrian’s a bit unusual, but he’s excellent choreographer. Up-and-coming. Just moved back here after living in Berlin. He’s also close friend of Valentin’s.”

This sounded like a conflict of interest. She swallowed a hot mouthful of skim latte. “How close?”

“Very close.” A discreet smile touched his lips, and she grasped his meaning. “But he’s professional and will do right by us. I told him weeks ago we weren’t liking
Evita
much. Brigitte is costume designer. She’s not well-known, but we can trust her not to turn us into big flowers, I think.”

When the pair entered the coffee shop, Carrie noticed them right away. Adrian Bakunin was about forty, with a curtain of blond bangs angled over one eye. Brigitte Reichert’s bobbed black hair, fuchsia coat and silver cat-eye glasses revealed a definite sense of style.

“We met in Munich, at the Nebelhorn Trophy,” Brigitte said in English, after she and Adrian were seated. “You and your partner wore red. I didn’t like him though, and I’m glad you’re not with him anymore. You can do much better,” she said, glancing over at Anton.

Carrie smiled. “I have to agree.”

“We want a program that reflects us, not other people’s leftover,” he was saying to Adrian. “To start, no classical music.”

She, Adrian and Brigitte all turned to stare. “Why are you giving me those looks?” Anton said. “I wasn’t saying we should skate naked.”

“Such interesting costume possibilities,” Brigitte said, looking him up and down.

Adrian raised an eyebrow. “This is the land of Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff. I think the judges might prefer a nude long program.”

Carrie grinned wickedly, starting to get into the spirit. If they were going down in flames, they might as well have fun. “What were you thinking? Venereal Rage?”

Anton laughed. “Wouldn’t that get people talking?” He drank his tea. “I’m not sure exactly what I’m thinking. When we hear, we’ll know. How about you? What do you like?”

What did she like? Right at the moment, she liked him. A lot. And she liked this, a partner who wanted to collaborate and cared about her opinion, not one who dictated and expected her to blindly follow. Dazzled by this amazing man who had returned to her so unexpectedly, she could think of nothing beyond the moment. “You’re sure about this?”

“Da.”
Yes
. His smile grew wider. “You?”

Joy rang like bells, and she smiled back.
“Da.”

Adrian and Brigitte exchanged glances, and the choreographer lifted his espresso cup in a salute. “Well then...do you have keys to the rink?” he asked.

Anton nodded.

“Skates?”

“We can get them,” she replied.

“And I have this.” He pulled a silver iPod from his shirt pocket. “Everything we need to create brilliance.” He rose and donned his long coat with a graceful flourish. “Come along, children. Uncle Adrian is about to solve all of your problems.”

Chapter Thirteen

Galina stared as if they’d lost their minds. “You’re throwing away months of work and opportunity of a lifetime to...play James Bond? And Bond Girl?” She erupted in a tirade of furious Russian, directed mostly at Anton, though she gestured frequently in Carrie’s direction.

He’d warned her their coach wouldn’t be happy and Anton obviously knew Galina well. Even Carrie had to admit what seemed like genius at 2:00 a.m. sounded insane by the light of day.

Once Galina had her say, Anton spoke calmly in English. “I know you want to give me best chance possible. That’s what this does. Much more than another coach or another partner. I’m happy with Carrie and you. Only problem was long program.”

The coach crossed her arms and shook her head. “That music is awful. Judges will hate it. But you are determined to do this, regardless of my feelings. So I have come to a decision.”

“I don’t want different coach,” Anton said.

“Neither do I,” Carrie added.

Galina’s scathing look left no doubts where she laid blame. “What you want is quite clear, but from what I see, you will not place high enough at Nationals to make the team. So I invited Ivan Shustov to assist with your training.” Her mouth twisted in a triumphant smile. “He was delighted to accept.”

Anton groaned. Carrie sucked in a breath. Shustov was a screaming, demanding, volatile legend, best known for reducing a Soviet skating star to a puddle of tears on international TV. “I thought he was retired,” she said.

“He is,” Anton replied. “But he occasionally unretires when the greatness of Russian figure skating is threatened. This appears to be one of those times.” He turned to Galina.

“We don’t need him.”

“You
do
need him. I am good coach, but not best. You are good skaters, but not best. To truly have a chance, you must work with Ivan—no matter how unpleasant.”

* * *

At first, he seemed harmless. Trim and dapper, with small glasses, neatly trimmed white hair and goatee, Shustov seemed more like a college professor than an abusive tyrant.

Surprisingly, he liked their new long program.

Set to a 1960s surf guitar instrumental, the story line involved two secret agents in pursuit of each other. Each skating element represented a dangerous situation from which they must escape, culminating in a complex pair spin that wrapped them intimately together. The program ended with Carrie balanced on Anton’s hip, seductively stroking his jaw. Adrian had entitled the program “Shaken, Not Stirred.”

“That you have included difficult elements throughout, rather than all at the beginning, will impress the judges,” Shustov said. “You are exciting, athletic skaters. But I shall turn you into artists.”

For the first few days, he watched, took notes and filmed. His only change was to shift their ice time to later in the day, to better prepare them for evening competitions, and to mandate Saturday training. Though it must have put a crimp in his weekend trips, Anton took the change in stride. Carrie’s Russian improved dramatically, since Shustov ignored her when she spoke English.

When he returned with hours of video and pages of notes, she actually looked forward to his critique. While she and Galina worked on the ice, Shustov took Anton into the studio. He emerged an hour later, grim-faced.

Then it was her turn. In the studio, a single chair sat before a large screen. Ivan looked up from his laptop. “Relax and sit, please,” he said in Russian. “We have much to talk about.”

Funny, she didn’t feel relaxed at all. The chair in front of the screen was straight from the brainwashing scene in an old sci-fi movie. She poured a cup of tea and took a seat. Shustov would be tough, but this would make her a better skater.

He played the short and long programs, plus practice footage, stopping frequently to point out badly positioned hands, legs bent incorrectly, an awkward landing on the side-by-side double axel. The list went on. Nothing was acceptable; not her footwork, her jumps, her spins, her expressions, her weight or even her hair. At the end, he shook his head in dismay. “Who did you sleep with to get this far?”

Carrie’s mouth fell open.

* * *

The next morning in the gym, Anton pulled her aside, furious. “Galina told me what he said. That was completely against bounds. He works for us, not other way around. I will tell him he must not speak to you that way.”

“You will
not
tell him. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I’ll be fine.”

And she would be fine. As the days passed and Ivan yelled, pushed and criticized, she kept her head down and worked harder. She wouldn’t let anything ruin their chances. But Shustov’s temper took its toll. His constant nagging about her weight killed her appetite. A cough arrived and stayed. She came home exhausted, but at night, couldn’t sleep.

On many of those sleepless nights, she thought about Dad. As much as she dreaded it, she should tell him about her plans to compete with Anton. But when she’d finally worked up the nerve, her stepmother sent news of the campaign.

As the election drew closer, Larry Ray Parnell, an Atlanta talk radio host who backed a third party candidate, had Dad in his crosshairs. Though Lolly assured her Dad was still ahead, a visit to Parnell’s website showed that last spring’s skating scandal was one of the self-described good ol’ boy’s go-to topics. So far, it was the only dirty laundry he’d found, and Carrie hoped it stayed that way. Still, it seemed like a bad time for a conversation that began, “by the way, I hope to compete for Russia in the Winter Games.”

One morning at the gym, she used her tablet to check the headlines and Parnell’s website. No news. No dirt. All quiet for another day. Relieved, she was about to log off when a link to a gossip site caught her eye. “Former skating champ hospitalized after suicide attempt.”

Uh-oh.
With a sick sense of dread, she went to the story.

“Someone you know?” Anton had wandered over after finishing his free weight reps and saw what she’d pulled up.

“Me.” According to the report, she had overdosed on antidepressants. Icy fear knotted inside.
Coincidence, just coincidence.
I never said a word to anyone.
She was found, on the brink of death, by an unnamed “close friend,” and rushed to a psychiatric facility outside...

“Las Vegas?” she said, as shock gave way to anger.

The same so-called friend believed fading fame and romantic jealousy—she almost hurled the tablet across the room—had driven the disgraced skater to the edge of despair.

The report concluded with the helpful reminder that Carrie Parker was the former partner of figure skating champion and reality television star Cody deWylde, whose exciting new series
Bad Boy Bachelors Hit Las Vegas
, premiered Monday night on the Xposé Network.
deWylde was dating Playboy model Amber Day. A photo of the happy couple followed the story.

“That son of a bitch,” she muttered, through gritted teeth.

“Jealous of Playboy girl? No reason to be. Plastic surgery is obvious.” Anton chuckled as he peeled a banana. “I don’t see problem. Your family will explain you’re not trying to kill yourself.”

“Doubtful. Southern politics are brutal and my father won’t do anything that could hurt his campaign. Most likely, he’ll say nothing and just send his lawyers after Cody.”

“Lawyers?” Anton scowled, clearly unimpressed. “Let me see that.” He took the tablet and gave her his half-eaten banana while he typed something, one finger at a time.

“You’re a lousy typist,” she observed.

“Gets job done.” He went back and made corrections. “There. How about that?”

Zhopa: Leave Carrie alone or I will come to Las Vegas and take much joy beating shit from you. Regards, Anton Belikov.

She burst out laughing.

Warmed by a sunny glow she hugged his arm, pressing her cheek to his skin. After seven months of being chewed up and spit out, it was wonderful to have someone stand up for her. She gazed into his eyes and reveled in newfound confidence.

His smile grew brighter. “Shall I send?”

How badly she wanted to say yes. The truth would be out in the open. The world would know she was training for a comeback, not locked away in a mental hospital. Cody would look like an idiot. Best of all, Anton wanted to defend her.

But if Dad’s campaign was hurt because of it, he’d have one more reason to hate her. He had enough already. She took back the tablet and deleted Anton’s message. “Thanks, but I can fight my own battles.”

* * *

Her citizenship moved quietly through levels of bureaucracy. Every week or so, Galina would present papers to sign, or instructions to visit some government office and have her picture taken.

“We’re not doing anything illegal are we?” she’d asked, after a nightmare of being dragged away by police in only a T-shirt and Minnie Mouse slippers.

Galina tilted her chin, mildly insulted. “Of course nothing illegal. I merely expedite process. Nothing to worry you.”

She suspected money or favors were involved and decided the less she knew the better. Then one day, the deed was done. In the studio, Galina handed her an envelope containing a domestic passport and a letter congratulating her on her Russian citizenship.

That was it?

“What do you want? Parade?” Ivan gave a snort as he looked up from Brigitte’s costume sketches.

“No...I just expected more of a hassle, that’s all.” Actually, she’d expected the entire plan to compete with Anton would explode in her face. The fact it hadn’t was strangely unsettling.

“I think it calls for a party,” said Adrian.

“You think Tuesday calls for a party,” Brigitte said, teasing him. She coiled a tape measure around Anton’s waist and jotted a note on a pad of paper. “But having Carrie eligible to compete is worth celebrating. We’ll have a dinner party. You’re in town this weekend, aren’t you, Anton?”

“I’m around.” He turned so Brigitte could measure his hips, and shot Carrie a little smile. He hadn’t been to Lake Shosha since the night they gave Evita her walking papers.

Shustov wandered over, and the conversation quieted, as if they were kids caught talking in class. “Actually, this is a perfect opportunity to stage a coming-out party for Miss Parker. It’s time we began to reshape her image. I shall invite some of Moscow’s top skating people and reporters.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s still early in the day. We might even be able to get television coverage.”

TV?
Her panic rose. They had to keep this quiet for at least another week, until the election was over. “Please, no TV! No reporters. I’m...not ready for it. I prefer something private. Friends only.”

Now Galina joined them. She had agreed to delay registering them for Nationals until just before the deadline, still ten days away, but lately, she seemed all too willing to defer to Ivan. “You cannot hide indefinitely,” she said. “Ivan is right. You must do this. We should invite Andrei from the skating federation. He’s been so helpful.” She took out her phone.

“
Nyet, pozhalujsta
,” Carrie said, choking on frustration as her mind scrambled for the Russian words.

“Enough of this!” Anton said, loudly. “The party is for Carrie and it will be what she wants, not you two. So no TV, or important people from CSKA. No helpful Andrei from federation. No strangers. Friends only.”

* * *

“Anton? Can you take these to the dining room, please?” Brigitte held out a stack of brightly colored dinner plates. “Put them on the buffet, beside the others.”

He carried the plates to the corner of the loft, which Adrian and Brigitte used for entertaining. Across the room, behind a sharp retro-styled bar, Adrian poured vodka for himself, Ivan and Galina. Ivan made a toast, and though Anton couldn’t hear over the music, whatever he’d said made Galina laugh and turn as pink as the streaks in her hair.

At least someone liked having Ivan the Terrible around.

He couldn’t deny Shustov’s coaching had improved their performance, but he didn’t like how the man bullied Carrie. So this afternoon, he put a stop to it.

“That doesn’t help, you know. The things you say to her,” he told Shustov as Carrie and Galina worked at the other end of the rink.

Shustov snorted. “A second-rate skater thinks he knows more than a first-rate coach?”

He’d ignored the comment. This wasn’t about him anyway. “About her I do. She’s been torn down already. Making her afraid to eat, or telling her she’s only a champion because she slept with someone...” He shook his head. “It’s not true, for one thing.”

“Yes, Galina mentioned you had some...inside knowledge.”

“It isn’t like that.”

“No? You chose her over Lara Zhukova. Maybe I’m not so far off?” Shustov grinned.

Anton glared. “Just leave her alone. You need to bark at someone, bark at me. But her, you will treat with respect.”

Despite what she said about fighting her own battles, she’d looked sincerely grateful when he stopped Ivan and Galina from inviting the entire sports press and everybody from CSKA, including the Zamboni drivers.

It felt good to be her champion.

The buzzer sounded. Adrian looked up from the bar but Anton quickly offered. “I’ll get it.”

Carrie stood at the door, carrying a foil-covered pan and a bottle of wine. Her smile beamed a bright greeting that took his breath away. “
Privyet,
Anton,” she said, dropping her gaze in a way that was ladylike and sexy at the same time.

“
Privyet
, Carrie,” he said, his heart hammering as though it had been weeks, not hours since he last saw her.

Brigitte came to take the bottle and pan while Anton took Carrie’s coat. As she shrugged it off, he smelled her floral perfume. She wore a clingy, pale green sweater, with a long scarf draped around her neck, snug gray jeans and black high-heeled boots. She greeted the others, then accompanied Brigitte to the kitchen. He followed, admiring the gentle sway of her hips in the tight pants, and the tantalizing peek of creamy skin revealed by her short sweater.

“What did you make?” he asked, as Brigitte set the pan on the counter.

“Red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting and crushed pecans. A traditional Southern dessert to finish off Adrian’s traditional Russian dinner. I hope y’all like it,” she said. The soft drawl in her voice reminded him of years back.