Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (12 page)

“I know I will,” he said, not taking his eyes from her. “Can I pour you a drink? Wine? Vodka?”

“Wine, please.”

At the bar, he uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses of red wine. “Cheers,” he said, touching the rim of his glass to hers.

“Cheers.” She sipped her wine, then glanced into the living room. “Thank you for what you did today. I didn’t want full TV coverage,” she said, in a low voice.

“I thought you preferred to fight your own battles.”

“Only in English.” She smiled a little. “Galina and Ivan together are a force of nature.”

“He’s right, you know.” She gaped, and he laughed. “Weren’t expecting to hear me say that, were you?”

As she shook her head, soft honey-blond strands gently framed her face. She usually wore her hair in a ponytail, but tonight it hung down, long and soft. He fought the urge to touch it. “You should get to know some of the other skaters. Reporters too. Not be so isolated.”

“I know, but reporters haven’t been kind. Cody really threw me under the bus.”

“That bastard tried to push you in front of bus?” He could hardly believe his ears. If he ever got hold of the sniveling little shit, he’d gladly return the favor.

“No! It’s a figure of speech. I meant he ruined me to save himself. You have a sterling reputation in the sports world. I’m afraid the media would portray us as the school slut corrupting the Boy Scout.”

He frowned. “Sounds like bad movie. I’m no Boy Scout, you aren’t school slut, but it’s okay with me if you want to keep quiet. Fewer expectations, less pressure.” He lifted his glass. “More excitement when we win.”

Adrian and Brigitte served a full Russian dinner, starting with small plates of red caviar with chopped eggs and onions, roasted eggplant spread and wild mushrooms in sour cream. Next was a soup course: hot borscht topped with sour cream, followed by pelmeni stuffed with pork, onions and potatoes. Carrie took small servings, claiming not to be hungry, though more than once, she glanced Ivan’s way.

Adrian brought around a bottle of Parliament, filling everyone’s glass except Brigitte’s. “It’s a night for traditional food, and for vodka. If Carrie’s going to be one of us, she must learn to drink it.”

Carrie gave her filled glass a dubious glance. “I’ve had vodka. I just don’t like it.”

“You only think you don’t like it. You’ve not had good Russian vodka in Moscow, with good Russian friends.”

“True enough. I suppose Smirnoff mixed with strawberry Jell-O doesn’t count.”

“We drink to Carrie, Anton and James Bond,” he said, raising a toast.

Everyone echoed Adrian’s toast and knocked back their drink. Anton felt the familiar burn as it went down, but this was good vodka, very smooth. Carrie drank hers and choked immediately.

“That was terrible!” Ivan scolded. “You must learn to drink with more grace.”

“You’re allowed to sip,” Galina said.

“Or not drink at all,” Brigitte added.

Carrie had her hand clamped over her mouth and her eyes shut tight. Anton touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Slowly, she removed her hand and took a deep breath. “I got it. I’m fine.”

She drank less with each subsequent toast, and seemed to be holding her own. Only after dessert did he realize how drunk she was.

“Y’all don’t jus’ drink, you do this whole...toasty thing. At first...I thought I was gonna hurl, but it’s kinda the triple Salchow of drinking. Practice makes perfect.” She reached for the Parliament.

He moved it away. “Practice is over.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

“So you’ve told me,” he said, laughing.

“I can take care of myself. I’m a big girl.”

“No, you aren’t really.” She lifted her chin, ready for a fight. “I mean size,” he said quickly. “You’re not big. Drink more and you are going to...” He smiled at her colorful expression. “Hurl.”

“You’re too protective.”

“I look out for my friends.”

She rested her chin on her hand, gazing at him intently. “Are we friends?”

“I like to think so.”

Her gaze lingered, then she shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “I need to go home. I mean to my apartment. Where I live. It’s not home, but you know...”

“I know.” It was a little sad to think about her other life, far away. “We’ll share cab.”

She recognized the music playing in the cab and sang along, loud and off-key, pantomiming a microphone with her fist. Come on, sing with me! Isn’t this a great song?”

“I don’t get it. Why is he singing about cheeseburger paradise?”

She rolled her eyes. “You are
so
culturally depraved! I mean deprived.” She snickered, then smiled, pushing her hair back from her face. “I like to sing.”

“I noticed.”

“I’m not very good.”

He smiled back. “I noticed that too.”

She crossed her arms. “I’ll bet there’s things you’re not good at.”

“Can’t think of any. In fact...” He moved closer. “There are some things I’m very good at.”

He hoped she’d play along, but instead, she scooted away. Him on one side of the cab, her on the other.

After four months of skating with her daily, he still knew practically nothing about her. When he tried to ask, she dodged him. He’d even looked online, but found nothing beyond her professional biography. It was almost as if she hadn’t existed before she became Cody deWylde’s partner at the age of eighteen.

But she had existed, and he’d known her, if only briefly.

They rode in silence, her face turned to the window. Finally, she spoke. “My mom had a beautiful voice. When she first entered me in beauty pageants, she wanted me to sing too, but I stunk. So I took ballet instead.”

He stilled at this small confession. “And you were good at that?”

“I was all right. But then my dad made her quit putting me in pageants, and I got to start skating.”

She continued to stare out the window. Her hand rested on the seat between them. He touched it lightly, expecting her to pull away. She didn’t. Carefully, he wrapped his fingers around hers. On the ice, they held hands all the time. This was different. Intimate. Inside, something stirred. “
Chto
?” he said softly, hoping she’d say more.

“Years later, when I told her how much I hated those pageants, she got so sad. She said they helped all her dreams come true.” She gave a strange, sad laugh. “Some dream.”

Her face was in profile, silhouetted by the streetlights. When she turned back, the sadness in her eyes struck him hard. Not just sadness. Raw grief that had never healed into scars. “Carrie?”

She pulled her hand away and folded her arms tightly across her chest, as if she was cold in the overheated taxi. She closed her eyes, then pushed her face into an overly wide smile. “I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. Listen to me, I sound like a fool. A
durak
,” she said in Russian, then giggled. “A drunk
durak
.”

“We’re all entitled once in a while.” He waited for her to say more. He had no right to know her secrets, as much as he longed to. He wanted to understand her, to be the friend, the champion, she seemed to want so desperately. Maybe he could help ease the sense of loss he knew all too well.

It was crazy to think this way. After the season, Carrie would return to America. He would return to Olga. But that was in the future. Tonight, he could invite himself upstairs to her apartment. They could drink more and when the dam broke, she could find comfort in his arms. In her bed.

No
. Carrie meant more than a one-night roll in the sack. He longed to make love to her in the way he longed to know her. Fully. Completely. Joyfully. Not like this, when she was sad and drunk. Not when she’d wake tomorrow hating him. The cab stopped in front of her building, and she fumbled for her keys. She found them, then opened the door and paused, with one foot already outside.

“Anton? How come you’ve never asked if what happened at Worlds was my idea? If I knew what Cody was doing that night, or if I’d put him up to it?”

“I saw you the morning you left Halifax...and I know the kind of person you are.”

She bit her lip and looked away. “No, you don’t. You don’t know me at all.”

“Sure I do.” He brought his fist to his chest, over his heart. “In here, I know you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Carrie’s Russian was improving, but at times, she overheard things she wished she hadn’t. “Olga,
eto otlichnaya novost,”
Anton said, as he talked on the phone during their practice break. He smiled, genuinely happy about Olga’s great news.

How nice for Olga. Carrie’d had news too. Less great.
Celebrity Detox: Intervention!
was back on the table. After Cody and Miss July broke up in a Vegas nightclub, he’d stormed out, jumped in his Ferrari and was arrested after doing eighty-six miles per hour on the Strip. Charges included another DUI, reckless endangerment and public nudity.

His email was chilling.

Just because you can hide behind Daddy’s money doesn’t mean the rest of us have it so easy. Quit being such a selfish little bitch and think of someone else for once. Make no mistake—I will find you.

Anton ended his call and joined her on the bench. Since the dinner party, she’d thanked her lucky stars more than once that she’d not given in to vodka-soaked temptation and invited Anton upstairs. He was in a relationship, and Carrie wasn’t about to add “other woman” to her shameful résumé. She smiled. “How is Olga?”

“Couldn’t be better. She’s been cast in Argentine TV show, either ballroom dancing or skating with hockey players, she wasn’t sure. She’ll call tonight when she knows more.” He gave a quizzical look. “Everything okay?”

She shut off her phone. “Just more Cody headaches.”

“My offer’s still open. Much better than lawyers.” His smile slipped. “Any news about your dad?”

“All’s quiet, now that the election’s over.” Two weeks ago, her dad won the Senate seat by a narrow margin. Now it was safe to bring up Lake Placid and she intended to do it. Soon. “He’ll be sworn into the Senate in January. If all goes well, in a few years, he’ll run for president.”

“Would he be good president?”

She thought a moment. Anton’s furrowed brow suggested this was more than idle conversation and she wanted to give the best answer she could. “He would. I don’t agree with him on every issue, but he’s a good man, dedicated to serving his country.”

Anton frowned. “Your politicians don’t seem to like us much.”

He was referring to the latest dustup between their countries’ governments, who seemed to exchange barbs on a regular basis. “Yours don’t seem to like us, either.” Then she put her hand on his and squeezed. “Good thing we aren’t politicians.”

He smiled and squeezed back. “Very good thing.”

From across the rink, Ivan called them back to work. “Double runs of each program before we finish today, including exhibition. Let’s go.”

As usual with Ivan, nothing was right. For Pachelbel, he didn’t like Anton’s position on the triple twist. The exhibition program, to Peggy Lee’s “Fever,” lacked heat. “Give me passion, smoldering looks. Anton, you will die of longing if you cannot have her. Carrie, when he touches you, imagine his fingers on your skin.”

Yeah, okay. She could definitely imagine that. Dying of longing? She could so relate.

Then there was the sinister little twist he’d added to the end of James Bond, where her caress ended with her hands cupped around Anton’s throat; the scheming temptress luring the steadfast hero to his ruin.

“You read too much in,” Anton had said, when she first brought it up. “Once news breaks, you’ll see most people don’t think you are this evil, cheating woman. I know you don’t want to do interviews before Nationals, but you might reconsider. I’d be with you. Wouldn’t be so bad.”

She’d declined, as it all came back to Dad—how, when and if she’d break the news. The way things were going lately, they might not even make it past Russian Nationals. Why open a can of worms she didn’t need to? And suppose she told him, and he flat out forbade her from competing? She’d defy him, of course...but did she really want to go down
that
road? Revisiting those awful memories could send her into an emotional tailspin that sabotaged her skating, and that wouldn’t be fair to Anton.

Lately, another one of Dad’s truisms had been playing in her mind.
Better to apologize than ask permission.

As they skated the long program, Ivan was merciless, yelling and berating them. “Your footwork is embarrassing!” he shouted at Anton. “You are like a big lumbering ox! Do it again!”

A lumbering ox? How dare he. She’d had about enough of Ivan the Terrible. She turned back and shouted, “
Hvatit evo lizat
!”

Silence descended, as both men turned to stare. Carrie skated away, feeling better than she had all day. That was more like it...the old coot had finally quit yelling at Anton. Thank goodness, he was leaving her alone.

Her eyes widened as she realized why.

After practice, Anton skated over, laughing. “You told Ivan to quit licking me. Was that really what you wanted to say?”

She whirled around. “I told you not to butt in. I told you I could handle it! But instead, you treat me like some fragile little doll who can’t stand when her big bad coach yells.”

“I told him to treat you with respect.” Anton unlaced his black boot and took a chamois from his bag. “Ivan’s old school and yells because that’s his way. To me, it’s noise. Like Venereal Rage, but making less sense.”

She laughed a little, despite being mad enough to spit.

“But you?” He rose and stood close, tracing a heart over her left breast with his fingertip. “You take close to here, and that doesn’t help either of us,” he said, in a voice as soft as his gaze. “So Ivan yells, I ignore and you don’t doubt so much. It’s good trade.”

“I can handle Ivan myself,” she repeated, though with less conviction.

Anton paused, then shrugged. “Okay. I’ll say you don’t mind if he calls you obese cow and asks about your sex life. Will make his day, I’m sure.”

Her jaw dropped, then she laughed. “You’d better not.”

He wrapped her in a friendly half embrace that made her pulse pound. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to see that church I told you about, the one with the seashell roof.”

It was almost dark when they left the rink. Winter hadn’t officially arrived, though the city had been in its grip for the past ten days. Plowed snow was piled along curbs, sidewalks were slick with patches of ice. More snow was expected tonight and even now, fine flakes danced in the crisp air.

On Ordynsky Boulevard, they caught a northbound bus. Wedged into a rear seat, he rested his arm on the back, behind her shoulders. Surrounded by his warm presence, she felt every point of contact, even through their coats. Needing distraction, she took out her phone and scrolled through her photos.

“They’re good, but you aren’t in any of them,” Anton said.

“Well, no. I took them.”

“But there aren’t people in them.”

“It’s because I go by myself.”

“You spend lots of time alone.”
Why?
His unspoken question hung in the air.

She was ready with excuses. She was too busy. She was in a foreign country and didn’t speak the language. But there were plenty of Westerners in Taganka. The British girls next door seemed friendly. She lived three blocks from a place called the American Bar and Grill, for crying out loud. If she wanted to meet people, it wouldn’t have been hard. She looked away. “I’ve always been a loner.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

She felt his gaze. “It’s the best one I’ve got.”

The Church of Saint Nicholas the Miracle Worker glowed in the twilight. At one end was a bell tower cupola; at the other, a cluster of five round towers topped with gold-and-gray domes. At the base of each tower were rows of rounded half arches, stacked one on top of another. She studied the arches and framed a shot with her camera. “Seashells? I think they look more like icing on a cake.”

Anton chuckled. “Ivan has made you obsessed with sweet food.” They circled the building as she took pictures. When she’d finished, he gestured toward the churchyard’s entrance. “I want to take one. Stand over there.”

She shrugged and did as he asked. The camera flashed. “Another,” he said, quickly. “Your eyes were closed.” Another flash. He studied the pictures, then handed the camera back. “Now people will know you were actually here, and didn’t just buy photos online.”

Assuming they were finished, he turned away, but she stopped him. “Your turn.”

This wasn’t necessary. There would be dozens of photos of their competition—but she wanted a picture of Anton as she would always remember him; in jeans and his leather coat, his skate bag slung over his shoulder.

“Smile,” she said. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Come on, you can do better than that.” Like bright beams from behind a dark cloud, he gave a broad grin. Her heart skipped a beat. She snapped the picture.

“Would you like to get some dinner?” he asked when she’d put her phone away. “There’s good sushi place, not far.”

She hesitated. “Isn’t Olga going to call you tonight?”

“You’ve heard of amazing invention called mobile phone? I have one.”

“She won’t care if you’re with me?”

“She’s with Valentin. You’re my partner, we’re eating together on Tuesday night. Nothing to hide.” He flashed a smile. “Besides, Olga and I are not exclusive.”

“Oh.” What in the world could she say to that? Apparently, he slept around, and was perfectly comfortable admitting it. She shouldn’t be surprised. Skating had groupies, and a guy who looked like Anton could take his pick. But even if it wasn’t surprising, it was a little sad. She’d wanted to believe he was different. More like her.

“Well! That’s...good to know. Not that I’d ever take advantage. I’m not that kind of girl...except for...” Her cheeks grew warm, even in the chilly air. She laughed nervously. “But...it’s nice to know that about...people.”

He pressed his lips together, hiding a smile. “So. Sushi is good for dinner, yes?”

“Yes! Perfect.” She hitched her skate bag a little higher and tossed back her hair. “Lead the way.”

* * *

It was still early for dinner and the small restaurant wasn’t crowded. After they’d ordered and been served tea, Carrie took out her camera and scrolled to the photos they’d just taken. “My eyes were not closed.”

“I lied,” Anton said. “But you should be in more than just one.”

Aware of his gaze, she scrolled through the rest, stopping at the photos of the dark spooky Taganka church. They weren’t very good, but she’d kept them anyway.

Anton took a sip of tea. “You’ve been to lot of churches.”

“They’re pretty. They’re...I don’t know. There’s something about them.”

“You sense presence in them.”

A chill snaked across her shoulders. He’d hit it exactly. She had felt a presence, large and frightening, which kept drawing her back. Nodding, she glanced up and met his eyes. “Are you...?”

“Religious? No. But my grandmother is. So was my mom.”

“Mine too. Your dad?”

He cracked a smile. “When I was baby and they took me to get baptized, my father and uncle decided instead to stay home and play chess. Baba Ira set them straight fast.” The smile faded and he shrugged. “We never went to church or anything, but...when Mama got sick, it helped.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Didn’t you wonder why God let her get sick and die in the first place?”

“Yeah.” He rolled a chopstick between his fingers. “But more I wanted to believe she’d gone someplace good, and I’d see her again.” He paused and looked up. His face and eyes held vulnerability, and more than a little embarrassment. “That probably sounds stupid.”

She could tell him it did. She could tell about the time she’d returned to her old church in Sweetspire, desperate for healing and forgiveness, only to run out when people recognized her and turned to stare. But he’d just revealed a part of himself she suspected few others saw. Perhaps no one else. There was no way she could step on it. “No,” she said, gently. “It doesn’t.”

The waitress brought miso soup and a platter of maki. Carrie wiped her hands on the warm, lemon scented towel, then dipped a spoonful of soup, hot and salty with green onion slivers.

Anton dabbed wasabi onto a maki roll. “You said your mother sang. Was she famous?”

A counter-question popped into her mind, but she didn’t ask it. He’d shared something private and shutting him out felt wrong. And there were times she felt crushed by the weight of so many secrets. She owed Dad her silence, and for seven years, she’d kept it, never talking about Momma. But God, it was hard. Tonight, she’d open the door, just a little.

“Briefly, yes. Her name was Vicki-Lynn Bailey and she had a hit record before I was born. She tried to make a comeback a few years later...but it didn’t work out.”

“That’s too bad. Maybe you could play her music sometime?”

Carrie took a crab, avocado and asparagus roll. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“How do you know?”

“She sang pop-country, which sounds nothing like DDT or Venereal Rage. Besides, I didn’t bring any with me.”

“Really?” His cool tone probed further. She returned to her plate of sushi. The soft murmur of other diners filled the silence. “You know,” he said. “If you ever want to talk...”

She glanced up, sharply. “I don’t.”

* * *

As they left the restaurant, Anton flagged down a cab. “Someplace else I want to show you.”

“Another church?” Her guidebook mentioned several pretty ones in Zamoskvorechye but she hadn’t visited them. Exploring his neighborhood felt like an invasion of his privacy.

“No, but you’ll like as much, I think.”

The taxi took them to Gorky Park, where they followed a snowy footpath past a silent amusement park, a shuttered Subway sandwich kiosk and a ghostly sculpture garden. At the end of the path was a large frozen pond, brightly lit. A few skaters circled to a tinny “Blue Danube Waltz,” drifting from pole-mounted speakers. Anton sat on a bench and opened his skate bag.

She shook her head, dismayed. “Didn’t you get enough today?”

“That was training. This is different.”

She shrugged and laced up her own skates, stuffing her coat into her bag as he’d done. It was cold, but not much colder than the rink. Her training jacket was comfortable, Anton wore only a thin dark red sweater with a T-shirt underneath. He took her hand and led her onto the ice. “Skating hasn’t been fun lately, yes?”