Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (13 page)

“Is it that obvious?”

He skated backward, gazing into her eyes. “We need to forget Ivan and Nationals and whatever else is in our minds.”

“
Celebrity Detox: Intervention?
”

“That especially.” The lilt in his deep voice caressed her ear. He could make a phone book sound sexy. “Think only how good it feels on ice, right now, with me. Nothing else matters. Just us.”

He let go with one hand and skated to her left as he usually did. Their bodies fell into the natural rhythm they’d known from the start. The music wasn’t a perfect match, but that was okay. They mixed elements from all three programs, leaving out the lifts and throws that were risky on uneven ice. As they laughed and skated, the day’s tension fell away. At the pond’s edge, some of the other skaters paused to watch.

They came out of side-by-side spins, and skated rapidly toward one another in the closing move from the long program. Anton lifted her onto his hip as she snaked her arm around his neck and they rotated faster and faster. Then she arched her back and stretched out her free arm, slowing them. As they stopped, she stroked the side of his face, but instead of circling his throat, she placed her palm lightly on his chest, feeling the thump of his heart. Their faces were inches apart, clouds of mingled breath floated in the frosty air. His hand rested at the small of her back, in a way that was both familiar and disconcertingly intimate.

If they kissed, would he taste like green tea and almond cookies? Could she walk away after only a kiss or would they end the night as lovers?

Cheers and applause from their little audience broke the moment. A smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re pretty good,” he said, and gently set her down.

She expected him to say good-night at the Oktyabrskaya Metro stop, but instead, he rode with her to Taganskaya. As they came out of the station, his phone trilled in his pocket.
Olga.
She swallowed hard. “Are you going to get that?”

It rang again. Resigned, he took it out and glanced at the number. “Pyotr. I’ll call him later.”

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a policeman, watching. She tensed. Anton ignored him. “Did you see him?” she asked, once they were out of earshot.

“I saw him.”

“I swear he was about to stop us. What is it with you and cops?”

“It’s because I speak English and don’t look Russian. They think I might be foreigner here illegally.”

“But you are Russian.”

“Sure. Just darker than most. Bulgarian on my dad’s side and Romany on my mom’s.”

“Romanian?”

“Romany. Gypsy.”

“You mean like live in wagons and tell fortunes kind of gypsies?”

“So I’m told. My mother’s grandparents. I never met them.”

“Huh. I never met an actual gypsy before. That’s pretty cool.”

He narrowed his eyes, pretending to be stern. “If you ever meet Uncle Boris, you can’t call us gypsy. He’ll be very offended.”

“Well, I definitely don’t want to offend Uncle Boris. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of. My mom came from a trailer park. That’s sort of the American version of gypsy camp.”

Anton stopped and turned, wearing a broad smile. “Look at that. You did it again.”

“Did what?”

“Talked about your family. And see? World did not end.”

She shrugged, keeping the mood light. “Nope. Taganka’s as crowded as ever.” She gazed up at him. He’d cut his hair a few weeks ago, but it was still shaggier than he’d worn it before. “I gotta say the wild-haired gypsy guy look works for you.”

He laughed. “Tell that to Vera. She’s ready to attack with scissors and man-wax.”

Suddenly she was incensed. Didn’t anyone else see Anton for what he was? A handsome, talented skater and a fine man on top of it. “Well, Vera’s wrong,” she said vehemently. “You don’t need a haircut. You don’t need man-wax. You don’t need some coach yelling at you, or a stupid flower costume or fussy ballet steps that take away from the strong, powerful athlete you are. I think you rock, and I’m proud to have you as my partner.” Her cheeks burned hot at the unguarded passion in her voice.

Then Anton took her hands and gazed into her eyes. “
Spasibo
, Carrie,” he said softly. “I’m proud to have you as mine.”

He stroked his thumb across her knuckles, and with a whisper of movement, pulled her closer. The first flakes of falling snow kissed her skin, but his was the only kiss she craved. Warmth radiated from their joined hands, infusing every part of her. Anton lowered his head, tilting his face to meet her lips. Her heart lurched madly and her lips tingled, awaiting him. There were so many reasons to resist, but right now, none mattered. She rose on her toes. Her breath grew shallow. Her pulse pounded.

Anton’s phone sang out in his pocket.

They paused. It rang again. Carrie’s heart sank as she dropped back onto her feet.

Anton swore softly. The phone trilled again. Still he held her hand, making no move to answer.

“You have to answer. You know you do,” she said, a slight tremor in her speech.

His shoulders dropped and he nodded. Still holding one of her hands, he took out the phone. The guilt on his face said it all. She stepped back, pulling her hand from his warm grasp. “
Poka
,” she whispered, the ache palpable. She lifted her hand to wave goodbye.

“
Poka
.” He took another step backward, widening the distance, though his gaze continued to hold hers.

Another ring.

This time, he answered.

Chapter Fifteen

They flew to Saint Petersburg the Sunday before Nationals, just ahead of a blizzard. As the commuter plane skipped across turbulence, Ivan explained their strategy. “Everyone will want to talk to Carrie, so not one minute is she to be alone.”

“Works for me,” she said, the horrors of Halifax still fresh. A particularly bumpy patch bounced them against their seat belts, and she clutched the armrest between her seat and Anton’s, fighting the urge to either vomit or scream.

She also fought the urge to grab his hand.

They’d grown distant in the weeks since Olga’s ill-timed—or, depending on how one looked at it, fortunately timed—call. After practice, he went his way, she went hers. There was less laughter, no more friendly touches. Even today, he spent most of the flight gazing out the window at the grayness that enveloped them. When he’d casually mentioned that he and Olga would spend the week following Nationals in Italy while Carrie visited her family, she’d swallowed her feelings of loss. After all, he wasn’t hers to lose.

Apparently not bothered by the odd grinding sound coming from the bowels of the plane, Ivan continued. “Now, prior to the competition, I will handle the reporters. They fear me. I have made many of them cry like babies. But following the competition, win or lose, you will have to face them.”

“And of course, it’s only a matter of time before the Western media reports the story,” Galina said.

Very true. The coaches had squelched the small flurry of publicity that erupted after Galina entered them in Nationals by refusing all interviews, allegedly to minimize distractions before the competition.. Carrie had braced herself and sent Dad and Lolly an email, explaining she would compete in the Russian Nationals, and hoped they’d connect the dots. But when the message went unanswered, she hadn’t sent another. There was enough on her mind already, and no one stateside was paying any attention. In late November, the American sports press was talking football, not figure skating. The single mention of her return to competition had faded quickly into the background.

But if Parker and Belikov qualified for Lake Placid, she wouldn’t stay there.

At the Saint Petersburg Hilton, a reporter trailed them across the lobby, shouting questions in broken English. “Carrie! Is your important political family angry about Russian citizenship? Will Cody deWylde watch you skate from jail?”

“
Pozalujsta, uhodite. Mne nechego skazat
,” she’d replied, scowling for maximum effect.
Please go away. I have no comment,
sounded much more intimidating in Russian. Ivan gave an approving nod.

But the reporter wasn’t done. “Are you concerned that by skating with Anton, you’ve denied Lara Zhukova a chance to compete?”

The question stopped Anton in his tracks. He turned toward the man, but Galina quickly hustled him into the elevator.

“I needed to answer that,” he protested. “Carrie isn’t responsible for Lara Zhukova.”

“No.” Ivan was firm. “The media would love to invent a catfight on skates, with you and gold medal as prize. They will twist whatever you say to their purpose.”

“He’s right,” Carrie said. “The less we say and the more professional we are, the better. Trust me, I know.”

Anton’s expression softened and he nodded, resigned. He fished his phone from his coat pocket and checked his messages. “Valentin’s invited us to dinner tonight, eight o’clock, place called Shangri-La.”

Galina fluffed her hat-flattened hair. “If Olga is there, I prefer not to be.”

“I shall decline as well,” Ivan said, turning to Galina. “We should have dinner here and let the young people enjoy themselves. Do you like jazz? I know an excellent club we could visit later.”

“Perhaps,” Galina replied coolly, a little smile playing on her lips.

Had Ivan the Terrible just asked Galina on a
date
? Carrie met Anton’s gaze. He, too, was trying to hide a smile. The sweet moment soothed her anxiety about having dinner with Olga Zelenskaya. Almost.

* * *

“Himalayan-Uzbek fusion?” Carrie studied the glossy brochure, which she’d grabbed off a stack at the maître d’s station. “Am I reading it right?”

Anton peered over her shoulder. “That’s what it says. Valentin’s not one to go with simple French or Italian.”

Obviously not. Shangri-La could have doubled as the set from
Raiders of the Lost Ark
, with exposed dark wood beams, Moorish trim around the windows, and low tables surrounded by benches and pillows. But instead of Marion Ravenswood drinking Nazis under the table, a belly dancer swayed seductively for the predominantly male crowd.

“You look nice tonight,” Anton said, a hint of sensuality in his voice.

In a clingy, blue knit dress, black tights and high-heeled black boots, she was one of the few women here not dressed like a genie. Anton didn’t look too shabby himself. His thick hair curled in soft waves around his face and neck. He wore a dark sport coat, white dress shirt and open collar. Her eyes lingered on a glimpse of golden skin. The corner of this mouth lifted in a knowing smile. Her cheeks burned. “So do you.”

Her tall boots put her in tempting proximity to the sensuous mouth she longed to kiss, and her cheeks burned at the memory of how close they’d come. Even now, she was aware of his warm breath fanning her cheek. His light fragrance evoked ocean breeze, sunshine and beaches.

Beaches. Like the ones he’d be strolling with Olga in about a week. She cleared her throat and resumed studying the brochure. “Have you ever eaten Himalayan food?”

“No, but I’ve had Mongolian. I expect it’s much the same. Lots of meat. Olga’s vegetarian. I can’t guess what she’ll eat.”

How nice he was concerned about Olga’s dietary preferences. Next week, he would be more considerate when choosing restaurants. Her eyes stung. A cigar smoke cloud hovered over the dining room like fog around a mountain peak. Thank goodness they were eating in a private room. A young girl in a long white robe approached to lead them to their seats.

The moment they entered, Olga rushed to Anton’s side. She threw her arms around his neck, kissed him, paused to speak in rapid-fire Russian, then kissed him again. A long, steamy, get-a-room kiss. Carrie looked away, though she could hardly blame Olga. If Anton was her boyfriend, she’d want to kiss him like that too.

Smiling and nodding at whatever Olga was saying, Anton gently loosened her arms from his neck. “Olga, I’d like you to meet Carrie.”

“
Zdrastvuitye
,” Olga said, using a formal greeting and chilly tone. Movie-star beautiful, her platinum hair was piled stylishly on her head and her delicate face was accented by a single beauty mark and plump red lips. She wore tight, strapless black silk and black stilettos. Olga assessed her with ice-blue eyes. With a lethal smile and a subtle tilt of her head, she beckoned a stunning brunette in a slinky copper-colored dress.

Anton’s smile quickly faded. “Carrie, please meet Lara Zhukova.”

They’d been ambushed—a public smackdown for the unwelcome intruder. Instead of Shangri-la, Carrie was back in the McAllister High School cafeteria, only now she was the outsider. But if she’d learned anything from pageants and cheerleading, it was how to handle mean girls. Better to rise above than wallow in the mud. Summoning every shred of her Southern charm, she gave a perfect, beauty queen smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Olga. And you too, Lara. That’s a beautiful dress.”

“It is Larissa,” the girl said, coldly. “I am Lara only to friends.”

Carrie flinched at the blatant rudeness, but Lara—no,
Larissa
—turned her back, having dropped her bomb. She grabbed Anton’s hand as Olga latched on to his arm, and they started to lead him away. At the same time, a waiter approached. “
Dobryi vecher. Vam prinesti chto-nibud vypit
?”

She froze. She knew how to order a glass of wine. She’d done it before. But the words simply wouldn’t come. She closed her eyes, but the harder she tried, the more she shut down. “I would like a glass of red wine please,” she said in English.

The man shook his head apologetically. Olga and Lara exchanged glances. Freeing himself from the women, Anton came to her side. “
Dva bokala krasnogo vina, pozhalujsta
,” he told the waiter, ordering for both of them. When the man left, Anton lightly touched her hand. “We don’t have to stay,” he said quietly. “I had no idea she would be here.”

The concern in his eyes almost brought tears to hers, but she blinked them away and stood firm. “No, we do have to stay. It’s just as Ivan said. If we make a scene, it only gives them more to talk about. I can do this.” For him, she would do this.

“Okay,” he said. He glanced over at the group clustered in the corner. “The worst is over, I think. Come and I’ll introduce you.”

The other guests included Valentin and Olga’s coach Dmitri, his assistant Anya, a stylist named Zoya, Mikhail—the handsome men’s singles skater she’d met in Moscow—and Yulia Nosova, who trained here in Saint Petersburg. No Brigitte or Adrian unfortunately, as they wouldn’t arrive until Thursday. Zoya and Yulia were as dressed up as Olga and Larissa. Carrie picked a piece of lint off her sweater dress. Zoya noticed, commenting with a disdainful sniff. She muttered something to Olga and Larissa, which they seemed to find hilarious.

Carrie doubted she would be as amused.

The conversation flew too fast to follow. At first, Anton translated but soon Carrie found herself gazing at the elaborate tapestries on the walls and watching the waiters prepare a large round table set for ten. Anything was better than seeing Anton with his hand on Olga’s back, or Olga with her arms locked around him, and her glacial smile sending a clear message.
He’s mine.

“Excuse me?” someone said, in timid English. She turned to see Dmitri’s assistant, a lank-haired woman in dated glasses, twill slacks and a pilled navy blue sweater softened by a little pink scarf. Matching pink lipstick only made her look more faded. “I am speaking to learn English. Does it mind, if I practice to you?”

Mind? She flashed her friendliest smile. “I’d love to. My Russian’s a little rough tonight, anyway. I’m Carrie. May I call you Anya?”

The woman nodded and launched into a declaration of love for American TV, especially
House
and the actor who played the cantankerous doc. Above Anya’s head, Carrie met Anton’s eye.

His raised brow questioned her.

She nodded discreetly and mouthed a reply, “I’m good.”

She was good. She was better than good. In fact, she was damn amazing. Some women would have fallen apart. Olga would have thrown a fit and stormed out, but Carrie displayed the quiet dignity he’d seen in Halifax. Watching her brought a swell of pride.

But her struggle with routine Russian showed a crack in the armor. Olga and her friends were dressed for the red carpet, not a Sunday night dinner party. And what was Lara Zhukova doing here? Valentin wouldn’t have been so tactless to invite her and this seemed over-the-top, even for Olga. At least he hoped so.

When Olga suggested a beach getaway after Nationals, he’d agreed and even arranged the trip, hoping to bridge the gulf that had grown even wider since September. Olga was the woman he was committed to, not Carrie. Olga had been part of his life since they were children. She needed him. She loved him as best she could. Carrie was here because of the Games and when they were over, she would leave. Like her time here, his feelings were temporary.

He’d spent the past three weeks trying to convince himself of that. Until tonight, he thought he’d succeeded.

At dinner, he made sure she was seated beside him. As he studied the menu, he stole glances at her, liking the soft shine of her long hair in the candlelight. Her lips and cheeks were soft and rosy. Even underdressed, she was as lovely as a walk in the woods.

“What are you having?” she asked, glancing up from her menu.

“Not sure. Chicken plov sounds good.” Then the list of shashlik caught his eye. Marinated beef. Chicken. Mutton, which could be chewy, and yak. Interesting. He’d never tried yak. It was a lean meat, wasn’t it?

Across the table, Valentin folded his hands. “So, Anton, have you given more thought to my offer? Once Olga and I return from the Champions Tour, I intend to focus all my attention on the training center. Could you be ready to move to Lake Shosha by June?”

“That’s impossible,” Olga replied, before he could answer. “Anton and I will be in Argentina on a six-month tour.”

He almost laughed out loud. “Since when?”

“Since I signed to do
Frozen Hearts
. The show is about our lives on tour. They wanted me to skate with Valentin, of course, but since he’s retiring, they’ve agreed to take you.” She gave a nonchalant lift of her shoulder. “It’s all been arranged.”

“Like hell it has.” Aware of curious glances from Valentin, Yulia and, worst of all, Carrie, he dropped his voice. “You told me nothing about this. I don’t want to go on a six-month tour and have our lives filmed.”

“And I don’t want to stay in Lake Shosha,” she snapped. Then she dropped her eyes and sighed dramatically. “The tour is the center of the TV show. If you don’t do it,” her lower lip trembled as she said, “they’ll drop me.”

He sat back in his chair, shaking his head. This show meant everything to her. If they’d discussed it first, he might have agreed, provided he could just skate and stay out of the backstage drama. But this was the same shit he’d put up with for years. It wasn’t going to get solved in the middle of a dinner party. Chances were good it wasn’t going to get solved at all.

Carrie stared blankly at the menu and then closed it. Between the mean girls and the disturbing reality of Anton and Olga as a couple, she was too distracted to translate. None of what she could read made sense anyway. Sharpa? Plov? Chicken sounded dandy.

Anton and Olga were engrossed in conversation and, judging from their tense posture and hushed voices, it wasn’t about whether to spend their vacation sightseeing or at the beach. For a green-tinted moment, she’d hoped they might call the damn trip off, but what purpose would that serve? Anton had his life, she had hers. Whatever they were discussing was none of her business.