Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (14 page)

The waiter came to take Anton’s. He muttered something that sounded like “yawkshizlee” and returned to his conversation. The waiter met her eye. She pointed to Anton, then herself. “Yawkshizlee?” the man asked.

“Da.”

When dinner arrived, the waiters placed beautiful, sparse vegetarian entrees before Lara, Zoya, Yulia and Olga. Another waiter circled the table with an enormous platter stacked with imposing skewers of meat. He placed one in front of Dmitri, then Carrie. It was large enough to impale one of the ice princesses watching smugly from across the table. She poked suspiciously at a dark, glistening chunk. Definitely not chicken. As she lifted her hand to summon the waiter, he placed an identical skewer in front of Anton.

“
Spasibo
,” Anton said, and picked up his fork.

Carrie’s eyes grew wide. “I thought you were having chicken,” she whispered in English.

“I changed my mind. Anytime I can have chicken, but how often do I eat yak?” He pronounced it ‘yawk.’ Of course. ‘Yawkshizlee’ was actual yawk. Or yak, depending. “I see you’re trying too.” He seemed pleased.

Olga, Larissa and Zoya exchanged nasty smiles.

Valentin lifted his glass of vodka in a toast. “To the final season and glorious memories for some.” He nodded to Anton, Olga and Dmitri. “And to the future for those who will come after.” This to Mikhail, Lara and Yulia.

Carrie echoed Valentin’s toast, though the good wishes didn’t seem to include her. But when she touched her glass to Anton’s, he said quietly in English, “To us, as well.”

“To us.” She knocked back her vodka. Her eyes stung but at least she didn’t choke. Then she contemplated the monstrosity on her plate.
How often do I eat yak,
Anton had said. How often indeed? She picked up her knife and fork, then keeping her voice low, so only he could hear, she sang the chorus from “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” Anton laughed quietly as he took a bite.

It was surprisingly good, tender and garlicky, seasoned with ginger and coriander. She couldn’t begin to finish it, and was happy to share some with Mikhail when he asked. After he raved about it, Anya wanted to try some. Even Yulia had a bite. Olga picked at her vegetarian plov and shot Carrie dirty looks.

After dinner, Zoya suggested clubbing, and Olga quickly accepted, for both herself and Anton. The last thing Carrie wanted was to watch them dance together, so when Yulia announced she had early ice time, Carrie decided to call it a night too. If she had to share a cab with one of the ice princesses, the redhead seemed the least unpleasant.

“I’ll walk you out.” Anton rose from his chair. Her heart fluttered, as for a moment it seemed he was about to leave too, but he belonged here with Olga. At the coat check, he touched her arm and shook his head apologetically. “You were great. I’m sorry you had to put up with that.”

She offered a bright smile. “Mean girls don’t bother me. Back in my cheerleading days, I was one.”

“No, you weren’t. You don’t have it in you.” He held her coat while she slipped it on. “I should come. Ivan will kill me if any reporters get hold of you.”

“No one will even see me.” She pulled the hood of her coat over her head and took a pair of shades from her purse. She covered her eyes. “Incognito.”

He removed them. “Nice try, Amsterdam, but dark glasses in snowstorm give you away. Really, I’ll see you to the hotel. It’s no trouble.”

As she took her sunglasses back, her fingers brushed against his hand. She sighed and closed her eyes. “No. You need to be with Olga. She’s missed you. I’ve kept you from her enough. She’ll be here after I’m long gone. Please. You know I’m right.”

He touched her shoulder, looking from her face, then back toward the party, as if torn over what to do. “Fine,” he said shortly and held open the door.

Outside, it was still snowing. Yulia waited under the awning for a cab. She glanced over, then looked away. “Text me when you’re back at your room,” he said. “If anyone bothers you, tell me and I will come.”

A cab pulled up. Anton turned to go, then said, “So long, Yulia. Nice seeing you. Good luck this week.”

“You too, Anton. Good night,” Yulia replied, in English, before catching herself, and turning red as a bowl of borscht. Wearing a sheepish expression, she nodded toward the cab. “Share?”

In the back of the cab, Carrie turned to her. “You speak English.”

“A little.”

“And the others?”

“Yes.” The girl looked down. “Please accept my apology. We weren’t very nice tonight.”

“No, you weren’t. But at least you have the decency to admit it. So what was that all about? Trying to psych out the competition?”

Yulia gave a mocking smile. “Olga does not consider you competition. Her reasons are personal.”

Guilt settled heavily. “She feels threatened. She loves Anton very much.”

“Love? I can’t say.” Yulia played with the clasp on her purse. “I’ve known them both, long time. We all have. Olga does not want anyone to have what she thinks is hers. The attention. The man. That is why she dislikes you.”

“But Anton and I are only partners. I would never try to come between them.

Yulia’s mouth quirked. “The decision may not be yours to make.”

Chapter Sixteen

Galina ran their morning practice, but what should have been a pleasant break from Ivan, who’d flown to Arkhangelsk for the day to visit his sister, was grim.

“Someone has registered a complaint questioning Carrie’s citizenship because she does not speak Russian. Officials from federation wish to meet with her this afternoon.” Galina said, in a hushed voice, over tea after run-throughs.

Anton narrowed his eyes. “Someone? Like who?”

“Anyone who was at the party last night, when I forgot every damn word I knew,” Carrie said. Her hands prickled with sweat. Was this Halifax all over again? Was she about to be thrown out of the competition? Interrogated? Arrested?

“You’ve been here five months,” Anton said, then turned to Galina. “Expecting Carrie to be fluent is ridiculous.”

“To compete for the national team, she must be citizen and to be citizen, she must speak Russian. She is learning. The government had no problem, the federation will have no problem.” Galina glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. It was hard to hear her in the crowded snack bar. “This is merely harassment but we must respond, if only as formality. Unfortunately, the meeting conflicts with coaches’ press conference. If I miss, it will invite questions.”

“Then I’ll go with her,” Anton said. “If Carrie’s disqualified, I’m disqualified.”

Carrie stilled, fearing what she might have done to him. “No.”

Galina brushed the concern aside. “No one is going to be disqualified. This is formality only.” She gave Carrie’s forearm a brisk pat. “Andrei in the federation is old school friend. I will inform him about meeting and ask him to be there. He has been strong ally for us and I’m sure he will make every effort to attend.”

“What if he can’t make it?” Anton demanded. “Carrie should not go alone.”

“In my opinion, is not necessary for you to attend, perhaps better if you don’t. It shows we are not...” She tapped her finger on the Formica tabletop. “...rattled.” She turned to Carrie. “You have brought your documents?”

She shook her head at the irony. “Of course I brought them. I take them everywhere. I’m Russian now, remember?”

* * *

At a quarter ’til three, she stood before the mirror and folded back the too-long sleeves of the dark gray wool dress she’d dashed out and bought, as she’d packed nothing demure enough for an inquisition. She smoothed down the Peter Pan collar, perfect for a nun, and checked to see that her makeup was suitably understated.

There was a knock at the door. She answered and found Anton standing in the hall, wearing a dark suit and tie. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

“But Galina said—”

“Galina said in her opinion, was better if I don’t go. In my opinion, is better if I do.”

Carrie hesitated. She dreaded this appointment. The morning after Cody was discovered with the judge, she’d had to appear before a disciplinary board that was already prejudiced against her. She told her side of the story, which contradicted Cody’s tale of how they hatched the scheme together. The officials grilled her for two horrific hours, convinced she was lying. She’d escaped without a lifelong ban from competitive skating only because there was no proof of her direct involvement. Unlike Cody, she hadn’t been caught with her pants literally around her ankles.

But this was different. Mind games, courtesy of a jealous rival. The possibility that Olga could be behind this made her feel sick, but dragging Anton into it was childish. She could fend for herself. She always did. “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing more than what Galina said. A formality.”

“It probably is. But you’re scared anyway. I can see that. When this happened before, you went alone, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“You won’t this time.”

“But if this was Olga’s doing, she’ll be furious.”

“I don’t care if she’s furious. This is what a partner does.” His voice softened. “It’s what a friend does. I’m not going to throw you to the bus,
solnyshko
.”

She stared, suddenly seeing him in an objective light. She’d known plenty of men who were stop-traffic handsome. Even Cody had made a few sexiest in sports lists. A guy with Anton’s looks ought to be arrogant, self-centered. Yet he wasn’t. Confident, yes, and certainly aware of his appeal, but balancing out the beauty was genuine kindness. This was a good man. Maybe the best she’d ever known. It was hard to smile with her emotions raging, but she did anyway. “It’s ‘under the bus.’ You’re not going to throw me
under
the bus.”

His featherlight touch of her hand sent her pulse racing. “I won’t do that either. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Outside a first-floor conference room, she toyed with her floppy sleeves while Anton quizzed her on Russian words.

“Please,” he said.

“
Pozhalujsta
.”

“Thank you.”

“
Spasibo
.”

“Do you speak English?”

She repeated the phrase flawlessly. She’d had lots of practice.

“I’ll be back.” He did a pretty good Terminator.

She laughed. “
Ya vernus
.”

He’d moved on to movie lines now. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he said, then glanced at the closed meeting room door and shook his head. “No, that’s not a good one.” He thought for a moment, then said in pitch-perfect Darth Vader, “Luke, I am your father!”

“Like that’s going to come up.” She slapped his arm with her passport. He was being silly, but it felt so good to laugh. Waiting alone in Halifax, she’d been a basket case.
It’s what a friend does...
The words made her feel warm all over. “You do really good movie villains.”

He gave a sly grin. “One of my many talents.”

The door opened and a tall, thin man stepped out. “Good afternoon, Miss Parker. I am Andrei Kazakov.”

Carrie blinked, as she realized Galina’s old friend was actually a champion skater she’d watched as a child. It was jarring to see that someone she still pictured as a young athlete was in reality a bald man in his fifties. “Hello,” she said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Would you please follow me? Mr. Belikov, you may join us too, if you like.”

A woman and another man waited at the conference table and Carrie and Anton took the two empty chairs across from them. The woman was Lyudmila something and the third guy’s name she missed completely. Kazakov examined her passports, citizenship papers and Galina’s original email inviting her to train, then passed them on. He nodded politely, and asked in slow, carefully enunciated Russian, “How are you today, Miss Parker?”

It was as if she’d tumbled into one of her online lessons. “Very well, thank you.”

“There is much to see in Moscow. Have you visited Red Square?”

“Yes, I have visited Red Square.”

As the others inspected her documents, Kazakov spoon-fed Russian 101 questions about tourist attractions, the weather and borscht. After a few minutes, the officials conferred in hushed voices, then Kazakov returned her documents. “All seems to be in order. We apologize for any inconvenience. Good luck in the competition.”

The three officials rose from their chairs, everyone shook hands and the interview was over.

* * *

Anton escorted Carrie back to her room.

As she chatted about sweatpants and room service, all he could think about was following her inside and shutting the door behind them. Kissing her. Touching her. Peeling away the babushka dress. Her green eyes closed, honey-blond hair falling softly across her face. There would be no sweatpants, no room service either. Only them in her bed, hot and hungry for each other.

For the first time, the tantalizing thoughts weren’t accompanied by a stiff chaser of guilt.

They’d reached her room. She turned and smiled. The oversize dress emphasized her smallness, while her black high heels made him think about what she might be wearing underneath. “Thanks again for coming with me.”

“Not a problem.” He nodded toward the closed door. “Is this what you’re going to do the rest of the day? Stay in here?”

“Why not? The weather’s lousy. No reporters to dodge. How about you?” She paused. “Are you off to see Olga?”

The fact he didn’t really want to was troubling. The fact that Carrie wanted him to was more troubling. He nodded reluctantly. “You should know that it was Zoya who brought Lara to the party last night. Misha told me.”

She dipped her head, preventing him from reading her expression. “Thanks for telling me. I can’t explain why it matters, but for some reason, it does.”

Her soft eyes drew him. He ached to hold her as he did on the ice and stepped closer, then stopped, as the back of his neck tingled. Something felt wrong. Were they being watched? With reporters everywhere, it was certainly possible. The last thing they needed was to be seen kissing outside her hotel room. He steeled himself and took a step back.

With Carrie safe in her room, he returned to his own. He changed into running clothes and went to the window. The sidewalks below were clear from last night’s blizzard but the gray sky suggested more snow was on the way. She was right. It was a lousy day to be out. Even so, it beat the alternative. He sat on the bed and reread Olga’s messages. Those from this morning were apologetic, the later ones, angry. There’d been none in the past few hours.

He hoped very much that Olga wasn’t the person who reported Carrie to the federation, but even if she was blameless, it meant little.

Committing them to a reality show and six-month tour without so much as a word had been the last straw. Not only that, she wouldn’t even consider returning to Lake Shosha when it was over. At the nightclub, she’d pouted and flirted with other men to punish him for his stubbornness. He’d returned to the hotel early, and alone.

It was then he’d made up his mind to end it.

He was tired of the games and the ugliness. He was ready for good things. Like how Carrie made him feel. She was kind, she made him laugh. Life was brighter when she was around. Skating with her was actually fun. Even when the world was against her, she never gave up. He loved doing things for her. He wanted to care for her, protect her. He dared to hope she cared about him too.

Now that he’d come to a decision, he simply wanted it over. But he couldn’t break up with Olga three days before a major competition.

She would do it to you. It would give you an advantage.

What advantage? A win over an emotionally devastated opponent? Now there was a victory to be proud of. Carrie would hate him. He’d hate himself. And there was her temper. He didn’t want Carrie caught in the middle of it...or to see it.

Best to wait a few more days.

* * *

Carrie sighed and picked up the book she’d bought last night in the hotel gift shop. A Norwegian thriller translated into Russian, she got through about a page before her brain felt ready to explode. But it was better than thinking about what Anton was doing right now. He was with Olga, hanging out, laughing. Making love. Couple stuff.

So Olga hadn’t invited Lara. It helped knowing Anton wasn’t involved with a woman
that
mean. It could easily have been Lara or the stylist who filed the complaint, but it was still hard to set aside her feeling that cold-eyed Olga didn’t deserve such a great guy.

She turned on the TV.
When Animals Attack
showed a fascinating segment on the praying mantis. In a not-so-flattering close-up, the female mantis bit her mate’s head off and devoured his body. Carrie shuddered and switched to the news.

Ten minutes in, she had the surreal experience of seeing herself on TV.

A pretty reporter stood rinkside as competitors in the Russian National Figure Skating Championship practiced in the background. Carrie sat upright, realizing she and Anton were the couple gliding past.

When had they shot this? This morning, judging from their black practice outfits. She increased the volume, straining to translate. There was Yulia, executing a graceful Biellmann spin. A young man landed a quad. An ice dance couple performed beautifully synchronized twizzles. Then came Olga and Valentin, skating their long program to “Moonlight Sonata.”

She and Anton were next, skating Pachelbel. Balanced atop Anton’s arms in a star lift, her lines were perfect. Then Ivan, in the clothes he’d worn yesterday, being interviewed outside the rink. “From the beginning, this pair has meshed beautifully,” he said. “They have exciting chemistry which the audience and judges will enjoy.”

A close-up of Carrie was followed by an image of Lara Zhukova, skating alone. She couldn’t follow the translation perfectly, but the insinuation was clear. Then a shot of Olga, looking pensive. “I think what happened at Worlds should tell us everything about this skater. My concern is for Anton.” She gave a tragic sigh. “Just as Delilah destroyed Samson, I fear we are about to watch a good man brought down.”

The final image shot showed the end of the long program and Carrie’s hand circling Anton’s throat.

* * *

From the front seat of the taxi, Ivan looked back over his shoulder. “Fine, fine. We’ll take it out if you feel that strongly, though I think many will watch just to see if you strangle him at the end.” He cackled deviously.

Carrie fumed and glanced out the back window. The white news van that had trailed them from the hotel kept pace in the heavy morning traffic. “You should have warned me they were going to do a hatchet job.”

“I did warn you,” he said. “But what matters is how you handle it.”

So far, not well. Other than their morning ice time, she’d spent yesterday hiding in her room. Now she was on her way to practice, squeezed into the backseat between Anton and Ivan’s teenage nephew Vladimir, who’d accompanied their coach back from Arkhangelsk.

Ivan glanced at his nephew, whose good looks were marred by a bandage across the bridge of his nose and a surly expression. “Volodya, today I will introduce you to all of the top ice dance coaches. I know one of them will have a place for you.”

The teen slumped in his seat. “It is not necessary to trouble yourself, Uncle.”

“Trouble?” Ivan scoffed at the word. “It is never trouble to help my own flesh and blood. For you and your skating, I would go to the ends of the earth.”