Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (15 page)

Vladimir’s only response was to glare out the window. Ivan’s cheerful expression faltered, and he turned back to Galina, who sat beside him. Though Carrie had only met Vladimir this morning, she didn’t care for the way he was treating Ivan, who at the moment, seemed more vulnerable than terrible.

Vladimir ought to count himself lucky that someone cared.

At the arena, Galina hustled them inside while Ivan dealt with the reporters. Yesterday, a low-ranked pair had skated into their right of way in deliberate breach of protocol, but today, the ice was empty except for Yulia. She finished her practice and nodded a greeting on her way out. Other than Carrie’s two-footed landing in the short, they skated cleanly.

Afterward, Ivan and Galina chatted with the judges who’d dropped by to watch, while Anton wiped down his skates and talked with Vladimir. Carrie quickly ducked into the ladies’ room, and was at the mirror when the door opened.

In walked Olga.

Heart thudding, Carrie remained at the mirror, touching up her hair. She had no reason to run. There was nothing to hide. If anyone was in the wrong, it was Olga, for all the pain she’d caused Anton.

So why did Carrie want to melt with shame?

Olga regarded her with cold eyes. Carrie tucked her comb back in her bag and turned to leave.

Olga blocked the door. “You’re ruining him, you know.”

She tensed, but looked Olga in the eye. “Actually I’m not. Anton is at last able to skate in a way that suits him, not someone else. The change agrees with him. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She reached past Olga for the door handle.

Olga sneered. “You don’t belong here. We own this sport and you were U.S. champion only because your partner fucked a judge. Who did you fuck?” She lowered her voice threateningly. “If it was Anton, you will be sorry and so will he.”

Trembling, she crossed the lobby to where Anton and Vladimir were still talking. The boy nodded, and Anton clapped him on the shoulder, then waved to Carrie. She quickly composed herself as he approached. “Ivan and Galina said go on without them. Zamboni guy told me about a way out, below ground.”

He led her through a metal door marked Restricted, then down a flight of metal stairs to a service entrance. She stayed hidden while he flagged a cab. As they drove away, she spotted the news van, still in front of the rink. Carrie fell back against her seat as the awful moment with Olga began to fade. She was with Anton, the sun was out. She turned to him and forced a smile. “Did you have a nice talk with Vladimir?”

Anton sighed and shook his head. “Poor Ivan. He wants Vladimir to keep skating, but Vladimir’s done. Lost the passion. Skating demands so much. Hard to keep going if you don’t love it.”

“Very true,” she said, gazing out at the beautiful historic buildings that lined both sides of the street.

Squeezed together in the backseat with their skate bags, Anton’s arm brushed against hers. “Spending another day in your room?”

So far, she’d seen nothing of Saint Petersburg beyond the hotel, rink and Shangri-La. “If I do, I think I’ll go crazy.”

“You should get out and see some of city. There’s a church here you should not miss. The Church on Spilled Blood, it’s called.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Y’all have such charming names for things. I’ll find it, thanks.” She paused. He’d been the one to suggest she spent too much time alone. Though he could easily turn her down, and probably ought to, she decided to ask anyway. “Would you like to come?”

* * *

The Church on Spilled Blood overlooked a canal and was as beautiful as Saint Basil’s Cathedral. The exterior was covered with colorful stones, tiles and mosaics. Inside, more elaborate mosaics covered every wall and even the insides of the church’s many onion domes. Afterward, they walked along the Neva River, looking at the bridges and strolling through the historic neighborhood surrounding it. They took lots of pictures.

By afternoon, the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, so they returned to Nevsky Prospect and found a Starbucks. While he stood in line, she claimed the sofa in front of the window. She settled in a patch of fading sunshine, and watched as he placed their orders. He hadn’t asked what she wanted, he just knew to order her a skim latte. And he drank strong black tea with lemon, but no honey or jam. It was the kind of thing friends knew about one other.

Are we friends?

I like to think so
.

Yesterday, he’d stood at her door, handsome and confident, not wanting her to face her inquisition alone.
It’s what a partner does. It’s what a friend does.

How long had it been since she’d allowed herself a friend? And how would it feel when she had to leave him for good?

The thought drained the bright day of its joy, as did the music playing softly in the background. A Sarah McLachlan song Momma had liked. They’d played it at her funeral.

“
I will remember you, will you remember me?”

The poignant melody invaded her consciousness and she swallowed back the tears that were perilously close. She covered her ears in a desperate attempt to block the song, before it shattered the control she’d fought so hard to keep. She’d done so well. She’d been strong. But now she was about to lose it in the middle of a coffee shop.

The song continued playing, unwanted, in her mind.

Hunched over, she felt his weight as he sat down, and she lifted her head before he saw she was upset. A small cup of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate syrup sat in front of her.

“What’s this for?” she asked, in an overly bright voice.

He laughed softly. “I thought you could use it. Either that or stiff drink.”

She let her hair shield her face, and brushed away dampness at the corner of her eye. “Between this and the yak-kebab you’ll never be able to lift me.”

He flexed one muscular biceps. “Then I’ll have to work out more so I’m extra strong.”

It was meant as a joke, but all she could think of was Olga’s remark about Samson and Delilah. A hiccuped sob caught in her throat.

He touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I hate this stupid song. It reminds me of...” The rest of the words were lost, as tears burst forth.

Anton drew her close, her head against his shoulder, and stroked her hair. “You would rather hear Ramones?”

She nodded, but of course, it wasn’t really the song. It was the numbing hopelessness of having found the man of her dreams—except he lived on another continent and loved another woman. Even if he was free, they had no future. He was Russian. Her father was a politician, not fond of his kind. More than that was her own shame, a deed too grievous for even her own family to forgive. If Anton knew, he’d hate her too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure this will be on tonight’s news. Delilah cries to Samson, just before she ruins him.”

“You won’t ruin me. You aren’t Delilah. Maybe I don’t know much about you, but I see brave, funny and beautiful woman who cares about more than just herself. If anyone tried to hurt her, Samson would not let them and neither will I.”

Even if she wasn’t Delilah, he was her strong, courageous Samson. She hugged him tightly, wishing she never had to let him go. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered against him.

“Enough of that. I am lucky one.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Drink your chocolate,
solnyshko
. We should get back. I have weights to lift.”

She smiled and took the napkin he offered, mopping her eyes on the Starbucks siren.

It was then she knew she loved him.

* * *

“Anton! How do you feel right now?”

He turned and a woman shoved a microphone in his face. There were cameras too, but today, it was easy to smile into the bright lights. “I feel great,” he said. “We worked very hard, we took some risks and it paid off. We’re both very happy.”

Squinting into the glare, he scanned the crowd. In the backstage area, following the medal ceremony, reporters swarmed the skaters and coaches, but there was only one person he wanted to see. She was in the corner accepting congratulations from Andrei Kazakov; a small blonde swimming in a too-large red-and-white jacket, a bronze medal hanging from her neck.

Carrie’s beautiful smile was brighter than the TV lights as she pushed through the crowd. She reached his side and threw her arms around his neck. He lifted her, burying his face against her soft, fragrant skin. They were going to Lake Placid and she was in his arms. Life didn’t get much better.

Cameras flashed as he set her down and gazed into her eyes.

Ivan and Galina made their way over. Galina gripped his hands and looked ready to cry. Together, they’d traveled a very long road. He gazed at the chaos, soaking it all in. This was what he’d worked for.A reporter from Eurosport called out a question. “Galina, were you concerned about the fairness of the marks your pair received?”

Galina just laughed. “It’s a coach’s job to be concerned.”

That was putting it mildly.

The random draw for the short program had them skating early—never a good place to be. Pachelbel was clean, but as pair after pair outscored them, they’d been powerless to do anything but watch. At the end of the night, they were in fifth place and Galina was livid.

“That was a beautiful program. Every line was perfect,” she’d said over late-night Japanese. “It could only be because of their feelings about Carrie.”

“It was our position. You know they don’t give high scores too early,” he’d said, trying to convince them both, though Galina was probably right.

Carrie picked at a tuna roll and said nothing.

But that afternoon, doubt crept in as they waited for their turn in the free skate. Surrounded by sequins, ruffles and ballet-bunned hair, he and Carrie were cool and edgy—the KGB and CIA, dropped into the Bolshoi. After the sixth-place pair skated a pretty, if unoriginal, program to “Swan Lake”, Galina had her mouth set in a grim line. If shaken, not stirred was how they left the judges, he’d be watching the Winter Games in Pyotr’s bar.

They skated to their starting positions to polite applause, back-to-back and far apart. In the tense moments before the program began, he looked down at his black skates, taking long, deep breaths.

Then came three bongo beats, followed by a crash of guitar, bass, keyboard and drums. In one sharp movement, he brought his left hand across his body, and spun around to face Carrie, a pouty-hot Bond babe in a short, tight dress and flipped hair. She struck an identical pose, with one arm extended, as if aiming a pistol.

For the next four and a quarter minutes, they were Cold War spies, caught in a web of intrigue and danger, sound-tracked by surf guitars and a haunting keyboard riff, held together with a driving beat. They skated the way they liked best—fast, with the cold air rushing across their faces. Every element was a seduction and from the opening side-by-side triple flips to the closing pair spin, every element was perfect. The thunderous applause at the end confirmed it.

Their scores bumped them up to third, but whether they made the team depended on how the next three pairs skated. A teen pair from CSKA blew three major elements and turned in a stiff, deer-in-the-headlights performance to Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliet.” Even the most biased judge could see they weren’t ready. Alina and Fedor, a veteran pair from Saint Petersburg, skating for the hometown crowd, performed a flawless “Carmen,” that put them in first. Olga and Valentin’s solid, but imperfect, “Moonlight Sonata” earned them silver. When it was all over, he and Carrie kept third place by three lousy points. Nothing to brag about, but enough to get the job done.

“One question at a time!” Ivan shouted, trying to act tough, though it was clear he lived for this. “You,” he said, choosing a guy from ESPN.

The reporter tilted his mike. “Carrie, are you concerned how fans back home will view your decision to acquire Russian citizenship and represent them in the Winter Games?”

Her small body tensed, but when she looked up, she was smiling. Anton smiled back, amazed by his incredible good fortune.

“Of course I’m concerned, and it wasn’t a decision I made lightly. However, it had everything to do with finding the perfect partner. From the first day, Anton and I knew we wanted to skate together, and we’re extremely grateful for the cooperation between our countries, which has allowed us to do that. We want to make both Russia and the United States proud.”

It was a good answer. Carrie was hardly the first athlete to represent a nation other than her homeland, and it should put the matter to rest. Smiling, he pulled her close as she wrapped her arms around him. More cameras clicked.

Then a good-looking blonde slanted a smile at Ivan. “Your skaters have amazing...chemistry on the ice. Do you attribute this to your coaching?”

Ivan laughed. “Even
I
cannot coach that well. What you saw this weekend is simply a reflection of the...deep regard they have for one another.”

Curious murmurs rippled through the room. Reporters shouted more questions, everyone wanting to know the same thing. Were they a couple off the ice? Carrie tensed again, and stepped from the circle of his arm. Did she find the idea that distasteful? He tensed too, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Ivan smiled at the commotion he’d caused and lifted his right hand, like a priest blessing the faithful. “Thank you, that will be all. Now you will excuse us?”

Off the media room was a closed-door reception, where friends and family waited. Papa, Svetlana, and Baba Ira had taken the train up to see Anton’s final competition on home ice. Ira and Sveta had their small plates loaded with food—they’d probably not eaten much on the way. Papa stood in the corner, one hand shoved in his pocket, nursing a beer. In his old tweed sport coat, he looked as out-of-place as a corner-tavern guy in a face-controlled Tverskoy nightclub.

“Ei, Papa,” he said, his throat tight. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

His father’s bear hug took Anton back to the days when ice time meant learning to block shots and pass the puck. After he’d quit hockey, his dad coached a few more seasons, though he seemed to have lost the heart for it. They’d lost a lot in those years.