Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (16 page)

Papa rubbed his chin, trying to hide his shaky bottom lip. “I’m proud of you, son. She would be too.”

“She is proud.” Even if Papa didn’t believe that, it still felt good to say it. Somewhere, Mama was celebrating. Baba Ira and Sveta wrapped him in hugs scented with old lady cologne and hairspray, clucking over how handsome he looked. Then Sveta smiled and glanced to her right. “And who is this lovely girl?”

Carrie stood beside him, fingering the white, blue and red ribbon that held her bronze medal. His dream had come true and his dream girl was part of it. “Carrie, I’d like to you meet my dad, Sergei; his friend Svetlana, and Irina, my grandmother. Everyone, this is Carrie.”

A familiar voice rose above the crowd. “Uncle Sergei!” Olga rushed over and threw her arms around Papa.

“Olechka,” he said, bewildered. “So good to see you. Congratulations on your silver medal.”

Anton frowned. What was she doing here? After everything that had happened, the fact he’d battled back to make the national team with a new partner in less than six months—no thanks to her—was just short of miraculous. Was Olga so deluded to think she had any right to celebrate with his family?

Then it hit him. Olga had no one else. Her mom was in prison. She didn’t even know her father’s name. Ever since she was a little girl, Olga had celebrated every victory with the people who’d embraced her as one of their own.

His family.

Olga clung to Ira and Sveta, her voice thick with tears. “I’ve missed you so much these past months. I hope we can have supper tonight, the way we always used to.”

His heart fell. Their long-standing tradition of a post-competition dinner. He’d not even thought of it, assuming Olga would make other plans. “Aren’t you going out with Valentin?” he asked.

Her eyes shifted to her partner, chatting with an expensively dressed, silver-haired couple. “His mother said they wish tonight to be only for Egorovs,” she whispered.

Though the snub was probably meant for Adrian, Olga’s feelings were hurt anyway. Irina’s and Sveta’s mouths dropped open, as if they could hardly believe some peoples’ rudeness. Carrie stepped away, looking very uncomfortable.

“Why of course we will go!” Sveta said, grabbing Olga’s hand. “It’s tradition and there’s so much to celebrate! We have not one, but two champions in our family!”

Irina’s gaze lingered on Carrie. The lines around her kind eyes crinkled when she smiled. “No, no, Sveta. There’s three.”

* * *

In the elevator, Carrie scrolled through her messages and kept her eyes on her phone.

“You should come,” he said. “You have every right to, and you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have dinner with Galina and Ivan. Or Adrian and Brigitte. For you, it’s a family celebration and Olga’s part of your family.”

“So are you. My grandmother made that plain. And I want you to come.”

But he couldn’t blame her for not wanting to dine with Olga. Would it make any difference if he told her he planned to end the relationship? He might even do it tonight. The competition was over, why wait? Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling Carrie wouldn’t be happy with the news. Doubt had settled in and put its feet up, right beside guilt over severing Olga’s ties to the closest thing she knew as family.

Carrie stifled a gasp and he glanced over. She stared down, wide-eyed and white-faced. deWylde again. Annoyed, he shook his head. “Now what does he have to say?”

Without a word, she gave him the phone.

You’ve gone Russkie! Mystery solved. Daddy must be SO proud. Luv 2B a fly on the wall in Parkerville. XOXO Cody.

Worthless little shit. He typed a quick reply—promising deWylde bodily harm should their paths ever cross—and hit Send. He gave Carrie back her phone, happily awaiting her glowing gratitude. Instead, she scowled. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Why not? Don’t tell me you care what he thinks.” He dropped his voice, conscious of the crowded elevator.

“It isn’t that,” she muttered.

The dull dread he’d sensed when she put distance between them at the press conference knotted inside. They’d just qualified for the national team. Other than the business with Olga, life looked pretty damn rosy. To him, anyway. Why not to Carrie?

They rode in silence to the tenth floor and she got out. He followed her. “What’s wrong?”

Her shoulders fell and she avoided eye contact, fixing her gaze on the row of closed elevators. “Cody’s message means the story has broken in the U.S.” She crossed her arms. “I wanted my dad to hear it from me first.”

“So he knows already. Why such problem?” But as he studied her tense face, he realized why she was upset. “You never told him about us, did you?”

“I tried. I was going to, but...” She shook her head, defeated. “No.”

He stared. How could she have kept something like this from her family? “But he’ll be proud, won’t he?”

“In some ways. But my father’s in politics. Having me compete for another country, having me become a citizen of that country, could be damaging.”

“Especially since it’s my country.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Say no more. I get the picture.”

“Look, it would be the same for you if you moved to America to skate with me.”

Doubtful. His dad was just a teacher, not some important political type. “Even so, I wouldn’t have kept it from my own family. Is this what I am? Some problem you have to hide?”

“No! It’s just that I can’t ignore what this could do to my father.”

But the truth was in her eyes. His temperature spiked as the presence of a stranger he’d never spoken to and probably never would, came between them. Just who was this man and where the hell had he been when Carrie was alone and hurting? Hiding behind lawyers, that’s where. What kind of father did that? The man had done nothing to merit Carrie’s love and loyalty. But Anton had, and once again, he’d been played for a fool.

Nice guys really did finish last.

“Your father,” he said bitterly. She’d never even shared his name. “The person you couldn’t tell you were training for a comeback? The one who turned your problems over to lawyers, and stayed away?” He gave a cold laugh. “That guy who cares so much?”

Carrie clenched her jaw. “There’s more to it. Way more.”

“And you’re not going to tell me, are you? But I don’t understand why not?”

His angry voice echoed in the small confines of the elevator landing. Carrie stood with her shoulders hunched, as though she was trying to make herself invisible. He raked his hand through his hair. Shouting at Carrie would only put more distance between them, and that was the last thing he wanted. He breathed deep, trying to cool his frustration. When his anger subsided, he touched her small shoulder and gentled his voice. “It’s no different than skating,
solnyshko.
You trust me there, you can trust me here. No need to be afraid.”

She wrenched away and glared through narrowed eyes. “I’m not afraid, and my private life is none of your damn business, so drop it.”

He blinked as if she’d just slammed a door in his face.

He’d thought it was enough to know her heart. Wrong. She cared only about the harm he might do to her nonexistent relationship with her father. Cold reality froze out warm bliss. The elevator arrived and the doors rolled open. Empty. A good thing too. He couldn’t fake a smile right now if life depended on it. He got in. “Go on, then. Do what you have to do. Control the damage.”

The doors rolled shut, blocking out her lovely, sad face. He struck the wall with his fist. What the hell had he been thinking? Stupid question. He hadn’t been thinking. Not with his brain, anyway. Carrie’s father wanted to be president of the United States, for God’s sake. There was no room in her life for him.

On twelve, he got off and trudged down the corridor to his room. Time to get ready for dinner with his family...and Olga. The relationship wasn’t perfect, but it was one he understood. Olga might be self-centered and temperamental, but at least she wasn’t ashamed of him.

Chapter Seventeen

At the boards, Carrie watched the teen pair from CSKA Moscow perform their closing night exhibition, then looked back over her shoulder for what seemed the hundredth time. Where was Anton?

Last night’s celebration had been hollow without him. Between thinking about the family celebration she was missing and worrying what she’d face back in Sweetspire, she wasn’t in a festive mood.

Not telling Dad about her plans to compete in Lake Placid with Anton had been a huge mistake. She’d never been the kind of person who could do as she pleased, consequences be damned. Pithy sayings about permission and apologies aside, asking Dad’s forgiveness didn’t sit well. At seventeen, she’d learned his forgiveness didn’t come easily, if at all.

She’d known that going in, of course, yet her desire to help Anton had outweighed everything else. Now, she’d done even more damage to her already-shaky relationship with her family, all to help a man she could never be with anyway. How could she have been so stupid?

The music droned on, an atrocious European pop song complete with yodeling, that set her teeth on edge. The pink-clad boy threw his tiny, pink partner to land a double axel. The poor kid looked like an alpine goat herder who’d gone swimming in Lake Pepto-Bismol. Was it tradition for every Russian pairs guy to wear at least one humiliating costume?

Again, she looked over her shoulder, then sighed and turned back to the ice.

She and Anton had arrived separately for rehearsal this afternoon. After stilted apologies, they’d gotten down to work. She’d gone to Vera for hair and makeup right afterward, and hadn’t seen him since. Their stylist never took this long. He must be with Olga, downstairs in the athlete’s lounge.

She jumped, startled by the light touch at her back. She turned, and her mouth went dry.

“Didn’t mean to run late,” Anton apologized. “Vera got distracted.”

Holy smokes, it was easy to see why.

Vera had transformed him into someone dark and even a little sinister, with mysterious eyes, and a deeper tone to his skin. The costumes Brigitte had finished at the last minute and brought from Moscow looked even better than Carrie expected. Especially Anton’s. Flame-shaped bands of shimmering white-yellow, gold and red wrapped every contour of his body-hugging black shirt and pants.

For a long moment, she stood still, as his gaze took in her fitted black dress, striped to match. Vera had also done her makeup in deep smoky hues. Her hair hung loose, held back with a simple gold headband, so it would move and flow as she skated.

Gazing intently, he lifted one lock and smoothed it between his fingertips.

She sucked in a breath, staring up as though hypnotized. She swallowed hard and her heart fluttered as he gently placed the stray tendril behind her shoulder, combing his fingers through her hair.

Then from somewhere far away, the audience applauded. The teens skated off, and Anton held out his hand. Without a word, she took it, and together they glided into the spotlight.

At center ice, she stood with her back against him, her head resting on his shoulder. Anton wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, his fingertips grazing her hip. His body heat penetrated her filmy clothing as if it wasn’t even there. She gazed into his eyes. The little smile he always gave just before they skated was gone, replaced with raw desire.

Arousal shimmered, deep in her core.

“Fever” began with a low, throbbing bass, and a spare, finger-snap rhythm, as they separated to skate in slow circles, his body moved with leonine grace. As Peggy Lee’s sensuous voice echoed through the dark arena, they began the first sequence; eight counts of back crossovers, which climaxed in a throw double axel on the first snare drum riff. Anton tossed her into the air, and she floated like a spark escaped from a candle, prompting a ripple of applause.

The stark, hypnotic music cast a spell that seemed to make the audience, the TV cameras, everything and everyone but Anton, vanish.
Nothing else matters, just us.
Her mind echoed his words as they skated, creating poetry through touch and movement. As he eased her down from a star lift to ride on his hips, she slid her palms over his torso, his muscles firm beneath her touch. Beneath the artifice of stage makeup, passion and longing simmered in his darkly lined eyes. Gliding across the ice in his arms, she caressed his face, a move not in their choreography, but couldn’t have felt more natural. He responded by pulling her closer, cradling her as they floated together. She straddled his hips and her head fell back, in surrender to the inferno that raged within.

This wasn’t just skating. It was months of suppressed emotion and desire, unleashed for all to see.

For the final spin, she faced him, back arched, one leg extended behind. Clinging to him, she wrapped her leg around his waist, molding her body to his so they appeared to be a single form. The shimmering red, yellow and gold bands on their clothes coiled into a continuous line. As they spun faster, her flowing hair and the fire-colored bands suggested flames burning at center ice. Four times, Peggy Lee purred the song’s closing stanza. “
What a lovely way to burn.”

At the last note, they stood cheek to cheek, her heart pounding in time with his. Applause shook the arena and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She turned her head just as he turned his.

Lightly, their lips brushed together. Then she and Anton stepped apart, and turned to face the audience. She wobbled on her skates, like a child taking her first lesson. Her heart, already pounding from the strenuous program, hitched into overdrive. Once again, Anton had almost kissed her, only this time they weren’t alone in a deserted practice rink. They were performing for thousands, with millions more watching on TV. Was it accidental? There was no way to know, no time to think. Surrounded by cheers and applause, they took their bows in the spotlight.

* * *

Adrian snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, one for Carrie, the other for Yulia Nosova, who’d taken ladies’ bronze. Yulia clinked her glass against Carrie’s and smiled. “To success in Lake Placid,” she said.

“To success in Lake Placid,” Carrie echoed, glad for another friend on the national team.

With a sour expression, Adrian eyed the agents, publicists and insiders surrounding Olga, Valentin and the other top skaters at the closing night reception. “Boring, stuffy people,” he sniffed. “Much more fun over here.”

Carrie was equally glad to turn away. Whatever had happened on the ice ended the moment she and Anton stepped off. He’d posed with her for a few photos, then gone to Olga. She was hanging all over Valentin, but Anton stayed close by, talking with Dmitri and Anya.

“Don’t let that get to you,” Brigitte said with a shrug. She laughed and fanned herself. “Fever? Ha! More like spontaneous combust. And you’ve worked hard for this, so tonight you should enjoy your success.”

She’d enjoy it a lot more if she didn’t care what was happening across the room. Anton went to Olga’s side. After a few words with Valentin, he put his arm around her and they left the ballroom.

Of course they’re leaving together. She’s his girlfriend, you idiot! It’s been going on all week, this is just the first time you’ve seen it.

But all the mental scolding in the world couldn’t erase the fact that this bitchy little Marilyn clone was the woman Anton would make love to tonight.

Then Adrian swooped between her and Brigitte, draping his arms over their shoulders. Dashing in a black velvet jacket, he tossed his angled blond bangs from his eyes. “Tonight, I am the perfect display for a ravishing ruby...” He nodded to Brigitte, “a beautiful sapphire,” He squeezed Carrie, “and a lovely emerald,” this was said to Yulia, whose green dress was a stunning complement to her coppery hair. “Come. We must leave this terrible party and start our own. One so fabulous, people will beg to join.”

The nondescript hotel bar seemed an unlikely spot for a fabulous, beg-to-join party. A lonely disco ball bounced lights across the miniature dance floor and empty tables. The only other people were a group of Asian businessmen hunched around a corner table, and a bored DJ spinning dance music. Sort of. Abba’s “Dancing Queen.” Adrian rolled his eyes.

Brigitte winked. “They knew you were coming.”

“Quiet, evil
fraulein
.” Adrian opened his jacket and swiveled his lean, dancers’ hips. He grabbed Carrie’s hand and started toward the dance floor. “Come with me, sad little Kerrichka.”

“I’m
not
sad.”

“Yes, you are. But your Anton will come to his senses eventually. Meanwhile...” He pulled her into his arms and dipped her backward. “We dance.”

As she and Adrian channeled Fred and Ginger, Brigitte and Yulia swayed seductively. One by one, the businessmen abandoned their shoptalk to watch. Then the youngest joined them. The rest of his colleagues soon followed.

Watching Japanese executives shake their moneymakers to Swedish pop-cheese alongside a flamboyant Russian man, a chic German ex-pat, and a gorgeous redhead who looked Irish but wasn’t, Carrie had to smile. It really was a wonderful world.

* * *

In the elevator and down the empty corridor, Olga kept talking. Anton answered when necessary, and glanced around. No one here. He’d brought her upstairs just in time.

“It was a sympathy score,” she said, loudly. “Anyone could see Valentin and I earned gold, not them. Who does Alina think she is, God’s gift to skating?” She stumbled, as her high heels snagged in the carpet.

“Easy now,” he said, as she clung to his arm.

“Tell me one thing. One thing!” She poked for emphasis, and her voice rose. They’d reached her room and he swiped her key. The little light flashed red, then green. Almost there. “Does Alina have
her
own TV show?”

“No, Olga, just you.” He swung the door open and guided her inside.

She stumbled again, and kicked off her shoes. “That’s right, not Alina. Just me, next pairs gold medalist and star of
Frozen Hearts
.” She struck her arm-spread Evita pose, then gave a throaty laugh. “And you? Every woman in Argentina will want you in her bed. They’ll all be jealous, because you’re mine.”

“Olga, you have to stop saying that.” Last night, she’d talked of nothing else but the show and chasing fame in Hollywood, even as he’d tried to assure his family he wanted no part of it. He took her hands and looked her in the eye. “I’m not going to Argentina and I’m not going to be on the show. After the season, I’m taking the job in Lake Shosha.”

She held his gaze a moment, then pulled away, turning toward a bed littered with clothes and skates waiting to be packed. “Don’t make cruel jokes. I’ve suffered enough today.”

“It isn’t a joke. I don’t want to be on TV or move to Hollywood. You want those things, and should have them. But that’s not what I want, and it never has been.”

“You don’t know what you want.” She picked up a shiny white skating dress and folded it. “In Italy, away from all of this, you will come around.”

“Come around to what? I want to coach. I want a family. I want a peaceful life. I’ve told you dozens of times. You just never listen.”

“You think small. You always have.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “But this isn’t about some job. You’re doing this to get back at me, because I chose Valentin over you. This is revenge, pure and simple.”

Revenge? He almost choked. “What the hell? After all this time, don’t you know me better than that? Do you think I lie awake nights, plotting against—”

“Don’t lie,” she shouted. “You want only to humiliate me—you and that American whore!”

With that, she hurled a white Risport Royal straight at his head.

The skate flew past, the toe pick scarily close to his left eye. It crashed against the wall and fell to the floor with a thud.

Dismayed, he couldn’t move. And every doubt vanished.

He couldn’t spend his life trying to love someone incapable of returning it. He didn’t want to deal with Olga’s rages. He didn’t want his children to grow up fearing them. He wasn’t swapping one woman for another. No matter what happened—or didn’t happen—with Carrie, he and Olga were through.

Anger, resentment and frustration swirled in a vile cocktail, but he didn’t drink it. The sight of Olga with disheveled hair and tear-streaked mascara brought pity. And certainty. He didn’t want to fight. He only wanted to be gone.

“Carrie isn’t a whore,” he said, as calmly as possible. “And she has nothing to do with this. It’s about you and me, and it should be no surprise. Only that I didn’t do it sooner.” He shook his head. “I gave you my best, more than a lot of men would have. But it’s over now. Goodbye, Olga.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” She grabbed something else from the pile—her team jacket—and flung it. Then she dropped onto the bed and buried her head in her hands. Costumes slid to the floor, landing in a filmy pile. “Just go,” she choked. “I hate you.”

She didn’t mean it. She never did. Tomorrow, she’d wake up knowing she said terrible things, even if she couldn’t remember them. She would cry, apologize, and beg forgiveness. He could forgive, but he could no longer forget.

He walked out, closing the door behind him.

Downstairs, skating people filled the small tables, and gossiped by the elevators. The crowded lobby was a good thing. Even drunk, Olga was too vain to embarrass herself publicly. She wouldn’t leave her room the rest of the night.

In a corner, Galina, Ivan and a couple of the top Saint Petersburg coaches laughed over drinks like old friends. It was nice to see his coach finally getting a little respect from the skating elite, but he didn’t join them. He fingered the key in his pocket. He needed to find Valentin.

A sudden burst of noise came from the lobby’s far end. The little bar had been dead all week, but seemed to be rocking tonight. Going in, he almost collided with Alina and Fedor, who stumbled out, arms around each other, looking very friendly.

A muggy cloud of perfume, cigarette smoke and body heat enveloped him. There had to be at least thirty people on the dance floor. He peered into the mob, and spotted Brigitte, bracelets flashing on her raised arm. Adrian was there too, and Yulia. Even Anya, Dmitri’s mousy little assistant, bounced wildly beside them. And then...a glimpse of honey-blond hair. The sensuous sway of a tight blue dress.