Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (19 page)

Dad snorted. “So it was him. The Russian.”

“His name is Anton. And yes, I did it for him. Because I love him.”

“Which is supposed to excuse your incredibly selfish behavior?” He shook his head. “But what could I expect from a spoiled child who simply does as she pleases and expects others to cope with consequences.”

Selfish? How many nights had she cooked dinner for Momma, cared for her, worried about her? Dad hadn’t wanted to hire a nurse because he feared gossip. But he hadn’t wanted to stay home, either. Nor did he need to, not when Carrie was there to do it.

“
My
selfish behavior? Where were you when she was half-crazy from all those pills, crying about her career and that no one loved her?”

“This has nothing to do with your mother.” His mouth scarcely moved and he parceled out each word as though speaking brought him physical pain.

“This has
everything
to do with her!” Her voice rose. “How can you call me selfish when I was here taking care of her while you were off with your political buddies and your mistress!”

“Don’t
ever
speak of my wife with such disrespect.” Dad’s face contorted with fury. His chest rose and fell with short, angry breaths. “And do you honestly believe Vicki gave a damn whether I was there or not?” He shook his head, resigned. “At the end, the only thing that mattered...was you.”

Upstairs, in her dark bedroom, she kept hearing echoes of Dad’s hollow, broken voice. The only thing that had mattered to Momma was Carrie. And she’d let her down. The skeletal shadow of the oak tree outside her window danced across the wall, pointing an accusing finger toward Momma’s old bedroom. She’d come to Sweetspire for healing and forgiveness, but instead, there was only terrible guilt.

There wasn’t a reason to stay any longer.

She switched on the bedside lamp and went to the closet, tripping over a pair of shoes. She flung them toward the bed, then dragged out her suitcase. Blindly, she grabbed random items and tossed them in.

Where could she go? Not Sarah’s house. Not a hotel. The only place she wanted to be was in Anton’s arms.

He might not even be in Moscow. There’d been no word from him all week, and for all she knew, he’d changed his mind about Olga and had gone to Lake Shosha to see her. She wouldn’t interrupt his life, but maybe the ghosts and guilt wouldn’t follow her to Moscow.

She called the airline to change her flight reservation from Saturday morning to as soon as possible. The only direct flight to Moscow had left two hours ago, but a red-eye to London left tonight at 9:45. She booked it, with a connection to Moscow tomorrow afternoon. She hung up, and grabbed more pieces of her life from the closet. An old photo album. She threw it in the suitcase.

Her phone signaled a message. She scrolled to her in-box and found the message from the airline confirming the change in her flight reservation. Below it was one from Anton. Her heart thudded in the seconds it took for the message to download.

It was just a few lines. He was back in Moscow. It was cold and snowing—big surprise. Misha was in town and they’d been out to see a really good band. Sunday, he planned to help Pyotr coach a hockey game. Galina and Ivan had something they wanted to talk about.

He’d sent it about an hour ago, around one in the morning his time. Was he still awake?

She hit Reply.

My plans changed too. Fly to London tonight, Moscow tomorrow. Meet me at Domo, 5:30?

She added her flight number and clicked Send. Then she closed her suitcase, called a cab and took one last look at her messages. Anton had replied two minutes ago.

I’ll be there. See you tomorrow, solnyshko.

Reading the words, she could almost hear his voice. Out the window, the sky was growing dark. For Anton, it was already tomorrow, yet they were connected. She pressed a kiss to her fingertip and traced around the edge of the screen, then typed, see you then.

She took the back stairs down to the kitchen, dragging her bags behind her. Harry Connick Jr. sang about the
most
wonderful time of the year, and Lolly, in flowing black evening pants and a draped gold top that matched her highlights, arranged caterer’s bruschetta on a tray. She gasped when she saw Carrie with her suitcases.

“Honey, you can’t leave. He didn’t mean it.”

“He meant every word. I thought that by coming home we might be able to forgive and move on...but it’s not going to happen.”

Lolly came around to the other side of the kitchen island and took her hand. “He loves you, Carrie. Don’t leave like this. Talk to him tomorrow, when you’ve both had time to cool down.”

She shook her head and pulled her hand away. If this trip proved anything, it was that she’d lost both parents that night. It had been easy to blame Lolly for destroying her family, when really the Parkers had done a fine job on their own. She took a deep breath. “I know I haven’t always been very nice. I said things...blamed you...” Her voice trembled when she spoke. “I hope you can forgive me, even if he can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Carrie...please. I’ll talk to him.”

Carrie shook her head. “It won’t change anything. We’re too far gone. Take care of him in Washington, Lolly. Merry Christmas.”

She went out through the garage, with Harry Connick, Jr. ringing in her ears.

Chapter Twenty

Her heart gave a little skip when she spotted him in the crowd at Domodedovo, tall and handsome in his black leather coat. Exhausted and aching after traveling six thousand miles, she rushed forward to close the distance, finally in the arms of the man Larry Ray Parnell had called a communist fairy-boy. She squeezed him that much harder.

He laughed. “Miss me?”

What could she say? That some
zhopa
had used their triumph to embarrass her father? That it was one more thing her family would never forgive? Or that against better sense, she’d fallen hard for him? None were good topics for baggage-claim conversation. She forced a casual smile. “Rough flight. Just glad to be on the ground.”

“Glad to have you on ground. Weather’s not good tonight for flying.” His gaze held concern, but he stepped back and smiled. “Did you enjoy your holiday?”

Pushing aside sadness, she nodded. “It was good. Yours?”

“Good,” he said briskly. “Come, I’m parked close by.”

The moment she stepped outside the airport, bitter wind sliced through her coat and clothes. Shivering, she hugged herself, peering into the thick, wet snowflakes that quickly caked her hair and lashes.

Anton took her bag. “I’ve got this,” he said, leading her to his car parked at the curb. “Get in, where it’s warm.”

Surrounded by his pounding music and the familiar scents of black tea and Giorgio Armani, she burrowed down into the seat, protected from the cold, blowing snow. He got in and slammed the door, then turned the music down slightly. “That’s the band I saw with Misha. They’re playing tonight in Arbat. Would you like to go?”

She imagined them in a crowded, noisy rock club, shouting conversation over the music. It sounded wonderful, like a real date. The only thing better would be to end this cold, snowy night in his bed, but that was a very bad idea. She shook her head. “I didn’t sleep on the plane and I’m pretty tired. You know how it is.”

He knew, no stranger to long flights or jet lag. Leaning forward slightly, he gazed over for a long moment, as though he was about to say something, then nodded. “Next time. Right now, I’ll get you home.”

Snow swirled down in the headlights, as he wound through the clogged lanes of airport traffic, and merged onto Kashirskoe Highway. Weather like this would bring Atlanta to a standstill, but here, everyone cruised along only a little slower than they did any other time. Anton drove confidently, tapping a rhythm against the steering wheel and singing along, badly, with his new favorite band. Turning away so he couldn’t see her wet eyes, she stared out at the grayscale suburbs, dreary Soviet apartment blocks, and blowing snow.

* * *

Pounding party music assaulted them the moment the elevator opened on Carrie’s floor. Anton wheeled her bag down the hall, past the British girls’ overflowing apartment. Guests clutching plastic cups congregated outside the door and as they passed, Carrie glanced in. The three girls, all wearing Santa hats, danced on a table to the Black Eyed Peas. A red-haired kid in a South Park T-shirt stumbled out, sloshing beer on the floor. “‘ey gorgeous! Where’re you going? Come on over! It’s a paaaarty!”

At her door, Carrie dug out her keys. “Sorry, not tonight.”

He staggered forward, dribbling beer on her feet. “Come on, baby. You’re missing all the fun!”

Anton stepped in and glowered at the ginger. “She said she’s not interested.”

“Hey, Boris, nobody’s talking to you.” The kid stuck out his chest, full of enough drunken swagger to challenge a guy who could pound him without breaking a sweat.

“Charlie, you gormless twit. Quit bothering them.” A girl hurried over and grabbed his skinny, freckled arm.

“I’ll be back when he’s gone,” the kid shouted, as he was dragged back to the party.

“Can’t wait,” Carrie muttered, and pushed the opened the door. An overwhelming stench made her clap her hand to her mouth.

“Oh my God, what is that?” Anton said.

Quickly, she turned on the lights. Nothing looked out of place. No large animals lay dead on the living room floor, but the entire place reeked.

“It’s this.” Anton peered down into the kitchen sink. “It’s backed up or something.”

She grabbed the ancient rubber plunger from the cabinet beneath the sink and pumped it several times over the clogged drain. Nothing.

“Let me try.” Anton succeeded in churning up the water and releasing small, unidentifiable black things from the drain. But the clog didn’t budge and the rotting, sulfur smell was even worse. “Damn, that’s disgusting!”

“Open the windows,” she said, scrolling on her phone through listings for plumbers. “But move my plant so it doesn’t freeze.” She dialed the first number, plugging her ear to block out the Peas. A recording invited her to leave her name and number. She did so, explaining the problem in clumsy Russian, and tried the next listing. Four messages later, she clicked off and rubbed her eyes. A headache was coming on.

Anton brought the sun-starved spider plant to the kitchen, glaring as a dull thud rattled the apartment’s thin walls, followed by screeches of beery laughter. “You’re coming home with me. I’m not leaving you in cold, stinking place with drunks next door.”

“I’m so tired, I’ll sleep through it. A few extra blankets and I’ll be fine.”

“Carrie, don’t argue. You’ve been traveling twenty-four hours. You’re dead tired and look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He paused, and brushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. “Ei, you know what I mean. This can wait until tomorrow,
solnze
. Come back with me.”

“I can take care—”

“I know.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “But it doesn’t mean you always have to.”

He was right, of course. She couldn’t stay here. Maybe she could check into a hotel. Or call Adrian and Brigitte. Anything but spend the night with him.

“Just to eat and sleep,” he said, quietly. “Nothing more, I promise.”

She bit her lip. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. More like she didn’t trust herself. But fatigue, her headache and the really nice feeling of his arm around her shoulders weakened her resolve. She was exhausted and felt like crap. Looked like it too, apparently. Anton wanted to take care of her. Just for tonight, she would let him.

* * *

He lived on the fourth floor of an early twentieth-century building not far from Gorky Park. He unlocked Apartment 44 and guided her inside, rolling her suitcase behind him. She hung her coat beside his and left her shoes on a rubber mat, next to his black figure skates and a pair of hockey skates with red stripes. His skate bag and hockey sticks cluttered the hallway.

The main room had high ceilings and tall windows, but russet walls and a wood floor scattered with worn rugs made it warm and welcoming. A leather couch, large TV and stereo took up most of the space. A forgotten mug, remotes, magazines and a paperback were scattered on the worn wooden coffee table. In the corner was a small, cluttered desk with a laptop and printer.

The place wasn’t tidy, but it felt like a home.

Opposite the living room was the kitchen, done in deep green, plum and gold. Down the hall was a bathroom, painted royal blue. No Soviet grayscapes here. Maybe he liked lots of color because he’d grown up without it.

He grabbed an open cereal box off the kitchen counter and shoved it in a cupboard. An abandoned bowl and spoon went into the sink. “Are you hungry? I have homemade chicken soup and bread if you want that.”

She stared. “You make soup?”

“No, Nika brought it.” He opened the freezer and took out a square, plastic container.

“Nika makes soup?” Somehow, this was even more surprising.

He laughed. “God, no. Irina makes it and keeps me supplied. It’s her remedy for unmarried grandsons who eat only cold cereal or takeaway. Even if I can’t cook, I can still boil things.”

“That sounds good. Can I help?”

“I’ve got it. Make yourself comfortable. Bedroom’s at the end of the hall.” She hesitated. “Go on, take it, I’ll sleep out here.”

Anton’s bedroom had red walls, white sconces and a king-size bed covered with a black-and-white striped duvet. Red, black and white pillows were tossed haphazardly at the head. She pushed down on the mattress, firm, with just enough bounce, and ran her hand across the duvet.

She could sense his presence in the room, simply from being surrounded by his possessions, the faint smells of citrus and bergamot. She picked up a flannel-covered pillow and buried her face in warm, Anton-scented softness. He slept in this room, made love to Olga in this bed. How strange that tonight, she would be sleeping here.

Returning to the kitchen, she found him at the stove, stirring a pot, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. When he reached to plug in an electric teapot, she admired how his faded jeans hugged his trim hips and rear. “Thanks for taking care of me tonight. It’s been a long time since anyone’s done that.”

He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Then it’s time someone did.”

“You’re sure I can’t do anything?”

“I’ve got it,” he said, turning back to the stove.

She wandered into the living room. “This is a great apartment, I love all the color. I didn’t realize it was actually yours, not a place you rented.”

“I bought it last year.”

How had he afforded it? In Moscow, even a simple apartment was expensive and this was far from a bare-bones efficiency unit. What he earned from summer shows and camps couldn’t have been enough to pay more than half the cost. From what she knew of his family, it wasn’t likely they’d been able to help, either.

“It was Galina’s,” he continued. “Her father was important man back in Soviet years, and they lived here. But she prefers living outside city and didn’t want it anymore. She sold it to me for not very much, so Olga and I could have nice place after we married.”

The mention of Olga cast a pall over the room, and Carrie’s mood. She picked up one of the framed photos arranged on the shelf above his desk. Anton and three other guys, wearing

suits, glasses raised. Another was of the national team, at the closing night party of last year’s Worlds in Halifax. Anton and Olga stood together beside Valentin and his former partner. By the time it was taken, Carrie had been back in Sweetspire, hiding from reporters.

What a difference a year made.

The last was a family photo. Anton’s mother had the same dark eyes as her son and daughter, all the more noticeable because of her emaciated face, drawn-on eyebrows and bright head scarf. Anton stood to her right, his gawky teenage face hinting at the handsome man he would become. On her left, Nika snuggled against her side, still a little girl with long dark hair, wide eyes and an overbite. Anton had been fifteen when his mother died. Nika had been what? Ten? Eleven? The age when a girl needed her mom most. Behind them, stoic and protective was Sergei, wearing a dark suit that seemed too small for his broad shoulders, and a strained smile on his careworn face. Carrie looked up. Anton was watching her from the kitchen. She set the picture down. “You and your sister look like your mom,” she said.

He smiled fondly. “My poor dad...surrounded always by tall, skinny people. But he never complained.”

“He’s a nice man,” Carrie said.

“He is. He liked you.”

“He hardly met me.”

“No, but you impressed Irina and Sveta. Nika too. He’s smart and listens to them.” Anton stirred the pot. “How did things go with your family? Was your dad angry? What I said before, so many people compete for other countries, I never thought it would be problem.”

“He wasn’t happy.” She sighed and stuck her hands in the pockets of her long sweater. Who was she kidding? The problems between her and Dad weren’t about skating for Russia or Larry Ray Parnell. Not by a long shot. And pretending otherwise wasn’t fair to Anton. “But there’s a lot more to it. Things that go back a long time.”

“Tip of iceberg?”

She nodded. If there was an American expression a Russian would understand, it would be that one. In the silence, he seemed to be waiting for her to continue. She turned away and stared out at the city lights, still bright in the blowing snow, and traced patterns on the foggy window.

A few moments later, he called. “Soup’s ready.”

She took a seat at the counter. He’d gone to a little effort to make it nice, with place mats and napkins, simple white dishes trimmed with a thin green stripe. There was a plate of Borodinsky bread, a butter dish and a tub of what she guessed was sour cream. Russians seemed to put it on everything. He unsnapped the lid, frowned at the contents and tossed the tub in the trash. “Guess we do without.”

The soup was thick with shredded chicken, rice and vegetables. Chopped parsley floated on top. It was delicious, but she winced when she swallowed.

He watched with concern. “Sore throat?”

She drank some tea to help wash it down. “Nothing that will keep me off the ice next week.”

“It’s good you didn’t stay in cold apartment tonight. If smell isn’t gone tomorrow, you can stay here as long as you like.”

“That’s very kind, but it’s best I don’t. I’d hate to make things difficult for you with Olga, after I go back.”

Anton looked her in the eye. “That’s over, Carrie. Olga and I want different lives after skating. Her plan is to be on TV. She needs a lot of money and attention to be happy. I’m not saying she’s wrong to want that, though it’s not the life I want. But she isn’t good at compromise and gets...very angry. I’d had enough.”

Brigitte had mentioned something about Olga’s temper. “What kind of life do you want?”

He replied with a decisive nod. “The kind I grew up with.”

“Oh?” From what she knew, his childhood had little to recommend it.

His gaze dropped to his soup bowl. “Well okay, maybe not broken-down flat or cancer, but the rest. My parents loved each other and they loved Nika and me. That’s what I want. I may never be rich, but I won’t be poor. I have higher education and chance to build career I’ll be good at. It might not be glamorous or make me famous, but that’s okay. A happy life and family means more.”

It was easy to picture him as a loving husband and father. What he’d described was