Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (20 page)

what she might have wanted, had life gone a different direction. “I knew someone like Olga,” she said. “She thought she’d be happy if she was famous, but she wasn’t. She thought she’d be happy if she was rich, but she wasn’t. The only thing that made her happy let her down.” Her eyes burned and her throat tightened. “Does your family think you made the right decision?”

He nodded and absently buttered a slice of bread. “What about you?”

“I don’t know Olga, or you, well enough to say for sure.”

“No, I mean what do you want after skating?”

“The usual,” she answered quickly. “Fun, travel. An exciting career.”

“Broadcasting, right?”

“It’s what I studied in college, but after the Cody scandal, I doubt if any respectable network would hire me.” She studied her hands, avoiding his eyes.

“Maybe you could coach. You’re patient, hardworking. I think you’d be a good one.”

Funny, Sarah had said the same thing. A soft-focus image of her and Anton, on the ice together coaching, filled her thoughts. But she dismissed it with a shrug. “Can’t see myself doing that, but I expect life will sort itself out eventually.”

He gave a brisk nod. “Kids? Marriage?”

“Not sure about that either. You saw a good example. Not everyone was that lucky.”

“Maybe you learned from others’ mistakes?”

She laughed ruefully. “Oh yeah. I learned all right.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Alone at center ice, she waits for the music to begin.
Anton should be here, but he isn’t. Where is he? Then it all comes back. Olga drove drunk and killed him. Galina’s gone too. Too much sadness. Too many pills. Ivan found new skaters. He doesn’t need Carrie anymore.

The rink is enormous and black ice stretches to the horizon. The audience is in shadow. No faces, only the scrutiny of a million blank eyes. No partner, either. She’ll have to make the best of it.

The music begins, a strange, grating piece. No rhythm, no melody, it’s the sound of heartbreak. Her muscle memory is gone and her skates are like iron, shackled to her feet. When she tries to glide, the ice is slushy. Not ice, water. Bottomless dark water. The weight of her skates drags her under. She screams, but the blank eyes only stare. Why should they care? They’ve come to watch her die.

Carrie’s eyes flew open. Heart racing, she gasped for air, desperate not to drown. But there is no water. It was only the dream she’d had before. The one that came when things were especially bad. The presence of Anton and the coaches was only because she spent every day with them. Nothing more. She let out a few deep breaths. The nightmare images began to fade, but the overwhelming sadness of real life remained. Momma dead. Dad, done with her. Anton? Impossible. Her throat tightened and her shoulders shook as tears trickled onto the pillow.

In the dark room, the floor creaked. She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Carrie?” Anton’s voice came from the left of the bed.

She flipped over. He was silhouetted against the moonlit window. “Anton? What are you doing?”

“I came for blanket. Sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t. It’s all right.” Her voice sounded shaky.

“Ei.” He took a seat on the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?”

No,
she wanted to scream,
I’m not okay
. But she took a deep breath and steeled herself. “Yeah, I’m fine. I had a bad dream, that’s all.”

In the dark, he found her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “What about?” he asked softly.

“I was skating and the ice turned into an ocean. I started to go under and called for help, but no one came.”

“Well, you’re not sinking in ocean. You’re safe on solid ground. With me. And if you called I’d come, like I did in Hobo-Peebo.”

It was hard to see in the dark, but she heard the warmth in his voice. Anton still believed the best of her. “I know you would.”

His presence was comforting and she didn’t want him to leave. Their hands rested on the folded blanket in his lap and she placed her other hand atop his. Anton’s skin was cold.

Like Momma’s
.

No, not like Momma’s. He’d been sleeping in the living room, with its high ceiling and big windows. He’d come to get another blanket. “You were cold out there.”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

Again, she thought of the dream. “I can’t help it. You mean a lot to me.”

He squeezed her hand. “You mean a lot to me too. Go on back to sleep now. Unless?” There was a long pause. “You’d like me to stay?”

She caught her breath. The undercurrent in his voice was impossible to ignore. Inviting him to share the bed was dangerous, even if he was in a T-shirt and running pants and she wore decidedly unsexy plaid flannel PJs. But loneliness and loss, never far away, felt overwhelming tonight. Whatever might happen, she wanted him near.

“Just to sleep?”

In his dropped gaze, there was a guilty little grin. Clearly, he’d hoped for more. But he still held her hand. “Sure,” he said, softly. “If all you want is for me to lie beside, I can do that.”

She did want that, very much, so she scooted to the right, to make room. He grabbed a pillow from the floor, then lay down atop the duvet she was tucked beneath. He tossed the spare blanket over himself and settled in.

She closed her eyes again, but instead of peaceful rest, the remnants of her dream twisted like specters. Beside her, Anton shifted, trying to get comfortable.

She’d dreamed he was dead. Was it premonition that once she returned to America, he would reunite with Olga to live unhappily ever after? Olga’s showbiz dreams might not come true. She’d drown her sadness with vodka, pills, and then one night, decide to die...and take Anton with her.

You ‘n me, baby girl...goin’ outta this world together.

No, Momma! Please!

Imagining him gone, haunted by dark memories, she shuddered, and pressed her cheek to the warm curve of his shoulder.

Goose cross your grave, baby girl?

“Shh, it’s okay.” Anton put his arm around her and drew her close. “I have scary dream about skating too, sometimes.”

“You do?” Here she was safe from the ghosts. Her body began to relax, soothed by his gentle strokes. She settled against him and curved her arm across his waist.

He nodded. “I’m at some big competition and I forgot my costume. So I have to skate without clothes.”

Even when she was sad and scared, he could still make her smile. “I’ll bet your flying camel is something to see.”

“People are very impressed. I always come in first place.”

The dark memories began to fade. It was years ago, far away. Her breath matched the steady cadence of his. Snow drifted past the window, though not as heavy as before. “Hard to believe it’s been snowing since I got back.”

“Mmm. Started in afternoon. It’s been dark almost as long. Tonight is winter solstice, the longest night.”

“I don’t know how you stand living here. How anyone stands it. It’s cold, it’s dark. No one ever says excuse me.”

“I say it,” he insisted. “And Russia’s not just cold and dark. It’s beautiful too. Besides, it’s home.”

“I know. But admit it, the weather sucks.”

“Sometimes it does. But home isn’t just where you are,
lyubimaya
, it’s who you’re with.”

“‘Loo-bee-my-ah?’ What does that mean?’”

“I’m not telling.”

“Come on, you’re no fun. Tell me what it means.”

A low chuckle rumbled beneath her ear. “Means you need to learn more Russian.”

Her lips curved into a smile at his alluring accent and sexy rolled
R
s. The gentle caress continued, and she echoed it, lightly circling her fingertips over his soft cotton T-shirt. Beneath her ear, his heart beat faster. Lifting her head, she gazed at him. Slowly, he brushed his finger across her cheek. Tingling sensation rose in its wake.

She closed her eyes, as he traced his finger over her skin like a skate on smooth ice. He spread his hand to cup her face and comb through her sleep-mussed hair. His thumb toyed with her little hoop earring, and deep within her, a tiny spark ignited. She breathed in, sharply.

“Anton,” she whispered.

“Do you want me to stop?”

This could only lead to one thing. There would be consequences. Things would change. How could they not? But it was a worry for tomorrow. Tonight, only one thing mattered. “No. Don’t stop.”

Awareness faded to the hypnotic sensation of his hand in her hair, then at the nape of her neck, as his strong fingers kneaded away the tense knots. Warm pulses radiated from the point of contact. Light kisses fell like snowflakes across her forehead, and he moved closer, pushing aside blankets.

His scent and his warmth filled her consciousness, as she submitted to his leisurely exploration of her still-clothed body. His hands followed her flannel-covered contours, gently teasing her nipples through the fabric. He slipped his hand inside her buttoned top to stroke her skin. Carrie writhed beneath his hand, as he lowered his lips to hers in a deep, slow kiss that was heat and sweetness, tenderness and strength, holding her heart captive.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “Even more now than that first night. Just lay back,
lyubimaya
, and let me make you feel good.”

Now his adventurous hands worked the buttons of her top, spreading both sides open, and sliding her arms free. Her bottoms were next and he shucked them away, leaving her clad only in silken panties. The coolness of the room kissed her feverish skin. Anton propped himself on one elbow, and gazed down, admiring.

Then he gently captured her wrists and brought them together above her head.

She sank into the pillows, lost to everything beyond his mesmerizing strokes, and the thrill of his lips on her skin. The length of her neck. Her collarbone. Then her breasts. His playful tongue twisted around her nipples, coaxing them into hard buds. She gasped softly as the first spark shimmered upward from the base of her spine.

“Oh...”

His strong hand gripped her wrists, and the other spanned her belly, holding her down, while he played her like a fine instrument. His tongue flicked her nipples. She gasped. Demanding lips suckled. She moaned. The hand on her waist moved lower to the gentle rise of her hips, and his mouth followed. His tongue probed her navel, and she bucked and writhed, straining against his hold, as waves of sensation raced from her center, outward. She rode each one, until the aftershocks left her trembling and slick.

He freed her then, but wasn’t finished. He kissed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, tugged at her panties. “Now we get rid of these.”

Could she take any more?

Oh God, yes.

His tongue explored her most vulnerable places. Not hard, not rough. Just enough to set her nerves jangling all over again, her inner muscles tightening, and eager. She cried out at the sweet torment, which sent delicious new waves of pleasure dancing along her nerves and shimmering behind her closed eyes. Almost mad with desire, she tugged at his clothes. He lifted his head and she pulled his T-shirt off with so much determination, he laughed. “Do you want me,
solnyshko
?”

“Uh-huh.”

He gave a wicked grin. “Badly?”

“So badly.”

Fingernails digging into his powerful shoulders, she coaxed him upward. Arms around his neck, legs around his waist, she sat in his lap. At some point—who knew when—he’d taken off his pants and she moved against his rigid cock, slick and wet. She buried her hands in the thick silkiness of his hair, and when she kissed him, tasted her own desire in his mouth. Her hands explored the brawn of his shoulders and arms. His hair-roughened chest. A man’s chest, so different from Cody’s. She buried her face against his shoulder and neck, inhaling him, desperate to be closer.

He cupped her buttocks with one hand and rose, lifting her as effortlessly as he did on the ice. The nightstand drawer opened, then shut. He spilled her gently onto the mattress, and gave her the foil packet, to sheath him.

She rolled the condom down over his hard shaft, then captured his lips in another long, deep kiss that probed his mouth with her tongue. She opened her legs and guided him inside. Gazing up into Anton’s beautiful gypsy eyes, she moved with him in perfect tandem as friction built, banishing ghosts, darkness and fear.

Release came in an explosion of color, heat and light.

* * *

She awoke to an empty bed and sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. The nightstand clock read 13:45. A cup of tea sat beside it. Did he bring tea to all the women he slept with? Knowing Anton, it was entirely possible.

She sat up. His discarded shirt lay on the floor. She had practically ripped it off him. What would he think of her this morning? More to the point, what would he think about
them?

Maybe nothing. To him, this could very well be just an enjoyable notch on the bedpost. No worries. Just fun. He didn’t need to know how much it had meant to her.

She padded into the living room. Anton was polishing his skates while he watched a basketball game on TV. Seeing her, he smiled. “Good morning.”

A bit past that, but she returned his smile and went to the window. Down on the street, plows and shovels had left piles of snow at the curbs. People hurried along, shoulders hunched against the wind, but at least the sun was shining.

“Your phone’s been ringing,” he said. “Might be plumber.”

“I should call him back.”

“No hurry.”

Light streamed in, creating a pool of warmth on the floor. The sound of buffing continued. A pleasant, ordinary sound that reminded her she wasn’t alone. Turning back, she leaned against the deep sill and took a sip of cold tea. “I wish my apartment had big windows like these. I get no sun at all.”

“You should move. There are lots of buildings like this close by. Then you could get to the rink by feet.”

On foot
, she was about to correct him, but didn’t. In a few months, she wouldn’t be living in Moscow anymore. Or would she? Lightness rose inside, as suddenly the idea of staying—the idea of
them
—didn’t seem so strange.

He set the buffed skate aside, and went to work on its mate. “There’s restaurant close by you might like too. They say it’s authentic American, but I’m not so sure. Maybe you can tell me if they get it right.”

They walked three blocks to the Starlight Diner. The place was more faux-1950s than authentic American, with red vinyl booths, kitschy decorations and a jukebox playing Brenda Lee’s “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” They downed cheeseburgers and milk shakes as a plastic model of Sputnik orbited above their heads. Outside, a man and boy passed, carrying a Christmas tree.

It was December 22, almost Christmas, though Russians didn’t celebrate it until the sixth of January. Right now, everyone was thinking about New Year’s Eve. But New Year’s Eve wasn’t supposed to come before Christmas. It felt backward, like eating lobster in the morning and oatmeal at night. Even if there was no one to celebrate “Western Christmas” with, she couldn’t simply ignore it. She set down her cheeseburger and nodded toward the pair with the tree. “I want to get one.”

Back at her flat, they found the plumber at work, so they drove to the supermarket, and bought food for the week. She lingered in the meat department, eyeing the steaks. Maybe she could invite him for dinner some night. From there, they went to a tree lot on Taganskaya Ulitsa, then to a discount store on the city outskirts for a stand, lights and ornaments. She chose two boxes of plain red, blue and gold balls.