Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (5 page)

“Marxist revolutionary, executed by Bolivians. Champion of working class, yet like everyone else...captive to wonder of Evita.” His deep voice carried a subtle drip of irony.

“An uplifting story,” she said, stifling a smile.

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Our favorite kind.”

Pavel provided pages diagramming the position and sequence of the free skate elements. The four-and-a-half-minute program included fourteen moves and would showcase their musicality, dramatic interpretation and skating prowess.

The first jump sequence included a triple Salchow. Carrie stifled a groan.

Chapter Five

Saturday morning she slept in, then lingered over coffee, gazing out at the blue sky, the octagon tower building and the sprawling city beyond it.

A week of hard training had left her muscles strained and sore, but yesterday’s massage, followed by a good night’s sleep, had done wonders. She hadn’t felt this good since before Cody’s midnight adventure at the Halifax Marriott. Life was best when skating was involved. They’d ended practice early yesterday and Anton left to go visit Olga—according to Galina, anyway. He hardly spoke to her all week, and what little he did say related strictly to skating. It was clear their interactions would be limited to the ice.

Probably just as well. Some pairs were as close as peas in a pod, but not so for her and Anton. The partnership with Cody had worked best before they progressed to casual friends, then to friends with occasional benefits. No chance of that happening this time; though the thought of Anton and Olga strolling hand in hand through some quaint little town, lunching at a sidewalk café, brought a sour little twinge.

Not that Anton’s personal life was any of her business.

There was plenty else to keep her busy. All week, she’d seen nothing of the city beyond the rink, her apartment and the congested streets in between. But for her first free day, she would visit Red Square.

According to various websites, the Metro was the best way to get around Moscow. But one site offered a warning.
“The signs inside Metro stations are only in Russian, so if you can’t read the language, be sure to take along a tour guide or Russian-speaking friend.”

Hmm. No tour guide or Russian-speaking friends—just a coach and a decidedly unfriendly skating partner. But she had a guidebook, plus GPS and translation apps. With a few useful phrases added to her repertoire of
please
,
thank you
,
yes
and
no
, she was ready to take on the world. Or this part of it, at least.

On the way to the Taganskaya subway stop, she passed McDonald’s and the smell of French fries beckoned. She wasn’t seriously thinking of eating here, but...Russian Big Macs were supposed to be topped with caviar. Disgusting, yes, but what kind of tourist would she be if she didn’t try one?

The tattooed guy behind the counter glared as she approached. “Big Mac,
pozhalujsta
,” she said, proud to use one of her Russian words.

“
Hotite k etomu kartofel fri
?”

Not a clue what he’d just said, but this being McDonald’s, she took a guess. She’d allow herself one fry. Maybe two. “
Da, pozhalujsta
.”

If her gracious effort to speak Russian impressed him, he didn’t show it. He merely scowled and said what she owed.

The Big Mac looked like any other. No caviar under the sesame seed bun, just pale yellow special sauce with little pieces of chopped...stuff in it. She licked a bit off her fingers, feeling the tang in the back of her mouth. Damn, she was hungry.

She tore off one bite—a big one, and chewed slowly, savoring the familiar tastes of grilled beef, American cheese and white bread. The Mickey D’s pickles she’d loved as a kid crunched between her teeth. She followed her bite of Big Mac with the two saltiest fries in the bag and let hot, greasy goodness spread across her tongue.

But she froze midbite as a handsome, dark-haired man walked past outside. It wasn’t Anton, but how would it look if he saw her in here, stuffing her face? Very bad, that was how. She gave the rest of the food to a shabby boy huddled in a corner booth and quickly left. Her curiosity was satisfied, even if her hunger wasn’t.

Going into the Taganskaya station, a large man slammed into her from behind. Without so much as an “excuse me” he pushed past, shoving her into a woman carrying a large shopping bag. Carrie smiled apologetically. The woman glared and pulled her bag against her body.

Overhead were signs with arrows, indicating the different trains, but which went to Red Square? As she was typing one of the excruciatingly long Russian names into her GPS, someone bumped her arm. She started over, but this time the GPS didn’t recognize the word. This might not be so easy after all. She approached the ticket counter and smiled at the hatchet-faced woman behind the glass. “Hello?
Privyet
?
Pozhalujsta
? How do I get to Red Square?”

“
Nyet
,” the woman grumbled.
No.

Nyet what? Nyet, you can’t get there from here or nyet, I have no idea what you’re saying? “
Vi govorite po-Angliyski
?” she asked.
Do you speak English?

“
Nyet
!”

Jeez, Louise. Somebody was sure having a bad day. Hadn’t anyone here ever heard of service with a smile? She glanced over her shoulder at a line of equally surly people. Forget it. She’d never liked public transportation anyway. She pushed her way back through the line, making a point to say “excuse me” to every person she passed. Back in the bright sun, free from the cavern of confusion and extreme rudeness, she took a deep breath.

What was with Russians, anyway? She’d met skaters from all over the world, and the Russians had always struck her as a cold, standoffish bunch. Anton’s treatment this week had done nothing to change her mind. She’d always assumed the Russian skaters looked down on the American skaters, but the McDonald’s guy and the Metro woman had no idea who or what she was. Maybe this was just their way. And if that was the case, maybe Anton didn’t dislike her after all.

Best not to think about that.

Red Square was too far for a walk, but the octagon tower building wasn’t, so she followed Radishchevskaya Ulitsa as it sloped down toward the river. Narrow lanes branched off from the busy street. Curious, she took one and a few blocks in, discovered a charming neighborhood of quaint buildings decorated with colorful shutters and blooming window boxes.

At the end of one block was a beautiful white church, topped with golden onion domes and an ornate bell tower. It wasn’t large, but it had the majesty of a grand cathedral, scaled to fit the neighborhood. She walked around the outside, gazing at the domes; one on each corner, and three large ones clustered in the middle. On the opposite side, a door stood open. She hesitated a moment, then stepped inside.

Growing up, she’d gone to church with Momma every Sunday, but this place bore no resemblance at all to the pink-and-taupe Sweetspire Community Chapel. This church was dark and a little spooky, permeated with the ancient, pungent aroma of frankincense. The only light came from dozens of candles flickering on the altar. There were no pews, only a stone floor worn smooth with age.

But most amazing were the walls, covered with spectacular mosaics. Jesus, angels, and an array of gruesomely martyred saints all stared down with slanted, Byzantine eyes that for a fleeting moment reminded her of Anton’s. How long had it taken the artist to assemble thousands of tile shards in myriad colors and patterns into this elaborate jigsaw puzzle? This hidden masterpiece belonged in a museum, but here it was in a neighborhood church.

Hoping for the best in the low light, she took out her camera. The wall was too big to capture in a single shot, so she photographed sections, working her way up. But as she focused on the vaulted ceiling, the dark maw loomed overhead, in the bowl of the large center dome.

How high was it? Fifty feet? Sixty?

She shuddered from the familiar fear of a recurring dream. She was sinking in melting ice, her heavy skates pulling her under, while a huge presence loomed above, ready to swoop down and swallow her. She lowered her camera, and though her mind screamed a warning to leave before something terrible happened, her feet remained rooted to the floor.

“
Chto vy delaete
?” A sharp voice echoed out of the darkness.

An old woman with a fringed shawl over her head hurried forward, scolding and shaking her finger. “
Pozhalujsta, uberite cameru i uhodite
!” She made shooing motions toward the door. Carrie stashed her camera in her backpack and hurried out.

At the foot of the hill, where the Moscow River converged with a smaller one that drifted off to the east, sat the octagon tower building. She could now see that the tower had six sides, not eight, and rose into the sky like a giant finger. At the top was a wreath with a star in the middle. Small towers, each peaked with a spiked gothic spire, crowned the building’s corners. Along the roofline were large statues of people—workers, farmers, soldiers.

According to her guidebook, the building was built in the 1940s under Joseph Stalin, and was one of seven similar buildings around the city. This one had been an exclusive residence for his political allies. His enemies too, apparently, as a recent renovation had uncovered hidden passageways where spies once lurked, and the secret police spirited away disloyal comrades.

She shuddered again.

But loyalty to a dead regime had been supplanted by something new—conspicuous wealth. The fashionable residents going in and out with expensive baby carriages and designer dogs would fit right in at one of Dad’s ten-grand-a-plate fundraisers. She thought about stepping inside for a look around, but she’d been yelled at enough for one day. Instead, she took pictures of the worker statues and tried to capture the building’s gothic grandeur.

Behind the building, a walkway led down to the river. From the embankment, people watched lumbering barges and cheerful sightseeing boats full of tourists. Somewhere there was music, played on violins and balalaikas. A small cruiser, festooned with flowers and streamers, chugged into view. From the decks, party guests mingled and waved.

“
Lodka
!
Lodka
!” The little boy beside Carrie was about to leap from his mother’s arms.

Yes, they probably were drinking vodka, but wasn’t he a little young to get so excited? The boy’s parents laughed and ruffled his hair. Carrie listened again to what the little guy was shouting. Not vodka.
Lodka
.

Boat?
She turned to the mother, a young dark-haired woman with glasses and pointed toward the boat. “
Lodka
?” she asked.

“
Da
.” The woman smiled back.

Her husband cradled a dozing toddler girl against his chest. Carrie noticed the empty stroller beside the mother. He could have put the little girl there, but instead kept her close. The family didn’t have the loaded-down look of tourists. They were locals, out for Saturday afternoon. Nothing special. Except that it was. A small camera dangled from the man’s wrist. He wanted to remember this day with his wife, son and daughter.

The bright day turned bittersweet with the reminder that the simple joy of a husband and children was something she would probably never know. Her life might include other successes, but she’d seen too much...hurt too much, to risk opening up that way. That envious twinge returned, and she hoped these young parents, Anton and Olga, and everyone else going through life two by two realized how lucky they were.

But the couple’s smiles and sincere pleasure in their children showed that they did, and with a warm glow of generosity, Carrie wanted to help them remember this routine, though special Saturday. She smiled and pointed to the camera. “Photo?”

The man’s brow furrowed, but he quickly grasped her meaning. “
Da, spasibo
.” He gave her the camera, and stood with his arm around his wife. Between them, the little boy smiled, and the toddler slept. Carrie pressed the shutter, forever capturing the happy moment.

How fleeting those could be.

When the family was gone, she returned to watching the boats. Were they
lodkas
?
Lodki
? A seagull drifted past, riding the current of air above the river. And as it climbed into the blue afternoon sky, her spirits rose with it. Today, she’d been pushed, shoved, scowled at, snarled at and chased out of a church, but not once had anyone recognized her. No one had whispered or pointed. Cody and all the other bad memories were six thousand miles away. She’d even done a good deed. And she hadn’t given Anton Belikov a single thought.

Well, okay. Three out of four wasn’t bad.

Chapter Six

It wasn’t until they’d toured the gym and director’s house that Anton learned why Valentin Egorov wanted to speak with him alone.

“We intend to create one of Eastern Europe’s best training centers, catering to all disciplines of skating,” Valentin said, gazing out over the Lake Shosha rink’s pristine ice. Between the freshly painted boards and state-of-the-art, stop-motion video system, it was hard to believe this was the run-down former sports school Egorov and his coach bought cheap at auction two years ago.

Egorov continued. “We have commitments from an Italian ice dance coach who will bring two junior teams here in the spring, and next season Yulia Nosova intends to relocate from Saint Petersburg. I’ve committed to a tour immediately following the Games and need someone here to manage business, oversee the renovations and respond to the needs of the skaters. Of course, you will be generously compensated.”

The salary he named was impressive, though after poaching Anton’s partner, it was the least the man could do. Egorov was thirty-four, ancient in the skating world, but looked much younger. He’d led a charmed life and was offering some of the spoils. Still, Anton wasn’t ready to leap. Not quite. He gave a disinterested shrug. “I’d planned to coach when I’m through competing.”

“And you would have the opportunity to do so, through our developmental programs and also a charitable foundation I intend to establish that will assist promising skaters who lack financial means. You and I have been fortunate in that regard, but so many others are not.”

Valentin came from a rich, well-connected family. Galina did, as well. In their expensive sport, it was a big advantage.

“You have a diploma from a top university, and you’re well regarded in the skating world.” Egorov paused, and shifted his gaze toward the ice. “I also have great respect for you. While my competitive nature can prompt thoughtless actions, I hope we can move forward.”

Valentin Egorov admitting fault was almost as surprising as the job offer. Even if Anton wasn’t ready to forgive and forget, the guy deserved credit for owning up to what he’d done.

It was more than he could say for some.

They returned to the director’s chalet. Egorov’s boyfriend Adrian had asked them to bring back the extra case of wine he’d brought from Moscow. This weekend, the chalet was serving as a guesthouse for those who’d come for Valentin’s annual Cuban bash, and the main room was cluttered with bags, pillows and blankets. But Anton saw beyond the mess. The fieldstone fireplace and the rich tones of the old plank floor, covered with colorful, rustic rugs. If he took the job, this was where he would live.

The kitchen window looked out over the meadow behind the house. He imagined the big dome sky pink with sunrise, or shimmering with the aurora borealis. The stillness broken by birdsong, not traffic.

He was city-born and raised, but his first time in Lake Shosha brought a peace he’d never known was missing. Schedules, airports and pressure defined his skating life, and though he’d worked too hard to give it up just yet, more often he craved moments when he could simply...be. Times when he could watch the sunset and hear his own thoughts. This was a place to do that. He was ready for a saner, less regimented life...and the right person to share it.

Only problem was, Olga wouldn’t agree to this in a million years.

* * *

Back at Valentin’s dacha, the party had grown twice as big. Crisp air carried aromas of wood smoke, grilling shashlik and seafood. Flaming torches and salsa music lent a tropical atmosphere, as if someone had dropped Havana into a pine forest.

Anton carried the wine to the back of the house, stopping at a table loaded with food; traditional Russian favorites and spicy Cuban dishes, all homemade. Balancing the box on his hip, he snagged a shrimp
croqueta
. Delicious. If Adrian and Brigitte ever tired of choreographing and costuming skaters, they could open a restaurant.

Adrian was behind the bar. With slicked hair and a black bow tie, he looked like something from an old movie. Brigitte, his roommate, was perched on a stool. She wore an oversize white tuxedo jacket—probably Adrian’s—over her dress, to ward off the mosquitoes.

Adrian took the wine box. “That took long enough. If I didn’t know you weren’t Valentin’s type, I might have been jealous.”

Brigitte slid off her stool and hugged him. “Congratulations on the job. After what he and Olga did, I hope you told him you wanted a lot of money,” she whispered in a heavy German accent.

He hugged her back. These two had been among the few to acknowledge his true feelings about the split. “I haven’t told him anything.. There’s still a lot to think about.”

“Don’t think too much about it,” came Olga’s breathy voice. She set her empty glass on the bar. “Another mojito, Adrian, just like the last one.”

Brigitte bit her lip and gave a subtle shake of her head, making her pineapple earrings bounce. How many drinks had Olga had while he was gone? As Adrian mixed a new drink in a smaller glass, adding lots of ice, Olga took Anton’s arm. “Who could live here permanently? Two months I’ve been here and I’m bored out of my mind. Better for you to think about how much you can sell your apartment for, so you can get a big, new place in Tverskoy.”

He slipped from her grasp and grabbed a beer from the cooler beside the bar. “Why do you care what neighborhood I live in? When was the last time you came to see me in Moscow?”

She reclaimed him and snuggled close, circling one of his shirt buttons with a long red fingernail. “I might come more often if you lived in a better apartment.”

He laughed at the ridiculous comment. To Olga, the amount of trouble a person went through showed how much they cared. The two-hour drive he made every weekend barely rated a mention. “No, you wouldn’t. Anyway, you know how I feel about that. Galina could have made a lot of money off the apartment, but she sold it to me at a good price. It’s not right for me to sell it just to make a big profit.”

Olga rolled her blue eyes. “You’re too loyal to Galina. And now you’re paying for it, stuck with a bad apartment, and a bad partner.” She turned to Brigitte. “Did you hear that little bitch stole my long program? I can’t believe she’s going to skate to
my Evita
.”

He stared in amazement. Olga’s speech was clear. It wasn’t the mojitos talking. “Carrie didn’t steal
Evita
. Valentin didn’t want to skate to it and you told Galina we could use it. Have you forgotten?”

“That was when I thought you would partner with Lara Zhukova. Lara could do justice to
Evita
. Carrie Parker is not
Evita
. Carrie Parker is Britney Spears.” With a dramatic toss of her head, she walked away.

He blew out a long breath and took a generous swallow of beer. As if she had any right to criticize him, Galina or Carrie. After all the talks—all the
fights
, Olga was still oblivious to the fact that if she wasn’t skating with Valentin, he wouldn’t be in this situation. But that was Olga. Beautiful, self-centered Olga.

Brigitte touched his arm lightly. Her teased hair and exaggerated makeup didn’t mask her kind face. “I met Carrie Parker a few years ago, at Nebelhorn Trophy. I liked her.” She frowned. “I don’t think her former partner treated her well.”

Disturbing images of deWylde’s smug, smiling face beside Carrie’s sad, brave one, came to mind. “Why do you say that?”

“Just an impression.” She stirred the ice in her club soda and looked wary, the way she did whenever she mentioned Hans, her ex-husband in Berlin. “He had mean eyes.”

Adrian brought a plate of shashlik and Anton took a skewer of scallops. They were sweet and smoky, perfectly grilled. If he moved out here, he’d have to learn to cook. He liked shashlik. Meat on a stick, thrown on a fire. Man food. How hard could it be?

“How are the programs coming?” Adrian asked, around a mouthful of beef.

“The short is fine. Pachelbel in D. Solid, but nothing groundbreaking.”

“Pavel is not a groundbreaking choreographer.”

“No, but the judges will like it. The free skate though...” He shook his head.

Adrian chuckled. Olga’s obsession with Eva Peron was well-known. This was their second
Evita
program in three seasons.

“It’s Olga’s style, though Carrie never complains. Actually, she’s an amazing partner. She works hard, she’s generous on the ice. People underestimate her. But God, if you saw her skate. It’s not just technique. She’s got this gorgeous presence, a natural feel for music.” The mere thought of Carrie’s determination and her graceful glide across the ice made him smile.

The choreographer’s mouth twitched, as he and Brigitte exchanged glances. “Do go on,” he said.

What the hell?
Anton shook his head, banishing thoughts that had no business being there. His overgrown bangs flopped in his eyes. “And of course, Che and I go way back.”

Brigitte lifted his shaggy hair. “Don’t let Olga or Vera talk you into cutting this. It suits Che.”

From across the deck, Olga’s laughter, loud and overly animated, floated above the music. She clung to Valentin’s arm, implying a relationship more intimate than it actually was. Valentin seemed content to play along. No doubt, his rabid female fans would be crushed to learn his actual love interest once headlined a Berlin drag show.

Watching them, the former Mademoiselle Adrianne knocked back a shot of vodka. “You know, if you and your little American decide not to cry for Argentina, you should talk to me. I have ideas. I thought I’d convinced him to try something new,” he said, nodding toward Valentin, “but it didn’t work out.”

“Life is easier when Olga is happy,” Anton muttered.

Brigitte gave Adrian a peck on the cheek. “At least he only has to satisfy her on the ice.”

Adrian laughed and put his arm around Brigitte. “A blessing for which I should be grateful. As for you Anton, don’t forget my offer.”

“Too late to change now. But thanks anyway.”

* * *

Late that night, they sat beside the fire. Wrapped in a blanket, Olga rested her head against his shoulder. The chill in the air meant summer was ending. Just like his skating career.

Valentin’s offer was tempting, but life still felt too unsettled. So much had changed so quickly. This time last year, he’d been thinking about marriage.

He and Olga had been together four years, and while the relationship wasn’t perfect, whose was? She was dropping hints about engagement rings. His family kept asking about his plans. He was twenty-five, and almost finished with university. It was time.

Then came rumors about Olga and an ice dancer. Olga and a footballer. She denied it at first, then admitted the truth, but swore the other men meant nothing.

The skating partnership was all that kept him from walking. It was a new season with competitions, money and tours. He and Olga were poised to become one of the world’s top pairs. But he was angry, betrayed. He’d been faithful to Olga, and she’d played him for a fool. So he went out with other women, and made sure she knew.

But the payback didn’t make him feel any better, and it ruined their skating. At the Cup of China, he stumbled on a combination jump in the short program. In the free skate, she landed a throw triple Salchow flat on her butt. They came in fifth. That night, drunk on vodka, rage and guilt, she screamed and pounded his chest with her fists, until she collapsed in his arms, sobbing and begging forgiveness.

He gave it, because of the partnership and what they’d been to one another. They made the relationship nonexclusive, at least for a while, to take some of the pressure off. Eventually, the bruises on his body went away. The deeper wounds were still there.

“Are you coming, Anton?” Brigitte stood beside him, rummaging through her purse.Olga set aside her empty glass. “Are we going to another party?”

Her slurred speech meant another drink was what she wanted most and needed least. “Not tonight,” he said, and slipped his arm around her shoulders. She smiled seductively. He wasn’t in the mood for that either, but it was better than a fight.

Adrian and Valentin followed Brigitte, and Egorov winked. “Have fun, kids. Don’t wait up.”

Upstairs in the A-frame dacha’s bedroom, Olga looped her arms around his neck and rubbed against him. “You don’t really want to live out here and run some school. After Valentin and I win the gold, we can move to Hollywood, so I can be on TV. We’ll live in Beverly Hills. You would like that.”

“When did I ever give you that idea? After all this time, that’s what you think I want?”

“Who doesn’t want that?” She pouted and feathered her fingertips across his cheek, then plundered him with a deep kiss that carried a slight taste of desperation. He returned it, but felt nothing. She broke away and narrowed her eyes.

“I think you’re still mad because of Valentin. I told you before—my decision to skate with him was nothing personal. Only business. Didn’t you say that you would have done the same thing?”

He sighed, nodding. He had said it—many times. His pride demanded it.

“So you have no reason to be angry. It doesn’t change anything between us.” She traced her nail across his bottom lip. “You do things for me Valentin can’t.”

She gazed up through thick fake lashes fringing ice-blue eyes. Tonight she was Marilyn Monroe, in a tight halter dress, bright red lips and a makeup darkened beauty mark on her cheek. Platinum-blond hair brushed against her shoulders.

If he’d heard once, he’d heard a hundred times how lucky he was.

He pulled her close, smoothing his hands across the toned muscles of her back. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her familiar perfume, trying desperately to purge thoughts of spring-green eyes and hair the color of sunshine, not snow. A honeyed drawl that took him back to another night, long ago.

No. He couldn’t go there. Not now, as he held Olga. He forced his thoughts back to the woman in his arms. She kissed his neck and fumbled with his shirt, unbuttoning it to slip her hand inside. As she smoothed her hand over his chest, she wrinkled her nose. “You need an appointment with Vera.”