Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (7 page)

The 1980s music that was always playing in Max’s gym bounced off the tile walls. Katrina and the Waves’s “Walking on Sunshine” didn’t exactly fit with gooseflesh or chill-hardened nipples. Two little peaks poked against her suit. Fortunately, Anton hadn’t arrived. Time to brave the water.

She inched down the ladder, gritting her teeth as she submerged her knees, then her thighs and wiggled her already-numb toes. Pools ought to feel like bathwater, this was more like a Siberian lake. She blew out a breath and braced for the next step. Then came the smack of flip-flops on the pool deck.

Anton kicked off his shoes and stood at the edge, his toes curled over the side. With his shaggy hair, olive skin and baggy, aqua trunks, he was the quintessential beach bum. A seriously ripped beach bum. A thin line of dark hair trailed down from his chest, across his perfect six-pack, and disappeared under the waistband of his trunks. Her gaze followed it, then she glanced up and their eyes met. He tossed his hair back and winked.

Then he jumped in, tucking his knees to his chest in a cannonball, sending up a plume of frigid water. As it rained down, she screeched like a drenched cat. “What the hell?”

He bobbed up and brushed his hair from his eyes. “It’s easier if you just jump in.” He swam forward, reaching out. She scrambled back up the ladder.

He laughed. “Jump in, I’ll catch you. Trust me.”

The words froze her at the top. His outstretched hand coaxed her from the cold safety of the ladder, into deep water—close to his beautiful, half-clothed body. She clutched the railing. She could ease in, a little at a time, dreading each step forward. Or she could simply take the plunge. It was a little scary. It might be unpleasant. But he’d promised to be there.

Trust me.

Could she?

As if that mattered. There were skating partners, that was all. He had a girlfriend. She shook the thought away. But she was already drenched and he’d enjoyed splashing her far too much. She should return the favor.

She leaped, tucking her knees in a cannonball. But when she hit the water, the cold took her breath away. She came up gasping. “Oh my God, that’s freezing!”

Beneath the surface, he grabbed her hand and pulled her in, drawing her close to share his warmth. In his arms, she rested her hands on his shoulders, keenly aware of his size and strength. On the ground, he was almost a foot taller, but now they floated at eye level, their mouths just inches apart. Her eyes fell on the soft fullness of his bottom lip, so close, so tempting. Her heart pounded and her breathing grew shallow, though the temperature had nothing to do with it.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” His deep, accented voice wrapped around the word. Gazing into his bottomless dark eyes, it was as if she was drowning. Mercifully, he turned her so that her back rested against his broad chest. His strong arm closed around her waist.

Holding her securely, as though she was a mermaid he’d captured and wasn’t about to let go, he swam with her to where Galina waited in the shallow end.

Chapter Nine

The following Thursday, Carrie arrived at the rink an hour late, soaked from the downpour raining over the city.

“You are wasting much valuable time,” Galina scolded, as Carrie quickly towel-dried her hair.

“I couldn’t find a cab.” She shivered as the rink’s chill seeped through her wet, clinging clothes. She’d walked the length of Vorontsovskaya Street and the only car to stop had a plastic skull hanging from its rearview mirror. She’d waved it on, and walked another six blocks until she found a real cab.

During their break, she took out her English Metro map and guidebook, and brought up the GPS and translation apps on her phone. Anton came over and sat down beside her. “What are you doing?”

Her eyes shifted from the map, to his tanned forearm, then back to the map. “Trying to make sense of the subway. With all my technology, I ought to be able to figure it out.”

He took a swig of blueberry kefir. “Those things are not fail-proof, you know.”

“It hasn’t failed me so far. Not much, anyway. But I don’t like my translation app. When I put in an English word, it spells it out in Russian. I have to use another program to convert it into my alphabet. I need to find a better one.”

“You could learn to read Russian. It’s not hard. Only thirty-three letters.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Thirty-three weird-looking letters.”

“No weirder than yours. Come on, you’re smart. May I? “ She gave him her pen and he wrote something in the corner of her map. “What does that say?”

Кэрри. She could guess, but decided to have a little fun. She gave a big, dumb blonde smile. “Keppen?”

He sighed, rolled his eyes and wrote something else. Антон. “How about that?”

“Anton.” She pointed to the second word, then the first. “Carrie.”

“Carrie,” he repeated, his accent heavier than usual. “You need to roll
R
s to say like me.”

“Carrrrie,” she said, mangling it badly.

His dark face brightened with a beautiful smile that sent her heart into overdrive. “Already you are learning Russian words,” he said. “You see? I am much better than app.”

No argument there. Her toes curled inside her tight skates.

“Do you want me to show how to use Metro? Then you don’t have to use cabs always.”

“I hate to impose.”

“It’s not impose. I grew up in Moscow. I know city well.” He indicated her phone. “Go back to where you were.” As she scrolled to the previous screen, a photo flashed past. “Wait. What was that?”

Damn. She was busted. Her one-woman birthday party. She’d bought a spider plant for her apartment and treated herself to an enormous cupcake, smothered with calorie-laden pink frosting. She’d stuck a candle in it, put it next to Spidey and taken a picture. “Last Saturday was my birthday,” she said, by way of an excuse.

“You spent your birthday alone?” He looked aghast.

“Of course I did. Galina and I don’t exactly hang out on weekends.”

“No. I didn’t think so.” His brow furrowed. “Just Galina and me. You don’t know anyone else here?”

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “After what I went through back in the States, it’s nice to be anonymous.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “Still...you should not spend birthday alone.”

Did he have to make such a big deal over it? “Isn’t it tradition here that the birthday person throws a party for themselves? That seems odd to me.” Not that she had anyone to invite. Outside the rink, her interactions were limited to brief hellos with the British students who lived next door. It wasn’t a problem...exactly, but doubted he’d understand.

“Then we’ll celebrate your way. When I go to Lake Shosha tomorrow, you must come. Adrian and Brigitte will be there. You’ll like them and they’ll be happy to make cake. Valentin loves to throw parties.”

She gulped, picturing herself hanging with him, Olga and their friends. “Thanks. But I don’t want to put your friends to any trouble.”

His smile dimmed, and he nodded. “Then we’ll go someplace here. I will be your personal tour guide and take you anywhere you like.”

Spending time with him off the ice was dangerous, but it was unlikely anything would ever come from the invitation. He had an actual life. Surely he was too busy to spend time showing her around. She shrugged. “I haven’t been to Red Square.”

“No? Red Square and Kremlin are first places everyone goes. So we will go. After, we’ll have dinner to celebrate Carrie’s birthday.”

She smiled, liking the way her name sounded when he rolled the
R
s.

When training ended that afternoon, Anton was waiting for her outside the rink, leaning against the wall by the front steps.

“You were serious?” she said, taken aback.

“Always, I am serious.” He paused, and shook his head, seemingly caught off guard by his own words. He scowled. “You have some place to go? Dental appointment? Hot date?”

It sounded like a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. She had no clue how to read him. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

Then he did smile, a heartfelt one that showed in his eyes. In baggy, plaid shorts, a faded U2 T-shirt and beat-up Chuck Taylors, he was sexy without even trying. The hot summer breeze ruffled his hair. “I’m positive. Let’s go.”

What the heck. She’d see Red Square in the company of a smoking-hot tour guide. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon. She tugged her Braves cap low over her eyes and followed.

Moscow was as sweltering as Atlanta and the heat from the sidewalk baked through her sandals. “I’m surprised it gets so hot here,” she said. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Enjoy while you can. By December, it’s dark in late afternoon and snows most days.”

“Sounds dreadful. How do you stand it?”

“What do you mean, ‘how do I stand it?’ Snow is beautiful.”

“To each his own. Give me hot sunny weather. All day, every day.”

“Is that why you moved to California?”

That, and wanting to put as much distance as possible between herself, her angry father and her late mother. “Yep,” she said, quickly. “That’s why.”

The Paveletskaya subway platform was lit by chandeliers, suspended from a blue-and-white vaulted ceiling. Marble pillars were trimmed with red tile, and the walls were covered with mosaics of farmers, crops and the ever-popular hammer and sickle. No public building seemed complete without at least one. Still, for a subway, it was lovely.

“They made the stations nice so people would feel proud to be workers who took subway,” Anton explained, as they admired one of the mosaics. “They also built them as bomb shelters in case some power-mad nation dropped the big one.” He gave her a sly look.

“Gee, wonder what nation that would be,” she said, grinning. Good thing Dad wasn’t here. He wouldn’t appreciate the humor.

They found an empty bench. Anton took her map and drew a circle around one stop. “We’re right here.” He drew another circle. “Over here is Taganskaya station, by your apartment.”

As they waited for the train, he explained the different lines, scribbling notes in English and Russian. Soon the map was covered with circles, arrows, stars and exclamation points, as he marked museums she should see, his favorite restaurants and bars, and a big park on the northeast side that had good hiking trails.

“Today we’ll only have time to see Red Square, not Kremlin too,” he said. “There’s lots to see there and you have to buy tickets in advance. But you’ll like Red Square, and there’s very good Italian restaurant close by.”

“Is it called Red Square because of communism?”

“No.” He gave her a long look. “Red is old Russian word for beautiful.”

* * *

Red Square wasn’t red, nor was it square. Instead, it was a broad brick thoroughfare, anchored by a huge church on one end and a long white building with shops and cafés to the east. Along the west side was an imposing brick wall topped with ornate towers.

“That’s Kremlin wall and all twelve towers are different,” Anton explained, as they walked south. “It’s pretty when they turn lights on at night.”

Perhaps, but the massive wall with its daunting blank facade left her a little creeped out. She imagined the square filled with lines of grim-faced soldiers in long coats, marching past shabby, gray civilians huddled in the snow. She wished she’d brought her camera, but doubted a photo could capture the authoritarian essence of the place.

On the other hand, Saint Basil’s Cathedral was a delightful jumble of peaked roofs and onion domes painted in swirls of green, blue, red, purple and gold. It looked more like a circus tent than a church. Anton started inside, but she remained frozen in place. He turned. “What?”

“Let’s not,” she said, recalling the eerie moment in the last church she’d visited. “They charge for tickets,” she added lamely.

“Just a few rubles. It’s my treat.”

She answered his questioning look with a carefree smile and quickly turned away. “Buy me coffee sometime.”

As they walked north, the Kremlin wall cast a long shadow across Red Square. They passed a squat building that resembled an Art Deco tank, complete with a turret. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Lenin’s tomb. He’s actually under glass, dead body laying there eighty years. My Uncle Boris took my little sister and me to see once. Scared the shit out of Nika,” he added, grinning. “No charge to go in, but I think it’s closed for night.”

“That’s okay. Embalmed Communist icons aren’t my thing. Still, the building’s kind of cool.”

“It is,” Anton agreed. “Stand over there, I’ll take your picture. But not too close. Sometimes he comes out at night and grabs annoying American tourists.”

Laughing, she walked backward as he aimed his phone. Then suddenly she collided with something solid and lifelike. She whirled around, ready to come face-to-face with a mummified dictator. Instead, it was a cop.

“
Vashi dokumenty, pozhalujsta
!”

She froze, staring blankly into his scowling face. He barked the same words again, only louder. In an instant, Anton came to her side, calming her with a light touch at her back. He spoke to the officer, then reached into his back pocket and drew out a thin maroon booklet, the domestic passport Russians were required to carry.

“He wants to see your documents,” he said, quietly. “Do you have them?”

She pulled her passport, visa and registration from her purse and waited nervously as the officer compared her face to her photos. Satisfied, he handed them back, then inspected Anton’s passport with a critical eye. “
Ya slyshal o vas
,” the cop said. He almost looked embarrassed.

They spoke for a moment, and Anton nodded. The cop removed a vinyl book from a pouch on his belt. He opened to a blank page.

“What did he say?” Carrie whispered, as Anton wrote in the book.

“He recognized me. His daughter skates, and she’s a fan. He wants our autograph.” He gave the book to Carrie. “Her name is Ksenia.”

She hadn’t any idea how to spell the girl’s name, and could only read one word of what he’d written, but she carefully printed “Кэрри” beside his “Антон” and gave it back to the officer.

* * *

They ate at an Italian café opposite the Kremlin. The food was delicious and the wine, superb. As Anton poured the last of it into their glasses, Carrie leaned back in her chair, contentedly full and enjoying the kiss of the evening breeze. She sipped her Chianti. “What did you write to that policeman’s daughter?

“What I usually write. ‘Skate proud’ if person’s a skater. If not, just my name.”

“It was nice of you, considering her dad was so mean.”

Anton shrugged. “He’s just family man doing a job. They’re not paid to be friendly.”

Most people she knew would have been outraged. To Anton, it seemed like business as usual. She suspected it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Across Red Square, the Kremlin wall lights blinked on. The pretty sight didn’t completely erase its sinister air. She looked over at him, experiencing a stir of concern. “If we completely stink at Nationals and don’t make the team...you won’t get sent to Siberia or anything, will you?”

He chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Scrubbing Kremlin toilets maybe, but nothing to worry you.”

She smiled at his joke, but still felt uneasy. She glanced right and left, as if the KGB were listening at the next table. “It’s not still...like that, is it?”

He didn’t answer right away. “We’re like any country, Carrie. Some things are very good, others less so. But it’s not like it was. Anyway, it’s where my family is, where my friends are.” He looked around, shrugged one shoulder and smiled again. “Home.”

His honest words struck a chord of envy, though she had no desire to live in a place with daily snow, embalmed dictators or scary cops. Despite her love of sunshine, she was glad it was no longer rising quite so early. Though this was a foreign country in every sense of the word, to Anton, it was home. A place he was happy, close to people he loved, who loved him. Not a bad life, when you thought about it.

Her guard rose, but tonight she didn’t want to hide behind barriers. She didn’t want to think about Amsterdam, why he didn’t remember, or what might happen if he did. She didn’t want to think about Dad and how this might affect him. She only wanted to enjoy this beautiful summer night, in an unexpectedly lovely city, with a handsome guy who cared that she’d been alone on her birthday. It was surprising to feel this comfortable with a Russian. Surprising, but nice. “When I was growing up, in movies, Russians were always bad guys.”

“I’ve seen some of those movies. Spies or mafia, take your pick. In ours, Americans are spoiled little rich girls with too many suitcases.” He swirled the wine in his glass and gave her a lazy smile.

“Come on, I wasn’t that bad,” she said, liking the camaraderie that had blossomed these past few days.

“No,” he said softly. “You weren’t.”

Their eyes held and Carrie’s heart pounded. Maybe
comfortable
and
nice
weren’t quite accurate.
Seriously aroused
described the feeling better. A flush rose in her cheeks as she thought back to the day in the pool, the feel of him beneath her hands. The warmth of his chest against her back. He was as strong and alluring as an ancient conqueror from a distant land. At the same time, his smile was so sweet and disarming, it was impossible not to smile back.