Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (9 page)

Finland brought to mind wholesome, pink-cheeked reindeer herders, not rage, venereal or otherwise. But what did she know?

He took the MKAD north, then turned off the highway into a neighborhood of apartment towers as grimy as those in Hobo-Peebo. The main drag had a strip of brightly lit chain restaurants, but he turned onto a side street and parked in front of a neat, single-story brick building with a red neon sign in the window.

The small restaurant was anchored by a long bar, with a row of booths opposite. The bartender, a broad-shouldered young man with blond hair, waved them in and greeted Anton by name. A trio of working men sat drinking vodka and watching a soccer game on TV. On the wall was a handwritten, chalkboard menu. The sight of more Russian letters made her head ache. “What’s good?” she asked.

“Special tonight is fish pie,” Anton said.

Her mind flashed an image of a cartoon pie with a fish head and tail sticking out either side. “That sounds...interesting.”

“It’s excellent. Homemade from family recipe. If you like beer, Baltika’s good. I like Number 4. It’s dark, but there’s light American-style if you prefer.”

She pressed her hand to the stubborn little bulge at her belly that seemed sit-up resistant. “I don’t know...”

“Ei.” He gently nudged her with his elbow. “We escaped infamous Moscow
gopniki
. Beer is called for.”

She returned his smile. She had a couple of kilos to play with. Why not? “Fish pie it is, and I’ll have the dark beer.”

While Anton put their orders in she found an empty booth. A middle-aged woman brought a small basket of Borodinsky bread and little bowl of butter. The place was nothing fancy, just a neighborhood spot, with beer signs on the walls and sports trophies on display. Behind the tavern area was a dining room, about half-full. Above her table hung a framed photo of a kids’ hockey team. One of the coaches looked like the bartender and the other...

Anton brought two pints of beer and took the seat opposite her.

“Hey, that’s you,” she said, pointing to the picture.

“And Pyotr.” He nodded toward the bartender, then pointed out a cute little guy in the front row, “and his son, Alexei. Last year I helped coach, but this year I only have time to run a few power-skating practices.”

She tried her beer. It wasn’t ice-cold like she was used to, but had a pleasant malty taste. “One of your old teammates?”

“Pyotr and I grew up together. We passed our old building before, just off highway.”

He had come from the same dreary concrete bunkers that spawned the likes of Big Oleg? Noticing her shock, he frowned. “Not everyone here turns into
gopniki
. My family’s not rich. My dad is secondary school director and my mom taught skating. Not big-money jobs.”

“Your mom doesn’t teach anymore?” She wondered what his mother thought of Olga deserting him in such a callous way.

“She died when I was fifteen.”

His words made her flinch. “I’m sorry,” she said, then without thinking, added, “I lost my mom too.”

His dark gaze was intent, but sympathetic. “How old were you?”

“Seventeen.” She shifted uncomfortably. “It was sudden.”

He pressed his lips together in a grim line. “For my mom, it was not sudden at all. Four years, she was sick. It was why I stayed in figure skating. Gave her something to think about besides cancer.” He sipped his beer. “I thought I’d return to hockey once she got better and life went back to normal. But it never did.”

A lump rose in Carrie’s throat. He’d sacrificed a normal teenage life to train as a competitive figure skater to please his sick mom. She hadn’t been able to give up a stupid football game for hers. “I’m sure she was proud of you.”

He turned his beer glass slowly on the table, leaving wet rings. “She was. More than anything, she wanted to see me compete in Winter Games. I like to think when we get there, she’ll know.”

Silence fell between them. Any notion of pouring out her heart was gone. If he knew her story, he’d think she was awful and selfish. She kept her eyes averted, desperately searching for a new topic before he could ask any questions.

“Speaking of Lake Placid...we ought to consider a new designer. That yellow thing you wore at Cup of China?” She grimaced.

Anton looked up and grinned. “Is that why you didn’t want anything to do with me that night? Because of my ugly costume?”

“It’s hard to take a man seriously when he’s dressed like a giant flower.”

He glared in mock offense. “I was not flower. We were birds.”

“Well that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? Anyway, the guy Cody and I used did nice classic looks. No feathers. No sequins. I could see you in something dark and simple, maybe open in the front. Definitely short-sleeved to show off your...” Her eyes feasted on his gorgeous upper arms. What the man did to a faded T-shirt ought to be against the law. He grinned as he caught her looking. Again. Her face burned and she gave a guilty smile. “...hard work.”

Anton shook his head. “For competition, no short sleeve, no low cut. I would have to get waxed. I hate wax.” He pouted like a little kid about to get a booster shot. “It hurts.”

“You’re such a baby! I can’t believe you’re afraid of a little manscaping.”

“Do you like it?”

Well. Obviously she wasn’t the only one who’d been checking out their partner that day in the pool. Then again, he’d been involved with a skater for years. It wasn’t like he’d never seen a Brazilian before. Her cheeks flushed again. “Only in pair skating would I have a conversation like this with a straight guy I hardly know.”

“What do you mean, hardly know? You know about my family, where I grew up, what music I like, what sports I like, what I studied at university. And now you know how I feel about man-wax.”

“Fine, you win. No man-wax.”

He leaned back, his arms crossed, regarding her with narrowed eyes. “Seems I’m the one who hardly knows you. Every time I ask something, you turn around and ask me instead. Why do you do that? Why do you want to be so much a mystery?”

She rested her chin on her hand and smiled across the table. “What difference does it make?”

He started to answer, then stopped. Shaking his head, he laughed. “God, you are aggravating!”

“Anton!” A young woman with a tray approached. She set plates in front of them, along with a small dish of black olives. Then she leaned over and hugged him. “
Chto vy zdes detaete
?”

As they conversed in rapid Russian, Carrie took a bite of her fish pie. It was delicious, with a flaky golden pastry wrapped around smoked salmon fillets, chopped onions and some sort of grain. Not barley. Not rice. Millet? And who was the waitress? She was tall, slender and pretty. Anton obviously knew her well. An old girlfriend, maybe.

He turned back, and in English said, “Carrie, meet my sister, Veronika.”

“Nika everyone calls me,” she said, sliding into the booth beside him. Side by side, their resemblance was obvious. Nika shared Anton’s dark, dramatic eyes, olive skin and striking features. “It is pleasure to meet you, Carrie. I have heard much about you.”

She tensed, but Nika’s “heard much about you” seemed friendly, not a veiled reference to Cody. With her trendy haircut, black jeans and silver jewelry, Nika looked quite fashionable. Carrie told her about shopping at GUM and asked her opinion of earmuffs.

“Ekaterina fur shop is where you should go. Expensive, but you get idea of styles. Then ask me, I’ll tell you where to find cheap. Everything here costs much. My friends and I have to look good for our jobs, but no one pays much to people just out of university.”

“You have another job?”

“I work at advertising agency. Good future, but bad pay. I work nights here so Sasha and I can get apartment.”

“Sasha is Pyotr’s brother,” Anton said. “Their family owns this place.”

Through the kitchen window, a young guy in a red bandanna drummed the air with a spatula. “Sasha goes to school and plays in band,” Nika said, nodding at him. “Their music is fast and hard, like DDT.”

The name wasn’t familiar. Carrie shook her head.

“Misfits?” Nika suggested. “Green Day? Ramones?”

“Oh sure. I love Green Day, and the Ramones,” she said, remembering the summer she and her best friend had roamed Sweetspire in punk T-shirts and torn jeans; eighth-grade rebels, trying to impress the guys in the garage band down the block who worshiped Joey, Dee Dee and the boys.

“Anton loves Ramones too!” Nika’s exaggerated smile suggested this was the best news she’d heard all day. Anton concentrated on his fish pie. Carrie cupped her hand over her mouth to mask a giggle. “You should have come out with us last weekend,” Nika said to him. “You live close to so many good clubs but never go. Shame. You might meet someone.”

He laughed. “Why do I need to meet someone? Already I am surrounded with women. I have Olga to tell me to get haircut and move, Galina to tell me I eat too much bad food and you to comment on my love life.”

Nika shrugged and popped an olive in her mouth. “Someone has to. What about Carrie? What does she do?”

“Carrie?” He smiled across the table. “Carrie needs to be rescued.”

Her mouth fell open. So did Nika’s. “Rescued?” she said, outraged. “What a horrible thing to say!”

Anton seemed genuinely surprised at the laser beams of female anger directed his way. “What’s horrible? It’s what a man is supposed to do for a woman. I didn’t mean it in bad way.”

“There’s a
good
way to say someone’s a helpless incompetent who needs a man to look after her?”

“No. I meant that when you got into trouble I helped you out. Like tonight and with Cody.”

“So that’s how you see me? As some Cinderella waiting for Prince Charming to fix her screwed-up life. Well listen up, I’ve taken care of myself since I was seventeen and don’t need you—or anyone else—to do it for me.”

“Except when you get chased by
gopniki
. Then I’m pretty useful.”

His cocky smirk made her blood boil. Just like Cody, just like Dad, he’d criticize her weakness while looking for a way to exploit it at the same time. “I knew I shouldn’t have called you.”

“Nika!” Pyotr shouted from the bar. Anton’s sister was hanging on their every word. She muttered something and bolted from the booth as if she’d been shocked.

Carrie stabbed her fork into her fish pie.

When they left the bar, mist hung in hazy clouds around the streetlights. Walking along the dark street, Carrie shoved her hands into her thin jacket. The warm weather was nearly over, and the fearsome Russian winter would soon follow. Had it been a terrible mistake to come here?

Anton looked over. “Carrie...about what I said. I don’t think at all you are incompetent. I think you’re very brave to move someplace you don’t even speak language. I didn’t mean to offend. Sometimes is hard to express things how I want.”

A mental warning sounded, but his apology was sincere, not calculated. His cocky attitude was gone, replaced by regret. She acknowledged it with a nod.

“And I hope Nika didn’t embarrass you, trying to play matchmaker. Sometimes, she says things she shouldn’t.”

“Guess it runs in the family.” Startled, he looked up. Their eyes met and she cracked a smile. “She didn’t embarrass me. She wasn’t overly obvious or anything.” Anton’s brows rose and his eyes grew wide. She laughed, a bit more at ease. “Well, okay maybe a little obvious. But why? Doesn’t she like Olga?”

Anton sighed. “My family is mad Olga dropped me to skate with Valentin. They don’t understand that pairs split all the time, and I would do exact same thing.”

He’d used this rationale before, but the more she got to know him, the less she believed it. They’d reached the car and she peered at him across the Audi’s hood. “Even in a major competition season and to a partner you’ve had for ten years?”

He fumbled in his jacket for his keys. “If I had good reason.”

No, he wouldn’t. His pride was wrapped up in pretending Olga’s actions hadn’t hurt, but right then, she knew the truth. Yet, she’d give him the courtesy of acting as though she believed him.

They drove through his old neighborhood, passing dark, muddy athletic fields and leafless birch trees, then white apartment towers dotted with lighted square windows. He’d lived here, in a place far removed from anything familiar to her, playing pickup soccer and walking home to a shabby high-rise, while on the other side of the world, she’d practiced cheerleading moves in her mansion’s backyard. Their lives were too different to have sustained a teenage romance. At seventeen, they never would have found common ground.

Rain splattered on the windshield. Venereal Rage raged on for another song, then Anton tapped the dashboard display, choosing something else. It began with a shout and fast, distorted guitar chords, then Joey Ramone’s ragged vocals.
“Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go, they’re ready to go now.”

The song evoked that summer with Sarah, but she also thought of Anton, again as he’d been when he lived here. Now she saw a good kid from a tough neighborhood, who loved his family and wanted to make them proud. Maybe they weren’t quite so different.

Okay, he’d been angry when she put herself in danger and jeopardized their partnership, but that was understandable. This was his dream. Hers too, for that matter. And it wasn’t the only thing weighing on his mind. He’d been upset because she mattered to him.

Just as he mattered to her.

Quiet joy blossomed in the night’s dark chill, as she watched him drum the steering wheel, shifting his eyes to her, then back to the road. He merged onto the MKAD and looked over again.

“Turn it up,” she said.

Chapter Eleven

Most days, Anton would have welcomed a surprise visit from his friend Mikhail, who trained in Saint Petersburg. Misha had come to Moscow for an appointment with a sports physician, the same one Anton would be seeing later this afternoon, and dropped by the rink before catching the train north. His friend had been given a clean bill of health to compete this season, excellent news in light of the many injuries that had plagued Misha’s career.

But he also brought word of another injured skater, and this news wasn’t good. Arkady Zhukov, who skated with his sister Lara Zhukova, had suffered a knee injury last week in practice. Rumor had it the injury was a bad one, possibly career-ending.

Which left one of Russia’s best young female pair skaters without a partner.

Anton skated slowly in front of the boards, where Misha, Galina and Pavel the choreographer lamented the fate of Team Zhukova...as well as a possible solution.

Galina gestured toward Carrie who was practicing alone at the other end of the rink. “Why this girl, and not Lara?” Galina asked in a low voice, as if Carrie might overhear, though they were speaking Russian.

Anton frowned. That question seemed to be on everyone’s mind, and he was getting damn tired of answering it. “Just as I told you. I didn’t want to partner with a girl just coming up from juniors, nor did I want to partner with a diva. Carrie was the most experienced senior pair skater available.”

“But an American?” Pavel said with a sneer, as Carrie worked through a step sequence from the long program. “Look at her! No artistry at all. Just going through the motions. She projects nothing of Evita’s magnetism.”

“She’s still learning the program.”

“She’s as captivating as drying paint!” The choreographer snorted. “Forget Lake Placid. With her, you’ll never make the national team, but with Lara? You could leave the sport a champion.” He paused and turned to Galina. “Provided others are willing to step aside.”

Galina’s gaze remained focused on the ice, but Anton knew the comment hurt. Her future was on the line too. If he was to pair with Lara, he’d train in Saint Petersburg under Elena Zhukova, renowned coach, legendary former pair skater and also Lara’s mother. Anton couldn’t imagine anything worse. Olga’s daily drama would be nothing compared to what his life would be like sandwiched between mother and daughter Zhukova.

“Misha, you train at the same rink as Lara. Do you blame me for not wanting to partner with her?”

His friend laughed. “Poor Arkady. Some of us think he wrecked his knee on purpose, just so he could quit skating!” Misha leaned on the boards and watched Carrie. “You can’t take anything away from this one though. She’s blonde, good-looking. More than good-looking.” He winked, wearing the debauched grin Anton knew all too well. “If you dump her, maybe I should switch to pairs, eh?”

“I’m not dumping Carrie,” Anton snapped, feeling rather territorial and ready for this conversation to end.

She was at center ice now, and executed a sloppy triple-double combination jump. Galina shouted across the rink, “How many times must I tell you. Your takeoff must have more speed. Listen to me!”

Pavel rolled his eyes.

Anton turned to Galina. “And how would it go over with the skating federation, after everything your friend did to bring Carrie here?”

Galina looked old and tired as she gazed down at the pink commuter cup in her hands. “Andrei Kazakov told me they wanted to pair you with Lara Zhokova from the beginning. The only reason they agreed to Carrie was because Lara would not abandon her brother.”

Pavel flicked his fingers, as if brushing away a fly. “Everyone except Elena and Lara could see Arkady was nothing special. Now he’s out for the season. Possibly for good. This is a fabulous chance for you, Anton.”

Too bad it didn’t feel that way.

Carrie skated toward them and Anton’s mood brightened. When she reached his side, he held out his hand. She took it and smiled back, though she cast an uneasy glance at Pavel, as though she suspected something was up. “Did I miss anything?”

“I was just leaving,” Misha said, switching to English. “A pleasure meeting you, Carrie, and I hope our paths cross again very soon. You should come to Saint Petersburg before you return to United States. I would be happy to show you around.”

Anton didn’t like the overly interested look in Misha’s eyes. The man had more women than he knew what to do with, and didn’t need to add Carrie to his harem. “I’m afraid training leaves us little free time,” he said.

“Anton’s right, but thank you for the offer. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mikhail,” said Carrie, smiling a bit too brightly.

“Misha,” he said, stressing the diminutive of his name. “And best of luck in your endeavors.” He waved goodbye and headed for the door.

Anton was glad to see him go. If only his uneasiness would disappear, as well. He turned to Carrie. “I was waiting for you, so we could tell Pavel about our change to the end of
Evita
.”

Pavel furrowed his brow. “What change? Evita blows farewell kiss to little people. That’s how program must end.”

“No,” Anton said. “Carrie and I substituted throw triple loop, to suggest Che releasing Evita into the arms of death.”

The choreographer looked indignant and turned to Carrie. “There is no throw. There is kiss. It is choreographed perfectly, and if you do not blow kiss, you are not Evita.”

“But I’m not Evita. Nor am I Olga. I’m Carrie and when I blow that kiss, I feel like an idiot!”

Pavel fumed. “You think my choreography is for idiots? I cannot work with this!” He stormed out of the rink, and let the wooden door swing back and forth in his wake. Galina sighed and dropped her shoulders, then made her usual shooing motion toward the ice. “Go on, practice. I will deal with Pavel.”

Anton glanced over at Carrie and took her hand. “Come on, Evita, let’s practice the triple twist.”

They ran through the elements again, but Anton was too distracted to concentrate. Rather than risk injury to Carrie, he shut the music off, content to skate beside her, lost in thought. The problems with the programs weren’t her fault. Expecting perfection so soon was ridiculous. In the studio at the opposite end of the rink, Pavel and Galina were arguing.

“
Zhopa
,” he muttered, watching Pavel flap his skinny arms.

Carrie stroked along beside him, gazing up with big green eyes. “
Zhopa
? I haven’t heard that word before.”

In the weeks since the
gopniki
encounter, she’d started an online Russian course. Anton doubted this particular word was covered in the curriculum. “Means asshole.”

“That’ll come in handy. Do you want to run through
Evita
again?”

“I should go,” he said, aware of her small, trusting hand in his. As much as he hated leaving her, he had to get to his appointment across town. There were few things he hated more than being poked and prodded by doctors, but it went with the job.

Pavel stormed out of the studio, Galina on his heels. Carrie watched with sad eyes, probably blaming herself. He squeezed her hand and when she looked over, he smiled. “Ei, tomorrow will be better.”

She tilted her head, as if to rest it on his shoulder. She could. He wouldn’t mind. Instead, she gave a determined nod. “We suck it up and get the job done.”

“It’s all you can do sometimes.” They’d reached the gate, and he stepped off the ice first. But he turned back and opened his arms. Carrie stepped into them.

Her body pressed against his kindled a stirring that spread through him like small flames. Her head was tucked beneath his chin, her head rested against his chest. Could she hear the thrum of his heart?

He pressed his lips and nose to the top of her head, inhaling her familiar scents; a heady bouquet of floral shampoo, strawberry lip balm and the subtle, healthy musk of her athletic body after a strenuous practice. She wrapped her arms around his waist, molding herself to him. Against her muscled softness, his hard-on throbbed inside his tight skating pants.

He dropped his gaze as she lifted hers. Their eyes met. His heart took a perilous leap, to deep, uncharted water. If he dove in, there would be no turning back. He didn’t care. He lowered his head, but before he could claim her lips, she stepped from his embrace.

“You’ll be late,” she said, turning away.

His arms and hands tingled with remembered touch, mixed with equal parts frustration, disappointment, as well as embarrassment that she’d sensed his arousal. “Carrie...”

She shook her head, then looked back over her shoulder and gave a shaky smile. “Bye, Anton. See you tomorrow.” Her eyes showed regret.

He stepped back. “
Poka
,” he returned and quickly gathered his things.

He walked to the subway in a daze of disbelief. The desire had been there for weeks, but he never thought he’d act on it. They couldn’t do this. They were partners. Friends. She’d been right to stop it, and not because of his damned doctor’s appointment.

The doctor. Shit. What was the address again? He reached for his phone. Not in his pocket. Not in his skate bag. Damn. He’d left it at the rink. He had to go back.

The lobby was dark, as the synchro team didn’t practice Thursdays, and his phone was on the bench, right where he’d left it. He should call to say he was running late. He scrolled to the phone number. Then in the arena, music began to play.

The song was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He paused, listening. Funky, pop guitar chords. The shake of a tambourine. A singer with a high-pitched voice.
“You went to school to learn, girl, things you never, ever knew before...”

He froze, his eyes wide. Goose bumps rose on his flesh as vivid memories unfolded like a favorite movie. Opening scene: a black-haired girl in a sequined halter and hip-hugger pants dances for the crowd.

No, it couldn’t be.

Heart pounding, scarcely able to breathe, he went to the rink door and peered in. But he didn’t need to look. He already knew what he’d see.

There she was, skating to “ABC” by the Jackson 5. She was one with the music, muscle memory guiding her effortlessly through the old routine. Pivot. Kick. Turn.
Precise arms. Sexy head toss. Big, bright smile.

It wasn’t that he remembered a program he’d seen only once, seven years ago, but he’d never forgotten how she looked performing it.

Carrie was the Amsterdam Girl.

His heart pounded and his mouth felt dry. It all made sense. His powerful reaction to her in Beijing. Why she was so guarded now. She
knew
. How could she not? He’d medaled in the competition she watched. He’d been her first. Of course she knew. And she’d never said a word.

Numb, he made his way across town. At the doctor’s office, laid out on an exam table in only his boxers, he was kilometers away and years in the past. The girl who’d found her way into his heart and never left was the woman he’d been skating with for the last two months.

Admit it.
You knew. You’ve always known.

Deep down, he must have. Why else had he gone to such lengths to help her? True, he hated the injustice done to her, but she’d been a stranger. A low-ranked American with whom he’d barely had a conversation. Pretty, talented, but otherwise, nothing to him.

Or so he’d thought at the time.

What did it say that he’d brought Carrie here while he was still involved with Olga? Whatever doubts he had about that relationship, he wouldn’t play one against the other. But what was he supposed to do?

Galina’s question echoed in his mind.
“Why this girl?”

He now knew the real answer, and it scared the hell out of him.

Why not Lara Zhukova?

The solution to all of this was staring him in the face, but the thought of what it would do to Carrie and to Galina tore at his heart. He hoped the rumors about Arkady’s injury weren’t true and prayed he wouldn’t be faced with a terrible decision.

* * *

Hours later, the door buzzed in his apartment. He set down his paintbrush and went to answer. Rain pattered against the windows. Galina’s umbrella dripped as she placed it on the mat in the entryway.

“So much color,” she said, walking through the living room. “My mother only wanted white. She said white rooms reminded her of Paris. I think what she really liked was how everyone envied her perfect, all-white apartment.” She gave a hollow laugh. “As if my father’s influence in the Party or me attending a top skating school when I was not a top skater weren’t enough.” She nodded at the blue paint on his fingers. “You are painting the bedrooms now?”

“Bathroom,” he said, knowing there was more to this visit than paint colors.

She followed him down the hall. He stepped into the room, avoiding the drops of blue paint on the canvas spread across the tile floor. He picked up his paintbrush and continued edging the shower. Galina touched the door frame. Finding it dry, she leaned against it, her gaze fixed on the just-painted wall behind the sink. “I’ve had a call from Elena Zhukova. The news about Arkady is true. He will have surgery, then retire from skating.”

Here it was. Dread settled like a weight on Anton’s chest. “Sad his career has to end when it’s just getting started.”

“Sad for Lara too.”

“She’ll find someone.” He kept painting.

Galina sighed. “Elena and Lara want you to replace Arkady.” He looked up, ready to tell her
again
why he didn’t want to partner with Lara Zhukova, but she cut him off. “As do I. We have given Carrie’s tryout long enough.”

“It’s not a tryout. I know there are problems, but nothing time won’t solve.”

“You don’t have time! Suppose you work another month and the problems still aren’t fixed. Then what? You miss your last chance?”

“I can’t do that to her.” He paused, then added, “Or to you.”

Galina quickly turned away, but not before he saw her shiny eyes. It had been years since he’d seen her cry. She took a deep breath. “Even as a boy, you put others first. Your family, then Olga. Now me, and this trampled flower of a girl. You have a big heart, Antosha.” Her voice caught, and she paused for another breath. Then she turned back, wearing a grim expression. “But it needs to stop. Olga’s talent balanced other...weaknesses in your program. Lara is a skater comparable to Olga. Carrie is not.”