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
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
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