Page 45 of Shining Through

“I do. Not easy, but possible. What we do every day on the ice isn’t easy, yet we do it, and succeed.”

He took a sip from his drink, but it was empty. He’d drained it while talking about his sad excuse for a father. But she reminded him what was important.

“This is our last night together until you come to Russia in November for St. Petersburg Cup. The night is beautiful. The moon is out. We should go enjoy it.”

Over the harbour, the full moon bathed everything in a soft, golden glow. They paused at a lookout point, and Tabitha rested her elbows on the railing. She gazed out at the dark water, and he gazed at her.

His jaw had about dropped when he’d picked her up at the hotel tonight. That sexy little skirt showed off her gorgeous, strong skater’s legs, and the red spike heels had walked straight out of a wet dream. The wind lifted her hair. Most often, it was a flawless golden curtain, but he preferred it this way. “I like your hair when it’s full of waves and curls. Did you do something different to it?”

“It’s how my hair looks naturally. Except it isn’t blond.”

The thought of seeing more of the real Tabitha intrigued him. “What color is it?”

“Kind of in-between, too dark to be blond, too light to be brown. One of my aunts called it dishwater blond, and it made me cry. Who wants hair the color of dishwater?”

He smiled. “I’d like to see you with your curly dishwater hair.”

“Not this season, you won’t.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head, but didn’t seem annoyed. More like she was humoring him, in an affectionate way.

“I’ll wait.”

His gaze dropped to her tempting body. Her clothes hinted at the beauty concealed. A perfect ass encased in the black skirt. Slender waist defined by a thin red belt, the round swell of small breasts he ached to cup in his hands. He stood behind her, and wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her close. She dropped her head back against his shoulder. His lips brushed against her soft hair.

She tilted her head to look at him, and the light caught her face. Fresh, innocent, but with a red siren’s mouth, and so beautiful she took his breath away. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Those tempting lips curved into a smile, and she stood taller, angling her head so their mouths were lined up just right. He dipped his head to claim her mouth, smelled her crisp perfume and tasted the sweetness of her chocolate martini. Still holding her against him, he brought his hand up to cup one small perfect breast. As he stroked his thumb across the soft swell, her nipple hardened beneath the thin fabric of her shirt and bra. In response to his touch, she rubbed her ass against his cock. Erect and throbbing, he gripped her tighter.

Her breathing came in soft little gasps as he kissed the elegant column of her neck. She clutched his arm, and her nails dug into his skin. And over the soft brush of cool sea wind, he heard her gasp out a single word. “Paris.”

He paused, his jangled thoughts scrambled to understand. His next competition, Le Trophée de France, was three weeks from now, in Paris. He hadn’t expected her to fly in for the weekend. “You’re coming to see me? How? When?”

“I learned tonight Brett and I were invited to an advertising photo shoot in Grenoble the day before Le Trophee starts. We’ll fly in and out of Paris.”

He couldn’t believe his good fortune. “So we’ll be together in three weeks?”

“Oui,” she said, smiling. “And I want you to kiss me like this on top of the Eiffel Tower.”

~

The next morning, Daniil, Yelena, and the coaches waited at the hotel entrance, as departing skaters boarded shuttle vans bound for the Vancouver airport. He saw the young American skater, Mia Lang and her coach, but the person he most wanted to see had left on an earlier flight. There had been no chance to say a proper goodbye, so he’d settled for remembering last night on the pier, and how perfect she’d felt in his arms.

The shuttle pulled away from the front, and the next car up was the black convertible he’d rented for the week. It was powerful and flashy—rather like Nikolai, whose money had paid for it. He liked the car less than he did ten days ago.

The valet handed over the keys to Daniil and helped load their bags. Ilya and Yelena took the back seat, Anton the front. A single raindrop splashed on the windshield, so Daniil raised the top. The bench where Tabitha waited last night looked lonely in daylight.

Though he’d see her in three weeks rather than six when she came to St. Petersburg, he felt a twinge of melancholy. A lot could happen in three weeks. He could get hurt and not be able to compete. She could change her mind about coming to France. About him.

Tabitha was complicated. As much as he wanted them to find their happy ending, there was no guarantee. Her life still held much uncertainty, and she was struggling to find answers. It was possible the answers she found wouldn’t include him.

If that happened, he knew what he wouldn’t do— put her or himself through the ugly vengeance-fueled drama that characterized his parents’ break-up. If Tabitha wanted out, he’d give it to her and walk away. Clean breaks were always best.

But he shook the thought away. They’d had a beautiful evening together last night and were making plans for another. She wanted to kiss him on top of the Eiffel Tower. Why was he thinking about the end of something that was just getting started?

They arrived well ahead of their late afternoon flight. After clearing security and finding their departure gate; Ilya and Yelena went in search of a passable meal. Daniil and Anton stayed with the luggage. Though Anton was more his good-natured self today, he looked grim as he stared at his phone. It could be the prospect of a seven hour flight. Or maybe it was still about yesterday. If the problem was Tabitha, it was best to have it out now, while Yelena and Ilya were gone. “Is everything okay?”

His coach looked up. “Yuri Bogdanov sends his congratulations.”

At first, Daniil didn’t understand the problem. Bogdanov was the head of Russian figure skating, and he would pay close attention to how Russia’s skaters performed. But the time Daniil had spent in Bogdanov’s training group had proven Bogdanov’s close attention wasn’t a good thing. And not once since Daniil had been training under Anton had he offered congratulations.

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