Playing to Win (The Complete Series Box Set): 3 romances with angst and humor

by Alix Nichols

  His expression was a little strange when he heard the news, but he took me into his arms and said he was happy. I spent the next three months in a blissful cocoon, shopping for baby clothes and choosing names.

  When I was five months along, Stan dumped me with a one-sentence text message. At first I thought it was a bad joke, but then he quit the school, changed his phone number, and disappeared into his rich boys’ universe to which I had no access.

  Somehow, I managed to get a hold of one of his buddies.

  He told me about the wager. Stan had bet his best friend a lot of money that he’d not only deflower Moscow’s last virgin but he would also knock her up. The reason he’d stuck around for the last three months was to make sure I didn’t get an abortion, and he had solid proof—my protruding belly and ultrasound images of the fetus—to validate his win.

  Four months later, I delivered a healthy baby boy and gave him up for adoption.

  Men are animals, as Mom says.

  I agree. Stan, for one, is a certified hyena.

  Anton… Anton is a wolf. He’s devoted to his family, loyal to his pack, and ruthless to outsiders.

  Which is exactly what I am—an outsider.

  I can’t afford to fall in love again.

  I really, really can’t.

  Because love is a professional jailer.

  It locks you up in a cell, shackles you to the wall, reduces your world to the confines of your dungeon and rips the wings from all your plans, dreams, and desires that it deems irrelevant. You end up a single-minded wreck, your entire being—mind, body, and soul—focused on one man, your brain in a fog, and your thoughts in a muddle. You become a zombie oblivious to that man’s blatant lies, to his control over your life, to the obliteration of your personality…

  To the hopelessness of it all.

  Chapter 10

  Picnic on the Garden Ring

  I’ve turned thirty-four today. It’s very cool to have your birthday around Easter. Everything is in bloom as if nature wants to mark the occasion, and on a good year, one can even picnic on the Garden Ring.

  Which is what Mom and I are about to do.

  We’ve spread the blankets and set out our sandwiches, rolls, fruit, and drinks. Mom’s made a fudge cake as she always does. I’ve brought a bottle of bubbly. It isn’t just my birthday we’re celebrating. It’s also Mom’s recovery. Strictly speaking, she’s only in remission, and she’ll need to wait five years to be considered cured. But that’s beside the point. What matters is that she’s been in the clear for a month, that the treatment has worked incredibly well, and that today she’s as healthy as she can be.

  I pop the cork and fill our plastic flutes. “To your health, Mom!”

  She touches her cup to mine. “Happy birthday, sweetheart!”

  “I’m taking you to a seaside resort in July,” I announce.

  “You’ve become terribly bossy lately.” She picks up a sandwich and bites into it. “I’m not going anywhere. Moscow is the place to be in summer. Besides, I’ve made all kinds of cultural plans with my hot flash divorcée gang.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “You go. God knows you need a break.”

  “I do?”

  “Annushka, you’ve been wasting away since Christmas, and it worries me.”

  “I’ve had a lot on my plate.”

  “I know. But I also know that you’ve been getting paler and thinner even as I’ve been on the mend.”

  “It’s the work stress,” I say, studying my sandwich.

  “You’re a terrible liar.” She takes my hand. “Last time you looked like this was when Stan jilted you.”

  I keep silent.

  “Will you tell me who he is—the man you’re pining for?” she asks.

  I shrug. “What does it matter? They’re all the same. They’re animals, as you’ve always said. They hurt women as soon as they get the chance.”

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” she says. “It’s my fault.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She sighs and tilts her head back for a while, staring at the clouds. When she returns her gaze to mine, her eyes glisten.

  “Mom what’s wrong?”

  “Listen to me carefully.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “It’s true, I’ve been hurt, and you’ve been hurt even worse. Men can be cruel. But there are good men out there, too.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Name one.”

  “Um… Jesus Christ?”

  “Mom.”

  “OK, OK, he’s part God, so it doesn’t count. But what about Gandhi? And Dalai Lama? And that guy we saw on the news last night—the one who jumped into the Neva and saved three kids from drowning?”

  “What’s your point?”

  She peers at me. “My point is that I have no regrets. I’ve had more disappointments than I deserve, but if I could turn back the time, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She nods. “I’ve known love. I’ve had my moments. And you know what? When death stares into your eyes, it’s those moments that you remember and you tell yourself, I’ve lived.”

  I can’t believe she’s saying this. I can’t believe how much her illness has changed her.

  “What about me?” I struggle to keep my lower lip from pouting.

  Get a grip, woman.

  She grins and strokes my hand.

  Nice try, Mom, but you aren’t getting off the hook so easily. I need an answer. “I thought I was the love of your life, the apple of your eye, and the joy of your existence. Didn’t you always tell me it’s you and me against the world?”

  “You are the best thing that’s happened to me, sweetheart,” she says. “But you wouldn’t have happened had I not fallen in love with your dad.”

  “Oh, so you now feel grateful to the bastard who left us when I was little without as much as an apology?”

  “He’s a jerk, all right, but I’m grateful I crossed paths with him.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Mom.”

  “Anna, here’s what I’ve learned over the past few months. When you approach your last station—or what you believe to be your last station—you realize the only thing that gives meaning to your life is the love you’ve known. All kinds of it. Regardless of how they ended.”

  “How can you say that, with all the suffering men have caused you?”

  “In the end, it doesn’t matter,” she says. “What matters is that I’ve cared deeply enough to make myself vulnerable.”

  I smirk. “Would you recommend I start wearing a T-shirt that says, ‘I’m fair game’?”

  She smiles. “Of course not. I’m just… I just don’t want you to miss out on beautiful things, sweetie. Things that make life worth living.”

  “Even if it all ends in tears?”

  She lets out a long sigh. “Even so.”

  We stay in the park for three more hours. We finish our food and drink, but we can’t stop talking. I tell Mom about Anton—the heavily edited version of it, at any rate. I confess how much I miss him, and that I’ve probably ruined what could’ve been one the most beautiful things in my life. When she asks why, I just tell her our affair had no future. She assumes he’s married. That’s OK. It’s better than telling her the truth.

  Anything is better than telling Mom I’m in love with a man who paid to have sex with me.

  Isn’t it funny how our hearts work? When I returned to Moscow from Paris, I expected to forget him within a couple of weeks. It’s been over two months now, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. If anything, he’s become more real to me. I just need to close my eyes to smell his skin, hear his voice, and taste his mouth.

  The truth is, there’s no point in protecting myself from the future pain of when Anton’s done with me, because I’m already hurting. My whole body’s sore from the intensity with which I miss him.

  OK, there’s also the distinct possibility that he’s already moved on, hooked up with a woman from
his circles, and forgotten about me. Or he may simply refuse to talk to me, given how we parted at the end of January.

  Well, that would actually be a good thing. Wouldn’t I prefer outright rejection to a month with Anton ending in a shattered heart?

  I ponder the matter for a few moments and, to my horror and incomprehension, conclude that I’d take the month and the heartbreak.

  Chapter 11

  Taking Chances

  Anton was brief over the phone. Hello… Yes… I’m busy right now… I’ll pick you up at eight. I don’t think he even said good-bye.

  Well, at least he didn’t hang up on me.

  At eight sharp, I’m downstairs and so is Anton’s black Audi. His driver rounds the car and opens the rear door for me. The windows are tinted, and I’m not sure if Anton is inside until I land on the backseat.

  He is—just an arm’s length away from me.

  We greet each other politely. His hazel eyes are impenetrable. What did I expect? A bear hug and a smooch?

  That would’ve been nice, though. Even a tiny brush of his hand against mine would have been wonderful right now.

  But Anton is aloof, so instead of leaning against his chest as I’ve been dying to do, I turn away and stare out the window.

  As we drive through the busy streets, we pass the Ritz. Are we going to a cheaper hotel? Is it an indication of my degraded status? Does it presage the way things will be between us this time round? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

  The car pulls into a high-end residential compound near the Patriarchy Ponds. I follow Anton into a luxury building, across the foyer, and into the elevator. We get out on the twelfth floor where Anton unlocks a heavy door—the only door on the landing—and ushers me in.

  This must be his apartment.

  Surely, it’s a good sign he’s brought me here?

  He motions me to the immense living room. “Please have a seat. I’ll fetch some food from the kitchen. The housekeeper was supposed to prepare cold cuts and canapé sandwiches.”

  I nod and head to the sofa.

  When Anton reappears, holding a tray loaded with yummy foods, his suit jacket is gone and so is his tie. The sleeves of his pale blue dress shirt are rolled up, and he looks more relaxed than he was in the car.

  I should stop staring at him.

  He places the tray on the large coffee table, sits on the sofa and hands me a plate. “What did you want to tell me?”

  My heart skips a beat. He clearly isn’t going to do small talk so I can ease into my proposition.

  I put my plate on the table and clear my throat.

  OK. All right. Here goes. “Do you still want exclusivity with me?”

  “Why are you asking that?”

  “Because I want it too.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  What, indeed?

  Several things, actually. Failure to become a machine. Seventy-four nights without you. Weakness. Desire. Love. Take your pick, Anton.

  I sigh. “I’ve been miserable without you.”

  “Have you now?” His expression is impenetrable.

  I look down at my plate. “Before I tell you more, you should know that I’ve fought it. I really didn’t mean for it to happen, and I promise I won’t let it turn me into a needy, clingy, silly cow.” I suck in a breath, and blurt out on the exhale, “I’m in love with you.”

  Silence.

  “And I don’t want your money,” I add quickly, eyes still on my plate. “I don’t need gifts or Parisian holidays. I just want to be with you. As your girlfriend, not your escort or your paid mistress.”

  There, I said it.

  My left lid starts twitching, my palms are wet, and my legs are shaking a little. I look up. His gaze burns into mine, but he says nothing.

  Don’t keep me hanging, Anton. Don’t let me come undone.

  He takes my hand and begins to trace little circles on my wrist. Then he moves closer, lifts my hand to his lips, and presses a kiss to the inside of my palm.

  I let out a ragged breath as relief washes over me. It’s a yes. He still wants me. Giddy and emboldened by his response, I close the remaining distance between us. He sits back and pulls me onto his lap. I stroke his cheek and then his jaw, remembering the feel of him. I’m so hungry for his kiss I can barely think straight.

  So I give up on thinking and kiss him instead.

  Ooh, the bliss. His warm lips open around mine and his tongue pushes inside my mouth. I close my eyes, and the world falls away except for his delicious taste, his strong arms around me, and his muscular thighs under me.

  We kiss until I’m dizzy and so aroused that he need only touch me to make me come.

  Right on cue, he sets his hand on my knee, slips it under my skirt and begins to move it up. He squeezes and kneads the sensitive flesh on the inside of my thigh, his hand climbing slowly and purposefully. His pace is exquisite and excruciating at the same time.

  I can’t help moaning against his mouth when the tips of his fingers finally brush my center. A second later his large hand settles exactly where I need it to be. For a few moments he just holds me through the thin fabric of my panties, his grip firm, warm and possessive.

  I stop kissing him, stop moaning, stop breathing. All my consciousness focuses on one spot. His primal gesture—the age-old impulse of a man lusting after a woman—feels acutely, breathtakingly intimate. It arouses me more than the most sophisticated caresses I’ve ever known.

  I stare into his eyes.

  He stares back, his gaze dark with desire—and it’s my undoing. The aching need inside me becomes unbearable, overriding every other thought and sensation. I press myself into his hand, and that tiny friction sends me over the edge.

  He begins to stroke me. My bones are already soft with pleasure, but I want more. I stand up and remove my panties. He unzips his trousers and slips a condom on in record time.

  And then I grip his shoulders and straddle him.

  A host of delicious sensations courses through me as I lower myself onto him. But beyond the sweetness, the thrill and the soothed ache, there lurks something deeper, something I can no longer deny. Connection. Belonging. The joy of having found my way home.

  I close my eyes to savor the moment. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  He grabs my hips, lifts me up and then pushes me down as he thrusts from underneath. A guttural noise escapes from his chest. I don’t need further encouragement. We rock in a frantic rhythm until he throws his head back and growls his release. Seeing him like that sends my primed body into another blissful climax.

  After we’ve cleaned ourselves up and resumed our meal, it occurs to me that I may have misinterpreted what just happened. Anton didn’t actually say yes to my proposition. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all.

  He stroked, kissed and fucked me instead.

  Panic twists my stomach. Why hasn’t he voiced his consent? Is he still angry with me? Does he despise me? What if he doesn’t want me as a girlfriend? What if all he wants from me is sex?

  I watch him work through his plate with an obvious appetite, and I force myself to calm down. He’ll talk, eventually. If I know him at all and if I’m not as wrong about him as I was about Stan, he won’t play with me.

  He’ll tell me what he wants.

  Anton devours another canapé, washes it down with a big gulp of water, and turns to me. “You know, if you’d waited one more day, I’d planned to come over to talk some sense into you.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “I have a confession to make.”

  I stiffen a little and wait for him to continue.

  “In February, after I came home from a string of business trips, I asked Moscow’s best private eye to dig into your past.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how I found out about your mother’s illness. And about the child you gave up for adoption.”

  I’m too dumbfounded to respond.

  “I’m sorry for intruding int
o your life like that, but knowing those things helped me understand a lot about you.”

  Maybe. But the end doesn’t justify the means. “Anton, you shouldn’t have.”

  “I disagree. Had I not done it, I wouldn’t have found out why you sold your body.”

  He gives me a defiant look.

  I ponder his words. Hmm. Maybe hiring a PI wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  “Another thing I learned is that you hadn’t been given to bed hopping before your ingenious buddy Filip set you up in business.”

  I hold his gaze.

  “And finally,” he continues, “I know that everything you’ve told me about yourself was true. You withheld some information, which is understandable considering the nature of our relationship at the time. But you’ve never attempted to deceive me or lie to me.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  He leans forward. “And there’s more.”

  His voice is grave and his stare hard. I don’t like where this conversation is going.

  “After the PI gave me the lowdown on your past, I asked him to keep tabs on you. I had him take pictures of you getting into your clients’ cars and entering hotels with them. Those photos were supposed to be my bitter medicine.”

  I smirk. “Were they?”

  “Bitter, yes. Medicine, no.”

  Oh, Anton.

  “But a month ago, the photos stopped, and three days ago he confirmed you had quit your escort business.” He gives me a probing look.

  “That’s correct. Mom responded so well to the initial regimen that her treatment turned out to be a lot cheaper than we expected.”

  He grabs both my hands and holds them for a long moment. The expression on his face is intense.

  “Anna,” he says at last, his voice tinted with emotion. “Will you marry me?”

  My jaw drops.

  He frames my face with his hands. “I need you in my life as much as I need you in my bed.”

  “You don’t have to marry me to have me in your life,” I say.

  He smiles. “I’m forty-five and I know what I want. I also know who I want. And since we’ve just established you want me too, I don’t see why we should waste time on… dating.”