by Teri Wilson
Tomorrow, he promised himself. If not tomorrow, the day after. Soon.
The throb in his head grew too insistent to ignore. He needed sleep. Maybe when he woke up his life would make more sense. It could happen, right?
He opened the journal to stick the card back inside. But his hands shook with pain, and the book slipped from his grasp. It landed on the tray with a thud and flipped open to the final page. Unlike the other pages, which contained lines upon lines of handwritten notes, this one contained only a single sentence. Four words.
Maxim stared in disbelief.
Je suis Maxim Romanov.
I am Maxim Romanov.
CHAPTER
* * *
TWO
Finley Abbot couldn’t stop pacing.
She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. As a curator at the Louvre, part of her job was to give presentations to educate the public about art and art history. Every month or so, she even taught a class at the Institut National du Patrimoine. If she could hold her own in front of a classroom of serious art students, surely she could keep it together in front of a small crowd of booklovers.
Then again, this wasn’t just any bookstore. It was Shakespeare and Company, the oldest English bookstore in Paris. George Whitman had opened the doors of this cozy shop in the shadow of Notre Dame back in 1951, and since then it had grown to become nearly as fabled as the Louvre itself. It was the successor of the original Shakespeare and Company, opened by Sylvia Beach in 1919, which catered to expats such as Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, and James Joyce. The literary clientele of the second Shakespeare and Company was no less prestigious. Anaïs Nin had not only written here, she’d slept here. As had Allen Ginsberg. And Henry Miller.
All those late nights Finley had spent slaving away on her manuscript, prepublication, in the bookstore’s café, she’d thought about the tiny twin beds tucked into the corners of the upstairs reading rooms. She’d thought about all the famous writers who’d slept in those beds.
So many of them had been American expats, just like her. She’d wondered what it had been like to fall asleep surrounded by all those books and wake up to the hallowed ringing of Notre Dame’s bells.
Mostly, though, she’d fantasized about crawling into one of those beds and taking a nap.
Writing a book was exhausting, and she wasn’t even a real writer. She was an art historian. But she was also the only American on the curatorial staff of sixty at the Louvre, and if she had any hope of making a name for herself there, she needed to step up her game.
So she’d taken a deep dive into the Russian history section at Shakespeare and Company. Anything French was obviously out of the question. She couldn’t begin to compete with the Parisians when it came to their own country. But American art was simply too young for the Louvre.
She’d been fascinated with the Romanovs for almost as long as she could remember. When she was in the sixth grade, she’d seen a grainy black-and-white film about the Tsar Nicholas II and his family during history class at school and sat wide-eyed at its terrifying conclusion. The duchesses had been so beautiful in their romantic, floor-length gowns. So young. When Finley had heard that they’d sewn jewels inside their dresses in order to hide them, she’d cried.
The tragedy of it all had stuck with her. What would it be like to study those jewels? To find them? To put them on display for the world to see?
She’d studied a century’s worth of documents and photographs. She’d even made a trip to St. Petersburg during her Christmas vacation. Now she was one of Paris’s foremost experts on the Romanov dynasty, at least as far as their art and antiquities collection was concerned.
As of today, she was also a published author.
“Can I get you anything, Finley? Your usual cappuccino, perhaps?” Scott shot her a wink as he looked up from the row of chairs he’d just arranged in the French literature section. Although, arranged was probably too generous a word. The old wooden chairs looked like they’d been shoehorned in place. Shakespeare and Company wasn’t exactly known for its abundance of space.
Which was probably for the best. How many people were really that interested in hearing Finley wax poetic about the Empress Alexandra’s favorite family portraits or the feathered fans belonging to her eldest daughters, Olga and Tatiana? “Merci, but no. Coffee will only make me more jittery than I already am.”
“Relax, mon ami. You’ll be magnificent.” Scott smiled and set another stack of her books on the table in the center of the room.
There were so many of them. What if every single book was still sitting there three hours from now?
She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Do you think anyone will actually show? Other than my coworkers from the museum. And my boss.”
How mortifying would it be to crash and burn in front of her colleagues after working for over a year on this book and convincing the decorative arts department at the Louvre to let her put together an accompanying exhibit? Très mortifying.
At least Scott was here. He wasn’t just the bookshop manager, but also Finley’s closest friend. He was the first person she’d officially met upon her arrival in Paris. She’d been standing right outside the store trying to decipher a map of Paris, and he’d seen her through the shop window and taken pity on her. After he’d steered her in the direction of her apartment, she’d returned the next day in search of a friendly face. She’d been back to Shakespeare and Company pretty much every day since.
“Are you kidding? Prepare for a massive crowd.” Scott stared at her over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Everyone’s into the Romanovs. Their story is one of history’s most famous unsolved mysteries.”
Finley squeezed into one of the tiny rows of chairs to place a card with details of her upcoming art exhibit in each seat. “You’re talking about Anastasia, aren’t you?”
“What else would I be talking about? There have been two movies about her, plus at least one stage play.” He gestured toward the piano room upstairs that housed the shop’s biographies. “She’s got her own shelf up there, but I’m sure you know that already.”
Finley knew the Anastasia shelf like the back of her hand. “I also know what happened to her. She was killed by a Bolshevik firing squad along with the rest of her family in 1918. Anastasia’s remains were found six years ago and identified by DNA.”
Scott frowned. “I always forget that part.”
“Everyone does.” Since the moment of the execution, rumors had swirled that Anastasia somehow escaped her family’s doomed fate. Anastasia imposters had turned up all over Europe, most notably in Paris. The truth was simply too tragic to believe. “But trust me. There’s no unsolved mystery. There’s no mystery at all. She’s been dead for nearly one hundred years.”
Of course not everyone accepted the DNA evidence as accurate, but that was a minor detail. Each and every woman who’d come forward claiming to be Anastasia had been a fraud. It was a wonder what lengths people would go to if they thought they could get rich.
“You might want to soften that a bit for your audience.” Scott glanced at the door, where two elderly women had just walked inside. “Just a suggestion.”
Sugarcoat the execution. Note taken.
Scott moved closer and murmured so quietly that Finley had to strain to hear him. “Also, tell me you’re not walking home alone tonight.”
“Are you propositioning me, Scott?” She widened her eyes in mock horror. “What would Pierre say?”
“Pierre knows better than to believe I’d ever cheat on him, silly girl.” His expression then turned uncharacteristically grim. “And I’m being serious. Someone was attacked near here a few weeks ago. A man.”
“News flash. Paris is big city. I’m sure people get mugged here all the time, men included.” How many times had she been warned about the pickpockets in Europe before she’d left Co
nnecticut for the curatorial program at École du Louvre? Dozens. At least.
Although in her experience, Paris got a bad rap in that department. The good things about living here far outweighed the bad. Paris was so beautiful that being here was like walking inside an Impressionist masterpiece. Even after three years as a Parisian, the sheer beauty of the city never failed to take her breath away.
Besides, bad things happened everywhere. Unspeakable things. Violent things. No place was entirely safe.
As Finley knew all too well.
“It wasn’t just a mugging. Someone beat the poor guy to a pulp and left him for dead right across the street.” Scott’s gaze flitted toward the front window of the shop where Notre Dame glowed like a golden beacon of hope against the swirling Van Gogh sky.
“By the cathedral?” That seemed wrong on every possible level.
Scott lifted a brow. “Directly across the square from the church’s entrance. You know the spot.”
Finley nodded. Point Zero. The place where everything in Paris found its beginning. “That’s horrible.”
“It’s more than horrible. People can’t stop talking about it. They’re afraid. Business is down by more than ten percent. We’ll be fine. The bookstore can take a hit like that, but some of the smaller neighborhood businesses are struggling. Everyone’s terrified. Since when do people get attacked right in front of a church?” Scott shook his head.
Finley’s throat went dry. “Do the police have any leads?”
“Not that I know of. They came by asking questions right after it happened.” He shrugged. “None of the Tumbleweeds saw anything.”
The Tumbleweeds—writers and artists from all walks of life who lived in the store from time to time. On any given night, there were people tucked into the shop’s bunks like books on a shelf.
“Do you know anything about the guy who was attacked?” Finley’s heart pounded hard against her rib cage. “Is he okay?”
Of course he wasn’t. No one would be okay after being so brutally assaulted. She didn’t even know why she’d asked.
Except she did. She just didn’t want to think about it.
“I don’t know much, other than the guy apparently doesn’t remember a thing. He’s got amnesia.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Finley said.
Scott’s brow furrowed. She ignored the questions in his eyes and dug around in her handbag for her lecture notes. She should be thinking about her presentation right now, not a tragedy that had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
“Whoever he is, he’s lucky to be alive. The photos on social media are horrifying,” Scott said under his breath.
“Photos?” Finley stared at him, mouth agape. “A person got mugged and someone took pictures instead of helping him?”
“The world is a cruel place, oui? In fairness, the pictures weren’t taken during the attack, but afterward. The guy is just lying there in a huge pool of blood. It’s terrifying.” Scott shuddered. “Just do me a favor and try not to walk around the area by yourself late at night. Promise me. S’il vous plaît?”
Finley nodded. “I promise.”
She’d promise anything if it meant a change in subject matter. She couldn’t go down that road right now. She just couldn’t.
Besides, she was telling the truth. She had an escort pretty much everywhere she went. Granted, that escort had four legs and a tail and wasn’t here tonight. But he totally counted.
The door opened again, and a pair of curators from the Louvre’s paintings department, Simone and Henri, waved to her. Before the door clicked shut, four more people walked in.
Showtime.
Scott had been right. By eight o’clock, the tiny bookshop was packed from wall to wall. Finley spotted a few familiar faces from the museum, including her boss from the decorative arts curatorial department, but there were plenty of regular people, too. Actual readers. The sight of all those people clutching her book had a strange, calming effect.
Her voice didn’t waver a bit when she started her presentation. “Thank you for coming. It’s good to see that so many of you are interested in preserving the memory of the Romanovs. July 17, 2018 will mark the one hundredth anniversary of the execution of the Tsar and his family. My book and the upcoming exhibit at the Louvre were designed to remember this important centenary.”
Finley then launched into a discussion of the artifacts that had been recovered from the Tsar’s various palaces, from the Empress Alexandra’s lone pearl earring to the Fabergé pieces the family so famously commissioned—a hot pink enamel snuff box, an eagle broach made as a souvenir for Alexei’s baptism, and of course the collection of decorative Fabergé eggs.
When the time came, she barely mentioned the family’s execution by the Bolsheviks. Instead, she closed by discussing a delicate white blouse she’d convinced the Foundation of Russian History to loan to the Louvre for her exhibit. The piece was in pristine condition. Not one of its pearl buttons was missing, and the embroidery was breathtakingly detailed. Most notably, though, the blouse had belonged to the Grand Duchess Anastasia.
Finley still couldn’t believe she’d managed to get her hands on it. “The blouse is my favorite piece in the collection. I hope you all come to see it when the exhibit opens later this week at the Louvre’s Mollien rooms.”
A hand went up from one of the back rows.
“As-tu une question?” Do you have a question? Finley craned her neck to peer over the heads of the audience members closest to her.
“Oui,” said a deep, masculine voice—the sort of voice Finley never would have imagined might ask a question about a girl’s embroidered blouse.
The man stood. His dark gaze bore into her, and a flutter of nerves made a rapid return. “How can you be sure the blouse belonged to Anastasia?”
Finley’s mouth grew dry. He was awfully handsome, despite a rather angry-looking bruise on his left temple. A brooding sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that made her forget what she was doing standing in front of fifty-plus people in one of the most beloved bookshops in the world.
Focus.
Oh, right. The Romanovs. Anastasia. The blouse . . .
She cleared her throat. “It’s the sort of blouse a young, aristocratic girl in Russia would wear during the time period. Although Anastasia had three sisters—Olga, Tatiana, and Maria—we have provenance placing the garment as Anastasia’s.”
“Provenance?” He lifted a brow.
Something about him seemed familiar, although Finley couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She was certain she’d never seen him before. She’d been preoccupied with her exhibit lately. And the book, obviously.
But she wasn’t blind, and she would’ve definitely remembered meeting a man who gave her serious Mr. Darcy vibes. Well, if Darcy had been a Russian-history enthusiast. “Provenance is any kind of documented evidence that helps establish an object’s authenticity. In this case, it’s photographic evidence.”
He frowned, and somehow he managed to look even hotter with a scowl on his face. “So you have pictures of Anastasia wearing the blouse?”
She held up a finger. “One photograph. But the blouse is easily identifiable.”
“I see.” He nodded, but made no move to sit down. Or smile, for that matter.
“Did you have another question?” This was getting weird. Or maybe she was just imagining things. Scott had spooked her with his warnings about walking around alone at night. She didn’t have any reason whatsoever to feel unsettled by a handsome stranger at her own lecture.
He stared at her for a moment without saying anything. The audience began squirming in their chairs.
Definitely weird. Très weird.
“No,” he finally said. “Merci.”
Finley took a few more questions, but as she answered them, her gaze kept flitting back to the man in the b
ack row. Every time she caught a glimpse of him, he had his head down. It almost looked as if he was taking notes on what she was saying, but she couldn’t be sure. The room was too crowded to get a good look at him once he’d sat down.
Quel pity.
When she finished answering questions, Finley took a seat at the crooked little table Scott had set up by the store’s antique cash register. She signed books as Scott handled money and stamped the inside cover of each hardback with the store’s seal—a circle encompassing the Bard’s face, surrounded by the words Shakespeare and Company, Kilometer Zero Paris.
She told herself she didn’t care if the brooding man from the back row purchased a book or not, but when she looked up and saw him staring down at her with serious blue eyes, a nonsensical ribbon of relief wound its way through her.
Super professional, Finley.
What had gotten into her?
She gripped the pen in her hand hard to keep it from shaking. “Thank you for coming. How shall I inscribe your book?”
He frowned again, as if she’d asked him a complicated math problem rather than his name. “Maxim.”
Maxim. Of course he was called something exotic.
“Here you go. Merci.” She handed him his signed book.
He took it. “Thank you for an enlightening evening.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled.
Then he walked away. As he should have.
But Finley couldn’t help but feel a little deflated once he’d gone.
“Tonight went well. You must be thrilled.” Scott shot her a wink once the crowd had gone and the store had grown quiet. “I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so.”
Finley narrowed her gaze at him. “You don’t seem like you hate it at all.”
He shrugged. “Busted. I don’t, actually.”
She laughed. “Well, you’re right. I’m thrilled. It was an interesting crowd, don’t you think?”
“It’s always an interesting crowd around here.” Scott flipped the sign on the door from Open to Closed.