by Teri Wilson
Her gaze landed on Maxim Laurent the moment she entered the portrait gallery. She recognized him at once, even from behind.
Broad-shouldered and brooding, he stood staring at the painting in front of him, almost as if in a trance. She moved toward him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Not even when she faced him straight on.
Finley concentrated on breathing in and out as she allowed herself a brief moment to take in the sculpted beauty of his face—aristocratic cheekbones, impossibly straight nose, and a jaw that looked as though it could grind coal into diamonds.
But it was his eyes that made her go weak in the knees. Eyes so intense they could unearth secrets. Deep, Prussian blue.
Bedroom eyes.
Could this be the man from the awful video and the pictures she’d been poring over all morning? It was impossible to tell. The photos were grainy, and the guy had been facedown. But he had the same build as Maxim.
She swallowed hard, and her gaze drifted to the painting that had so captured his attention. It was Valentin Serov’s portrait of Nicholas II, the last of the Romanovs. Emperor of all Russia. Husband of Alexandra Feodorovna. Father of Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Alexei, and of course, Anastasia.
Finley had seen the painting many times. Hundreds, if not thousands. She’d studied it so often while writing her book that she sometimes dreamed about it. But seeing it hanging before Maxim was almost like seeing it for the first time.
Her breath caught in her throat. The resemblance between the man in the painting and the man who’d introduced himself to her as Maxim Romanov was uncanny.
Surely she was imagining things. It was the power of suggestion that made the slant of their jawlines so similar. Nothing more. He’d all but told her he believed himself to be a relative of the last Tsar.
But what of the smooth, noble planes of their faces? Or the serious cut of their brows? And those Prussian blue eyes . . .
No wonder she’d thought Maxim seemed familiar.
Stop. You’re only seeing what he wants you to see.
She cleared her throat. “Monsieur Laurent.” She placed special emphasis on his surname, purely for her own benefit.
Trance broken, he blinked and swiveled his gaze toward her. “Maxim. Call me Maxim, please.”
“This is quite a surprise.” She swallowed. “Maxim.”
A hint of a grin came to his lips, and she realized she’d never seen him smile before. It somehow made him more handsome, if such a thing were possible.
She cast a meaningful glance at the painting. “I see you’ve found Nicholas II.”
He nodded and swiveled his gaze toward the canvas, where the last Romanov Tsar stared back at them from a vivid eruption of colorful brushstrokes. “He looks different in this portrait from the others I’ve seen.”
Finley agreed, but was curious to hear why he thought so. Most of the people she knew had spent years reading about art and discussing it. It was intriguing to get a fresh perspective. “How so?”
Maxim’s brow furrowed. “He looks less like an emperor in this one, and more like an actual person. Human.”
Finley’s throat grew tight for some silly reason. “Like a man instead of a political figure. I agree. It’s my favorite rendering of Nicholas II, actually.”
“Then it seems we have something in common.” Maxim smiled again, and this time, it sent a riot of awareness skittering through her. She felt the same unfurling ribbon of desire that had begun to loosen inside her at the bookstore the night before. She pressed her thighs together, to no avail.
What am I doing?
Whatever she was doing, she shouldn’t be doing it here. This was her workplace. Maxim had already spoken to her boss, obviously. What if he’d introduced himself as Maxim Romanov? Wouldn’t that have been a treat?
If she were being honest with herself, she shouldn’t be doing this anywhere. At least not until she’d figured out why Maxim thought she could help him. The more she considered the things he’d said, the more ridiculous they sounded. Scott was right. The man was a total stranger. Emphasis on strange.
Those things were just so easy to forget, though, when he was standing less than a foot away looking as good, if not better, than practically all of the Greek gods in the museum’s sculpture gallery.
But it wasn’t just his appearance she liked. It was the way he looked at her. His focus was concentrated. Singular. They could have been standing in an empty, windowless room. But they weren’t. They were surrounded by the finest art in the world, yet he only had eyes for her.
It should have embarrassed her or at the very least, unnerved her. It didn’t. On the contrary, she quite liked it. Which was odd, considering that she’d spent the past few years trying to make herself invisible.
People couldn’t hurt what they couldn’t see.
“Why are you here, Maxim?” She lifted her chin and looked him square in the eyes. It was time they cut to the chase.
His smile faded as quickly as it appeared. “I need to show you something.”
Finley’s gaze drifted to the brown leather notebook in his hands. She hadn’t a clue what was inside it and couldn’t imagine what it could possibly have to do with her. Or the Romanovs, for that matter.
“Look, is there someplace where we could talk?” Maxim cast a dark glance at the security guard standing quietly in the corner. “In private.”
Finley hadn’t even registered the guard’s presence. Security officers were all over the Louvre. Museum guidelines mandated there be at least one in every room. In their understated navy suits and ties, they pretty much blended into the background. Which was the whole purpose of the plain-clothes uniform.
The building’s entrances and exits, on the other hand, were all guarded by either two or four French policemen carrying machine guns. Those guys were a little harder to forget.
“I share an office with six other assistant curators. Why don’t we go for a walk?” As foolish as agreeing to leave the museum with him seemed, it was her only option. The walls of the Louvre had ears.
The Jardin des Tuileries was right outside. They could get away from prying eyes, but at the same time still be surrounded by people. As intrigued as Finley might be, she still wasn’t certain she should go anywhere alone with Maxim. Other than Scott, she hadn’t been alone with a man a long time.
A very long time.
He nodded. “Lead the way.”
They wove through the crowds of tourists until they reached the lobby with its grand spiral staircase. Finley flashed her museum employee badge as she steered Maxim out the employee exit, past two armed policiers.
Beside her, Maxim tensed.
Scott was right. He’s a criminal. Perfect.
Both officers made eye contact with Maxim, but to Finley’s great relief, they simply nodded and said, “Au revoir.”
Something was off, though. Finley could feel it. She shouldn’t be leaving the museum with this man.
Her heart was beating hard, and she was seriously considering turning right around and running back to the curatorial wing.
There was no denying Maxim’s resemblance to the Tsar, though. He looked like a Romanov. So much so that Finley couldn’t help but wonder if he might actually know something about the last of the Russian royals.
If he did, she needed to know what it was. She’d be an idiot to walk away from an opportunity like this.
She took a deep breath and followed him. They walked quietly across the main courtyard. When they reached the largest of the three glass pyramids, Maxim finally broke the silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “The police came to see me in the hospital, and they seem to know more about me than I know about myself. It’s . . .”
Finley studied his reflection in the pyramid’s glossy panes and waited for him to finish his thought.
“. . . confusing.” Hi
s reflected gaze fixed with hers. “I don’t know if they think I’m the bad guy or the good guy. It’s hard to tell.”
Yet another warning sign. If Finley had an ounce of sense, she’d turn around and walk straight back toward the museum. Of course if she had an ounce of sense, she wouldn’t be out here with Maxim Romanov in the first place.
Laurent. Not Romanov.
Why did she constantly have to correct herself?
Maybe because his resemblance to Nicholas II was so striking that he looked like he’d just climbed off Valentin Serov’s canvas. Right. That probably had a tad to do with her bewilderment.
Apparently Maxim wasn’t the only one who was confused.
She stared at his image in the pyramid’s polished glass. The triangular shape of the panes distorted the space between them just enough to make it look as though they were touching. If Finley hadn’t known better, she would have believed they were holding hands.
“I might not remember what happened to me, Finley. And I might not ever remember everything about my life, about who I am. But I promise you this. I’m not here to hurt you. I swear. I just want your help.”
Her gaze drifted to the bruise on his temple. It had deepened to an angry shade of violet since the night before.
Every rational thought in her head told her to run. Run as far away from this stranger as she could. Since she’d been mugged, that had been her game plan when she met someone she was mildly attracted to. Run.
The attraction she felt toward Maxim wasn’t anything close to mild, though. It bordered on scorching, which made her want to run even harder.
But simple curiosity got the best of her. Curiosity, and a desire to know as much as she could about the Romanovs. She’d spent a solid year of her life immersed in their tragedy. What if there was more to the story?
Her love of history was to blame. Because her willingness to hear him out certainly didn’t have anything to do with his penetrating blue gaze. Or the way his soulful promise gave her the utterly foolish urge to rise up on tiptoe and kiss him on the mouth.
She stared at his mouth and tried to imagine what it would feel like on her lips, her neck, and the hidden softness of her thighs.
God, what was wrong with her?
She crossed her arms, a barrier of sorts. Clearly she needed one. “You said you had something to show me, Mr. Laurent. I should be getting back to work, so I suggest we take a look at whatever that something is. Right now.”
* * *
MAXIM FOCUSED INTENTLY ON Finley’s face as she flipped through the pages of the leather-bound journal, but her expression remained neutral. Her posture was guarded.
He counted himself lucky that she was even sitting there beside him on a bench beneath the shade of a pomegranate tree. With the Eiffel Tower behind her and a blanket of tulips at her feet, she was lovelier than any image his memory or imagination could have conjured. She was beauty and grace personified. On another day—in another life, perhaps—he might have leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands. He might have run the pad of his thumb over the soft, pink swell of her bottom lip. Then he would have kissed her until the journal fell from her lap, forgotten. Buried amid the blooms.
But it wasn’t just a journal. Not today. It was his life. Or what was left of his life, anyway. And it rested—open, exposed—in Finley’s delicate hands.
She looked up at him and pushed the fringe from her eyes. Her hair was gloriously windswept, just as he’d remembered. Although where those memories had come from were still very much a mystery.
“You wrote this? There are pages and pages of genealogical research here. Yet you have no memory of it?”
He shook his head. “None whatsoever. The police found it on me after I was attacked. That seems significant, don’t you think?”
“It does.” She glanced down at the final line of the final page. Je suis Maxim Romanov. “You’ve obviously spent quite some time building a case that you’re the long lost descendant of the Romanov Empire, the Grand Duchess Anastasia’s grandson.”
“I have no memory of that either. The last few years are nothing but a blur.” Bits and pieces had begun to come back. At first, walking into his grandmother’s apartment after he’d been discharged from the hospital had been like visiting a museum. But the books on the shelves felt familiar in his hands. The clothes in the bureau felt right. It fit . . . this life he knew so little about.
Except for the notebook. He couldn’t wrap his head around either of those things. But then he’d found the photograph. Now, even the notebook was beginning to make a morsel of sense. His job at the bank somehow seemed even more confusing than the journal.
He spoke with exaggerated care. “Believe me, I know how improbable it sounds that I could be a direct descendant of Tsar Nicholas II.”
“Impossible, not improbable.” She leveled her gaze at him. “Grand Duchess Anastasia died in 1918. The notion that she could have been your grandmother is out of the question. If you’ve sought me out in the hopes that I could verify your claim, I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Oddly enough, she did seem sorry. Which was more kindness than Maxim had any right to expect.
“There’s more.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket for the photograph and handed it to her.
She stared at it long and hard, until the picture began to tremble in her grasp. “Where did you get this?”
“At home. My apartment belonged to my grandmother before she died. Some of her things are still there.” He still couldn’t remember moving in. Couldn’t remember the funeral.
But he’d remembered the picture. He’d gone straight home from Shakespeare and Company the night before and searched the flat until he’d found it.
“She used to keep it on her dressing table. I’ve seen it since I was a little kid.” Which was undoubtedly why he’d hung onto it after she’d died.
The flat was filled with a curious mixture of old and new. Familiar and foreign. Maxim was still trying to make sense of it all. He was still trying to make sense of everything. Even his cell phone was a mystery. He recognized none of the names listed in his contacts, and the only message on his voice mail was from a priest whose name wasn’t familiar.
“I see why you asked about the blouse last night,” Finley said, without lifting her gaze from the picture. “The girl in this photo is wearing one just like it.”
“Exactly.” Maxim nodded. “I suppose it could be a coincidence. Most young girls in the early 1900s probably dressed in similar fashion.”
“Yes and no.” Finley shrugged. “Only girls from wealthy families. Aristocrats. Bluebloods.”
“Royalty?” Maxim lifted a brow.
“Yes, royalty.” She looked up finally, eyes glittering like gemstones.
A jolt of arousal hit Maxim low in his gut. If he never found out what happened to him, never unlocked the secrets of his past, it would have been worth almost dying just to see the expression of wide-eyed wonder on Finley Abbot’s face. Being the object of that kind of look made him feel like more than an emperor. He felt immortal, as if maybe his survival hadn’t been purely accidental. Maybe fate had been on his side.
He nodded at the photo. “What do you think it means?”
“Honestly?” The light in Finley’s eyes dimmed. “Nothing, really. It doesn’t change the fact that Anastasia is dead, except . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
“Except what?” Maxim frowned.
Finley blinked, and her expression went cautiously blank. “Except nothing. What can you tell me about this necklace she’s wearing in the picture?”
She pointed at the teardrop-shaped stone hanging from a dainty chain around his grandmother’s neck. Aside from the picture, Maxim had never seen it before.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Not a thing.”
Finley peered closer at the
image, then glanced up at him. “You never saw her wearing a pendant that looked like this one?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Interesting.” She sounded mildly disappointed, which pained Maxim more than it should have. “Still, I’d like to take a look at your grandmother’s things. If you don’t mind, of course.”
Mind?
This was the best news he’d had in days. Weeks maybe.
“I don’t mind at all.” He gave her the address. “How’s tonight?”
“Tonight’s fine. Do you mind if I hang onto the photograph until then?” She stood and clutched the picture to her chest.
Maxim couldn’t have cared less. She could have whatever she wanted. He was finally getting somewhere. “Not at all. Be my guest.”
“Excellent. Then I suppose I’ll see you this evening.” She nodded, all business.
But a flush crept up her neck and settled in her porcelain cheeks, turning them as pink as the flowers on the garden path.
Somewhere beneath his wounds and all his lost memories, something stirred inside Maxim. Something timeless. Primal.
She feels it, too. She might not remember me, but we’re connected in some way.
“It’s a date.”
CHAPTER
* * *
FIVE
It wasn’t a date.
Finley should have made that perfectly clear. She should have said as much, rather than nodding mutely and walking away. Because really, it wasn’t a date. Was. Not.
It couldn’t be. He thought he was Russian royalty. Royally delusional was more like it.
But what on earth was he doing with a photograph of Anastasia?
The picture was real—Finley was certain of it. She’d seen enough photos from the time period to know a fake from an original. What was more, she suspected it had been taken by the Tsar himself. Nicholas II was an avid photographer and filled albums with family pictures during his lifetime. Maxim’s photo had even been hand-tinted in dreamy watercolor tones of pale blue and green, as had many of the photos in the Romanovs’ private collection. Anastasia’s older sister, the Grand Duchess Maria, had hand-colored a large number of her father’s prints. She’d highlighted clothing, hair color and the medals on her father’s military uniforms. Most of the tinted photographs had been taken during 1918, mere months before the family’s execution. Which meant that if Maxim’s photo was genuine . . .