by Teri Wilson
He released a strained exhale. He shouldn’t be so attracted to her. It complicated things in a way that was sure to be disastrous. “Finley, tell me why you’re so upset. S’il vous plaît.”
She set her wineglass down without taking a sip. “The one-hundred-year anniversary of the Romanov execution is in just a few months.”
He nodded. “Yes, I know. You mentioned that at your signing last night. As I understand it, the anniversary is the inspiration for your exhibit at the Louvre.”
“It is.” She nodded and waited, as though she expected him to chime in with some meaningful contribution to the conversation. When he failed to do so, she regarded him through narrowed eyes. “I suppose you have no idea that one hundred years is the statute of limitations for surviving family members to make a claim on stolen artifacts.”
“Stolen artifacts?” Maxim set his wineglass down. Red liquid splashed over the rim and onto the counter, but he didn’t care. He was beginning to get a feel for what Finley was implying, and he didn’t like it.
“The photos, the jewels, the Fabergé pieces . . . all of it. Almost every item in the exhibit once belonged to the Romanovs themselves. The Bolsheviks confiscated everything the family owned when they put them in exile. What little they were allowed to keep obviously ended up in Bolshevik hands as well.” She paused. Swallowed. “Russia sold the Romanov treasures to the West and used the funds to help build a new Communist government.”
Maxim hadn’t given a lot of thought to what had happened to the Romanovs’ personal effects after they’d been murdered. Listening to Finley explain it made his gut churn.
The Romanovs had been wealthy. They’d been royal. But they were human beings. A family. And they’d been brutally murdered. Having their personal belongings, especially things like clothing, sold to the highest bidder seemed unnecessarily cruel.
He stared into his wineglass and tried to wrap his head around all that had happened and why it mattered. “We’re talking about things that occurred a century ago, Finley. Yet I get the impression it’s somehow related to why you’re suddenly so angry with me.”
“Almost a century ago.” She lifted an accusatory brow. “But not quite.”
He stared at her, long and hard. He’d handed her a piece of his family history earlier today. He’d shown her his journal. And now he’d become the bad guy.
When at last he trusted himself to speak without raising his voice, he said, “Finley, do you believe I came to see you today because I intend to lay claim to the Romanov treasures?”
He already knew the answer, of course. But he needed to hear her say it. He’d been beaten and left for dead in the street. He was so desperate to put the pieces of his life back together that he’d pleaded with her—a total stranger—for help. He’d shown her the leather-bound notebook, even though he knew it made him look like a madman. If she was accusing him of faking all of it, he was going to make her say it to his face.
“I’d be a fool not to consider the possibility, don’t you think?” She wrapped her arms around herself, and despite the fact that she was basically accusing him of telling her nothing but lies since the moment they’d met, he had an urge to comfort her. She looked more vulnerable now than angry.
No, not vulnerable exactly. Wounded, on a soul-deep level.
He’d hurt her simply by existing.
In that moment, Maxim hated himself a little. Maybe even a lot. “Consider it all you like, but know this. I never lied to you. Not once. I came to you for help, nothing more. This isn’t about the Romanov treasures. This is about my life, about who I am. I need to know.”
She let out a shaky exhale. “I want to believe you.”
“But?”
“But it doesn’t look good, Maxim.” Her gaze drifted to the bruise on his face.
“You think I bashed myself in the face and faked amnesia so I could convince you my grandmother was someone who’s been scientifically proven to have died ninety-nine years ago?”
Her features softened a little. Just enough to take the edge off Maxim’s anger. Enough for him to feel that same, enigmatic pull toward her that he’d felt since the moment he’d set eyes on her at the bookstore. “I know nothing about you, Maxim.”
“Neither do I.” He offered her a sad smile.
He almost wished the detective had never given him the godforsaken notebook. Those pages hadn’t brought answers. He was neck-deep, drowning in questions. And he’d managed to pull Finley under right along with him.
He couldn’t bring himself to fully wish such a thing, though. The notebook had led him to Finley, and for some strange reason, she brought him peace. She soothed his soul. He didn’t know how or why, but she was familiar. More familiar than Gregory Joubert, his closest friend.
Since Maxim’s visit to Banque de France, Gregory had called regularly to check on him. And as much as it comforted Maxim to have someone to talk to, he couldn’t quite bring himself to confide in Gregory about the journal. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because sharing his possible connection with the Romanovs with Finley had clearly been a mistake.
Whoever Maxim was—Romanov or not—one thing was obvious. He was a selfish bastard. If he wasn’t, he’d ask her to leave right then and there.
Instead, he watched as she took a tentative sip of wine and tried to decide if he was out to ruin her. “My boss thinks the photograph you showed me today is genuine. She believes it could be one of the last remaining pictures of Anastasia. I showed it to the research department, and they agree that the cardstock the picture is printed on came from the early twentieth century.”
“And?” Maxim reached for his glass.
“And how am I suppose to explain where it came from?” She glanced down and frowned. “Wait, what is that?”
Maxim studied the contents of his wineglass. “It’s a Bordeaux from the Médoc region. Is it not to your liking?”
He quite enjoyed it. But given his need for a drink during this interrogation, even rubbing alcohol would have done nicely.
“Not the wine. Your bracelet.” She pointed at the silver chain around his wrist. “Is that a medical symbol?”
He glanced at his ID bracelet and shrugged. “Yes. It’s a medical alert bracelet.”
A necessary evil. Most of the time he forgot it was there.
“Can I see it?” She looked like she was about to jump out of her skin. Odd, but definitely preferable to how angry she’d been just moments ago. “If you don’t mind, I mean. I know it’s kind of a personal thing.”
“It’s fine.” He offered her his wrist for inspection. “I’m an open book.”
He meant that literally. He’d shown her the strange journal and watched while she devoured it, page by page. Not the best idea, since now she thought he was a con artist of some sort.
I could be.
He’d considered the possibility that he might not be a good person. If that was the type of man he was, he’d rather not know.
Leave her out of his. Tell her to leave and not come back. Do it now.
He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t seem to say a word, because Finley was flipping over the silver disk on his ID bracelet to inspect it. Her fingertips grazed the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist with a feather light touch. He could barely breathe, much less speak.
She ran the tip of her pointer finger over the bracelet’s engraved letters.
Hémophilie.
She stared at the word until a swollen silence settled between them. A silence full of history and fragile trust.
“Hemophilia?” She peered up at him through her fringe. “Is this real, Maxim?”
“It would be a rather odd choice for a fashion statement, don’t you agree?”
“I need you to be serious. Do you have hemophilia?” Her eyes grew stormy, and dark with doubt.
“Yes, I do.” He’d had the
massive internal bleeding to prove it. Several times when he was a kid and most recently, two weeks ago when he nearly died at Point Zero.
“Since when?” She dropped his wrist and crossed her arms.
The sudden loss of her touch was like a wound. “All my life. I was born with it. That’s how hemophilia works.”
His disease was one of the few things he remembered about himself. Even if he hadn’t, his time in Hôpital Hôtel-Dieu would have been a potent reminder.
You’re lucky to be alive.
He didn’t feel so lucky at the moment. He felt like he was on trial.
Finley lifted an accusatory brow. “Hemophilia is sometimes called the royal disease, but I’m guessing you already know that.”
Once again, Maxim knew where she was headed, and this time he didn’t have the patience for it. He certainly wasn’t going to stand there and apologize for a medical condition he had no control over whatsoever. “If you’re implying I’m faking my disease, you’re crossing a line.”
She continued, seemingly unfazed. “The Tsarevich Alexei had hemophilia. Anastasia’s brother. Did you know that, too?”
“Yes, I did.” There was no sense in lying. He’d known. Should he have told her sooner that he and Alexei had the disease in common? Would it have made a difference?
Doubtful, since she suddenly seemed so determined to believe he was a fraud. She probably thought he’d ordered the bracelet online somewhere as part of his ruse.
He took a sip of wine and placed the glass down on the counter with exaggerated calm before continuing. “I knew Anastasia’s brother had it. And before you ask—yes, I also know it’s a hereditary condition.”
“So you’re telling me that you have the same rare hereditary blood disorder that ran in the Romanov family.” The soft swell of Finley’s bottom lip slipped between her teeth, and she frowned. She looked more confused than angry, which Maxim counted as a minor victory. By all appearances, she couldn’t quite decide whether to believe him or not.
Fine. He’d just have to help her make up her mind.
He took another slow sip of wine, gazed steadily at Finley and unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt.
Even before he’d managed to get it all the way unfastened, her cheeks went scarlet. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged, took a step closer and moved onto the next button. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Um.” Her gaze dropped to his fingertips as they continued lower, and lower still, until only two buttons remained. “It looks like you’re undressing.”
For a frenzied second, her attention flitted back and forth between his face and his unbuttoned shirt. When it finally settled on his chest, her pillowy lips parted ever so slightly.
She suddenly looked like a woman on the verge of being kissed. Maxim rather liked it. He liked it a hell of a lot.
He shrugged. “You don’t believe me. I’m offering you proof.”
“Proof?” She blinked. Her voice had gone thick. Honeyed. Maxim could feel it deep in his gut.
He peeled his shirt the rest of the way off and flung it on the kitchen counter. “Why don’t you take a look, Finley? Take a good long look. Then tell me what you believe.”
* * *
FINLEY COULDN’T SEEM TO breathe. She knew she shouldn’t be staring at Maxim’s bare chest, but she couldn’t seem to look anywhere else.
It was a nice chest. Awfully nice. Broad and sun-kissed. Solid. The last time she’d seen such a nice chest, she’d been looking at Bouchardon’s Barberini Faun, carved out of marble and situated on a pedestal at Luxembourg Gardens.
She tried not to think about the fact that Bouchardon’s sculpture was also completely naked from the waist down. Or that its head was tipped back and legs casually splayed, offering up its rather impressive manhood right at eye level. Finley did her absolute best not to conjure up that image, but failed miserably. She might have even accidentally let her gaze travel down to Maxim’s fly.
But only for a second.
Her face went unbearably, shamefully hot, and she forced her attention upward. As nice as Maxim’s chest was, it also sported a number of bruises. Deep purple ones, so vividly colored that his body almost looked as if it had been painted by an artist’s brush. But it hadn’t. It had been beaten black and blue.
She tried to speak, but couldn’t. Even if she could, she wouldn’t have known what to say. The words clogged in her throat, along with her heart.
Before she could stop herself, she reached for him, letting her fingertips explore his rib cage, grazing the places where he’d been hurt with butterfly touches.
“Finley.” He caught her wrist in his grasp. Held it.
She swallowed around the lump in her throat, embarrassed to the point of shame.
What was she doing?
He hadn’t been seducing her. God no. He’d been proving her wrong, showing off the physical evidence of his medical disorder to make a point. People with hemophilia bruised easily and were slow to heal. Intellectually, she knew that. But emotionally, Finley was in no way prepared for the reality of what had happened to Maxim. His beating had left him broken. Battered.
And yet somehow unspeakably beautiful.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
How had this happened? She’d been so sure of herself when she’d come here tonight. So indignant. Her conversation with Madame Dubois had left her convinced that Maxim was lying. He was obviously a con man intent on using her to lay claim to the Romanov treasure.
Now, though . . .
Now she didn’t know what to believe. She knew nothing, other than that he’d been telling the truth about having hemophilia. And about being beaten. It was too much. Finley was tired of trying to wrap her head around it. She didn’t want to think anymore.
“Don’t,” Maxim murmured. His voice was deliciously low. She felt it down to the soles of her feet. “Don’t be sorry.”
Then he placed the palm of her hand against his heart. He covered it with his own and held it in place. His heartbeat pounded against her touch, warm and wild. She had the strange sensation that she held his life in the tips of her fingers.
He was going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes, in the intention shining back at her from his obsidian gaze.
She could have stopped it if she’d wanted to. She knew she should. There were too many unanswered questions, too much at stake.
But she didn’t. Because in the excruciatingly slow moment before his mouth came down on hers, it was no longer Maxim’s identity she questioned. It was her own.
Finley was quickly becoming someone she no longer recognized. She didn’t do things like this. Ever. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed. She most definitely had no recollection of the last time she’d felt the searing heat of a man’s bare chest beneath her fingertips. Her time in Paris had been about self-preservation. About starting over.
Her family accused her of running away. Away from the bad memories and away from Jeremy, whose touch she could no longer tolerate. She assured them she was fine. She just needed space, and the thing with Jeremy would have run its course eventually. There were a lot of things about her that Jeremy didn’t understand. He’d considered her art-history coursework a waste of time. He seemed baffled by the choices she’d made. After her world had been turned upside down, she realized he didn’t much care either.
Whatever she’d had with Jeremy had never felt like this, though. This intense . . . this wholly overwhelming. It defied all logic.
Except she and Maxim shared something, didn’t they? They’d both been victimized. It was a strange and terrible way to form a connection with someone, but the connection was there. Beneath his battered body and beneath her battered soul.
Finley was acutely aware of it. It made her want things. Things she had no business wanting. Thin
gs she couldn’t quite identify.
With the first brush of Maxim’s lips against hers, she knew.
This.
This is what I’ve been missing all along.
She no longer felt invisible. Quite the opposite. When she opened for him and the kiss deepened, she felt like a wild, shimmering thing. Electric. Alive. It was utterly intoxicating.
He tasted of wine and art and literature. Of Paris. All the things she loved most. After hiding herself away for so long, the sensations coursing through her made every part of her body exhale with relief. She heard herself sighing into his mouth, something she’d never done before. With anyone. It was mortifying.
“Finley,” he whispered, sweeping her fringe from her eyes and pulling back to look at her. Really look.
His gaze penetrated every part of her, and for once, she didn’t have the urge to look away. What had he done to her?
This was more than a kiss. It was an unveiling. She couldn’t have felt more exposed if she’d been undressed from head to toe.
She let her eyes drift shut, wanting him to kiss her again. Needing it. The anticipation was almost enough to bring her to her knees. She could feel his breath, warm against her lips, could hear his low groan as his mouth slanted down over hers once more.
But just when their lips were a whisper apart, someone banged on the front door to the flat. Hard. Gerard leapt to his feet and ran to the foyer in a mildly threatening frenzy of barks and growls.
Finley opened her eyes. “Who could that be?”
Three more loud knocks rapped on the door. It was practically shaking on its hinges.
This time, the banging was accompanied by a booming voice. “Monsieur Laurent, open up. It’s the police.”
CHAPTER
* * *
SEVEN
Fate hadn’t been altogether kind to Maxim lately, but having the policier interrupt the most spectacular kiss of his life seemed unnecessarily cruel. What horrible atrocity must he have committed during his lost years in order to deserve this? Had he made a habit of stealing candy from children? Kicked a puppy or something?