Royally Romanov

by Teri Wilson

  She blinked. Hard. She was already two espressos into this conversation and her head was still fuzzy as ever. Damn Maxim, and damn his beautiful body.

  When she opened her eyes, Scott was standing behind the counter with his arms crossed, staring at her impassively. “I think there’s only one thing you can do, Finley.”

  She knew what was coming. Scott had made his feelings about Maxim perfectly clear the moment they’d set eyes on each other. She took a tiny sip of espresso and braced herself for the lecture that was surely headed her way.

  Scott shrugged. “You obviously need to sleep with him.”

  Finley choked on the dregs of her coffee. She placed the demitasse back down on its saucer and rolled her eyes. “Very funny.”

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  “Sure you weren’t.” She laughed and waited for him to do the same.

  He didn’t. “I’m dead serious, Finley.”

  Who was this guy, and what had he done with her cautious friend Scott? “You think I should have sex with Maxim Laurent? The guy you accused of stalking me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Even if it’s not a joke, you’re hilarious.” Except she wasn’t laughing anymore. “Are you forgetting the part about the police showing up at his door?”

  He shrugged again. She couldn’t believe how nonchalant he was being, as if they discussed her sex life—or lack thereof—every day. Which they most definitely did not. “You said yourself you didn’t stick around to find out why the policeman had come round. There could’ve been a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  “Or Maxim could be a serial killer,” she deadpanned.

  “Doubtful, since you’re sitting here right now dripping all over my floor.” He glanced at the puddle at her feet.

  The puddle that she officially no longer felt guilty about. “You’ve lost your mind. He could ruin my career. I can’t possibly date him.”

  Scott shook his head. “Of course you shouldn’t date him. Whether he’s related to the Tsar or not, there’s a good chance he’s after the Romanov treasure. You said so yourself. But I didn’t say anything about dating. I said you should sleep with the guy, not marry him.”

  Finley gaped at him. Only a man would give her such crazy advice. Especially one who was practically an honorary Frenchman.

  She made a mental note to find some close female friends in Paris . . . right after she figured out how to get her purse back, rid herself of Maxim Laurent, and secure her promotion.

  But before she could even think about a promotion, she needed to make sure her exhibit went off without a hitch and all the priceless Romanov treasures she’d borrowed went back to where they came from. So maybe the whole friend thing could wait just a tad longer. She had more on her plate at the moment than either she or the plate itself could handle.

  “I don’t sleep with strangers,” Finley said bluntly.

  She neglected to mention the fact that Maxim no longer felt like a stranger. Or that she sort of did want to sleep with him now.

  A lot, actually. A whole lot. She wanted to sleep with him a lot of times, in a lot of ways.

  But that was an insane idea. Completely 100 percent crazy. And it wasn’t happening. It probably wouldn’t have even crossed her mind if Scott hadn’t brought it up.

  Keep telling yourself that.

  “You don’t sleep with anyone, Finley.” Scott’s gaze softened in a way that made her feel like crying all of a sudden. “That’s the problem.”

  “Not true. I sleep with Gerard every night.” She glanced at the bulldog snoring in the corner and sniffed. She was crying now. Great. Could this night get any worse?

  Scott reached across the counter and covered her hand with his. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m saying this because I care about you. You’ve got to get out there, girl. This is Paris. The city of love.”

  She lifted a brow. “I thought you said I should sleep with him, not marry him.”

  “You’ve got to start somewhere. This is the first time in two years I’ve seen you show any interest in someone. He might not be the most suitable choice . . .” Understatement of the century. “. . . but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun, does it?”

  He winked at her, and she longed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

  How desperate did he think she was? “It’s not happening.”

  “I’m not certain I believe you.” He looked at her with an expression that was all too knowing, until her face grew hot. She was finished with this conversation.

  “Seriously, it’s not.” She squared her shoulders and tried to muster up a morsel of dignity.

  “You’re obviously attracted to the guy.” He frowned. “It is because he might be royal? If so, you might want to set your sights on Prince Harry instead. You know, a royal hottie who wouldn’t ruin your career.”

  Finley rolled her eyes. Wasn’t Prince Harry supposed to be dating someone? Anyway, why did that even matter? Scott was missing the entire point. “It has nothing whatsoever to do with being royal. This entire mess wouldn’t be a problem if Maxim were a regular person.”

  What was she even saying? His royal status had yet to be confirmed. It never would be.

  Scott’s eyebrows rose. “You believe him, don’t you? You think Anastasia is his grandmother.”

  “I didn’t say that.” She glared at him. “He’s not royal, and I’m not sleeping with him. Frankly, I can’t believe you suggested that I jump into bed with him.”

  “Sure you can. I’ll even go so far as to say that’s why you came here tonight. You wanted some encouragement. Admit it.” His mouth curved into a devilish grin.

  “I’ll admit nothing of the sort. I’m here because I don’t have my house key, and I need somewhere to stay. I’m not going back to Maxim’s tonight.” Especially not now that Scott had planted ideas in her head. Outrageous ideas. Impossible ideas. Tantalizing ideas.

  She’d deal with Maxim in the cold light of day once she’d managed to forget this ridiculous conversation. And the kiss. Or at least once the kiss wasn’t the only thing she could manage to think about. “I was hoping you’d let me take one of the Tumbleweed beds. Just for tonight.”

  “Oh.” Scott seemed genuinely surprised. He really thought she’d come here for some weird one-night-stand pep talk.

  Did I?

  She sighed. Now she no longer knew what she wanted. Thank you, Scott.

  But as she settled in for the night, surrounded by red velvet, poetic ghosts, and shelves upon shelves of aching verse, an uncomfortable truth burned in Finley’s bones. Touching Maxim, feeling the warmth of his bare body beneath her fingertips, had made her acutely aware of how lonely she’d been these past few years. How empty.

  She squeezed her eyes shut in the darkness and reminded herself that she’d chosen this solitary life. She was in control of what happened to her. No one else was. It was better this way. Safe. Secure.

  There was only one problem—safety didn’t seem to be what she wanted anymore.

  She wanted him.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  EIGHT

  The last person Maxim expected to see on his doorstep the following morning was Finley. The police, yes. Finley, not so much. Truth be told, he probably would’ve been less surprised to see Nicholas II himself standing there in the early morning fog.

  But it wasn’t the Tsar. It was Finley, wearing the same lovely black dress as the night before when he’d kissed her, and looking like she’d got caught in the rain. Maxim found this wildly erotic for reasons he didn’t care to contemplate.

  “Bonjour. This is a pleasant surprise.” He waved her inside.

  Gerard trotted into the foyer, as jolly as if Maxim’s flat were made of dog biscuits. Finley followed with noticeably less enthusiasm.

  When
she turned to face him, her gaze drifted to the buttons on his dress shirt and lingered.

  He bit back a smile. “Can I help you, Finley?”

  Her porcelain face turned an enticing shade of crimson. She took a deep breath and pointedly redirected her gaze to his face. “I’m not here to sleep with you, in case you were wondering.”

  It defied common sense that Maxim would immediately go hard at this blunt announcement, but he did. Harder than granite. “You say the strangest things when you turn up at my door. I rather like it.”

  Finley’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh shit, I didn’t actually mean to say that out loud. Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “It’s fine. Good to know, actually.”

  She blinked. “So you were wondering if that’s why I’d come back?”

  Wondering? No.

  Wishing? Yes.

  God, yes.

  The thought had occurred to him with alarming frequency over the past two days. Thus far, he’d managed to keep his desire in check. He needed Finley too much to take her to bed. Things were already complicated enough without adding sex to the mix. But after the way she’d touched him the night before, the way she’d responded to his kiss, his self-control had taken a serious hit.

  She’d opened for him as if she’d been waiting for him her whole life. Maybe she had. Maybe he’d been waiting, too. Maybe his search for his identity wasn’t about the past at all. Perhaps it didn’t matter who he’d been before, and the only thing that did was finding her. Touching her. Claiming her.

  It was a ridiculous notion. Intellectually, he knew as much. Unfortunately, his libido was at sharp odds with common sense.

  He shifted from one foot to the other, erect to the point of pain. “Did I wonder if you’d come knocking on my door at six in the morning for sex? No. The thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “Oh. Well . . . good.” She frowned. If Maxim didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was disappointed.

  “Good,” Maxim echoed.

  He had the strangest feeling they were both lying through their teeth. Somewhere in the flat, Gerard was probably rolling his eyes.

  “Now that we’ve established you’re not here for sex . . .” His jaw clenched. Damn it. He’d never be able to stop picturing her in his bed now. “. . . do you care to tell me the reason for this unexpected visit?”

  “My handbag—I left it here last night. My house keys are in it and everything else I need to get through the day, basically.”

  That explained why she looked like she’d been out all night. Maxim hadn’t noticed her bag lying around, but he’d been preoccupied with his police visit. And the myriad other ways his life was a mess.

  If she’d been locked out he wondered why she hadn’t come back sooner. More importantly, he wondered where she’d spent the night.

  Don’t go there. It’s none of your concern. No one in this room is remotely interested in sleeping with the other.

  Right.

  A headache throbbed to life at the back of his skull. “Very well. Let’s try and find it, and you can be on your way.”

  “Merci.” She gave him a polite smile.

  The pleasure that had coursed through him with such delicious warmth when he’d opened the door and first caught sight of her began to cool.

  Things were moving too quickly. She’d only just gotten here and already she looked like she wanted to bolt right out the door. Say something.

  “Can I get you anything?” It wasn’t the cleverest of stalling tactics, but it was something.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I need to go home and get ready for work.”

  He nodded. “Ah, yes. Of course.”

  “Don’t you?” She frowned.

  “Don’t I what?”

  “Don’t you need to get to work? You are employed, aren’t you?” Her gaze narrowed.

  This was another test, apparently. Maxim could sense it. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was doomed to fail. “In a way.”

  “In a way,” she echoed. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means that I work at the Bank of France.” He took a deep breath. Best to rip off the bandage. “I’m on leave at the moment, and it’s uncertain whether or not I’ll return.”

  “I see,” she said.

  What did she see, exactly? He wanted to know, because no matter how long he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he still didn’t have a damned clue.

  The question stuck in his throat, though. Probably because deep down, he feared her answer.

  “It seems the Bank of France prefers its investment bankers to actually remember their clients before handling large sums of money.” He shrugged. “I suppose it’s a valid point.”

  “Right.” She nodded.

  He could see the wheels spinning in her head. She was wondering what would happen to him if he couldn’t go back to work. How would he live? Hell, he wondered the same thing at times. He’d be fine, though. He’d figure things out, and his way of figuring things out didn’t include making room on his shelves for priceless artifacts from the Louvre.

  “Finley, about last night . . .” He wanted to set the record straight about the police. But before he could say another word, his ringing cell phone cut him off.

  Damn it. He sighed, raked a hand through his hair and made no move to reach for the phone in his pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Finley said, latching onto an excuse not to discuss the events of last night.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Whoever it is can wait until later.”

  “What if it’s the police?” She paused. “Again?”

  Touché.

  “For the record, the detective wasn’t here to arrest me.” He probably should’ve announced this with a little more finesse, but there wasn’t time. Finley already seemed ready to bolt out the door. He doubted she’d be standing here at all if she hadn’t forgotten her bag.

  And if she hadn’t also wanted to make sure he knew how much she didn’t want to have sex with him. That had obviously been a crucial reason for her to come back.

  She looked him up and down. “I suppose not, or you’d be in jail right now.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Really, Maxim. You don’t have to explain. It’s none of my business.”

  She was right. He didn’t owe her any kind of explanation. He and Finley meant nothing to each other. Maxim still didn’t even know why he remembered her the way he did, why the gentle slope of her neck seemed so familiar or why those gossamer memories were so obviously one-sided.

  But those things no longer mattered. Kissing her had made him realize just how fragile and ethereal his memories were. Like something from a dream. But holding her . . . tasting her . . . that had been real.

  More real than any kiss he’d ever experienced. He knew that for a fact. Nothing could make him forget a kiss like that, not even amnesia.

  His gaze dropped purposefully to her mouth. So pretty. So deliciously pink. “What if I want it to be your business?”

  His words hung between them, tempting and bold.

  Finley stared at him, wide-eyed. “But it can’t. We can’t. I just told you I’m not here for . . .” She paused. Swallowed. “For that.”

  “Sex?” Maxim lifted a brow, and watched her face flush scarlet again. He would’ve bet every cherished treasure in her precious museum that she was lying. “Ah, but you didn’t say anything about kissing.”

  She shook her head, but even as she did so, her body arched toward him. Ever so slightly. Just enough to make Maxim even more aware of the erection straining his fly. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

  “On the contrary, I think it’s an excellent one.” It took every ounce of restraint he could muster not to pull her into his arms and
claim that pretty pink mouth again. But as much as he wanted her, he needed her to want him in return. He needed to feel the hunger in her touch the way he’d experienced it last night when she’d explored his chest with such bashful awakening.

  That touch had meant something.

  Something profound.

  For her, as well as for him. He’d known it last night, and he knew it now as she walked slowly toward him.

  Then everything moved with breathtaking speed as some invisible force took over. A force neither of them could resist.

  Gravity, he thought as his mouth came down on hers. Because preventing himself from kissing her again was like trying to disobey every natural law of the universe.

  Then he stopped thinking. Stopped trying to sort out what was happening and its relationship to everything that had gone before. The wheels that had been spinning on constant repeat in his head since the moment in the hospital when he’d first set eyes on that godforsaken notebook slowed to an exquisite stop. His mind went splendidly, blissfully blank, and sensation took over.

  Sight, sound, taste.

  Whatever had happened in his past meant nothing compared to the heat in Finley’s gaze, like emeralds aflame. Nothing mattered but the tremulous little hitch in her breath in the second before their lips touched, then the sweet bliss of her mouth as his tongue slipped inside.

  So much warmth. So wet and wonderful that it was a shock Maxim didn’t fall to his knees. He was sinking . . . sinking beneath the weight of the past, the present, and the future. Time he remembered, time he didn’t. All of it somehow came together when he touched Finley, when his hands moved through her glorious gold waves of hair and she sighed into his mouth.

  He loved the sounds she made—the breathy whimpers, the needy little cries. She was always so controlled, so carefully contained. It was a beautiful thing to see all that guarded discipline melt away, to feel the press of her soft breasts against his chest as her resistance fell at her feet.

  “Finley,” he groaned, and his hands dropped from her hair to her shoulders to the delicate curve of her waist.