Royally Romanov

by Teri Wilson

  They were moving much too fast. Somewhere in the back of his messed-up head, he knew he should stop. Finley didn’t even know who he was. Neither did he. But he didn’t care anymore. At the moment, he couldn’t imagine he ever would. Everything important and right and good was wrapped up in her kiss.

  In her.

  So it was equal parts blessing and curse when she pulled away, dazed. Breathless. And if Maxim wasn’t mistaken, only mildly horrified.

  “This shouldn’t be happening,” she said.

  He inhaled a ragged breath. He was so aroused he could barely see straight, much less have a rational discussion about what was happening between them. “It shouldn’t?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Definitely not.”

  Despite her protests, she made no effort to remove herself from his embrace.

  Until Maxim grazed her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

  Compared to the heat of their kiss, it was an innocent gesture. Tender, yet intimate enough to push her firmly and decisively away.

  She stepped out of his arms, and her gaze flitted around the apartment. “This is crazy. I shouldn’t even be here.”

  He searched for the right words that would change her mind and make her stay, but he came up empty. Because she was right. There was no denying that their whole situation was crazy, albeit consuming as hell.

  “I need to go. I’m supposed to be at work in half an hour. Half an hour.” She threw up her hands. “I need my bag, Maxim. Then I’m leaving. Believe it or not, my job is important to me.”

  “I know it is.” He swallowed around a sandpaper throat.

  He’d almost slipped and asked what had given her the impression he didn’t think she cared about her job. Then he’d remembered that in her eyes, he was basically the equivalent of an art thief.

  Marvelous.

  He glared at her. “Wait here. I’ll go fetch it, and you can be on your way. Apologies for detaining you.”

  Then he turned his back on her, determined to let her go this time. Really let her go.

  But the images had already begun to move behind his eyes. He saw Finley gazing up at him, her spun-gold hair fanned over a velvet pillow. He saw her bare body rising above him, bathed in Parisian starlight. He saw a red jewel, dangling from her dainty wrist.

  Only this time he wasn’t sure if the visions in his head were memories or dreams.

  * * *

  FINLEY TRIED NOT TO watch Maxim as he strode out of the room. She tried her very best not to pay complete and total attention to his every movement—the tight knot flexing in his jaw, the way the broad muscles of his back strained beneath his shirt as he prowled around the flat searching for her bag.

  She failed miserably.

  Why had she thought it was okay to come here? Why? She should’ve called a locksmith and considered her bag and its contents a loss. But no.

  I’m not here to sleep with you, in case you were wondering.

  Where on earth had that come from? She was going to murder Scott the next time she saw him. Strangle him or better yet, tear him limb from limb. Something long, drawn out and painful.

  Who showed up at someone’s door and announced they didn’t want to have sex?

  A person who wanted to. Obviously.

  No wonder they’d ended up kissing again. She needed to get out of here. Now. Before she did something even more foolish.

  She was just so confused about everything. Confused and sleep-deprived. She hadn’t slept a wink last night. For all the times she’d thought that sleeping in the bookstore would be the comfiest thing imaginable, once she finally had the chance she couldn’t stop her mind from spinning.

  Her rare moments of actual sleep were interrupted by dreams of Maxim. Dreams that left her breathless and aroused, sensations that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in months. Years, if she was being truthful with herself.

  Scott was right. She hadn’t been on a single date since she’d moved to Paris. When she wasn’t in class at the École du Louvre, she was busy putting in time at the museum. Her weekends and evenings had been spent holed up at Shakespeare and Company, working on her book.

  Her book was finished now, though. But that didn’t mean she was ready to download Tinder and hit the social circuit. She had standards. And baggage.

  So much baggage.

  The ironic thing was that until recently, she hadn’t even known she was still afraid. She walked around after dark in Paris all the time. With her pepper spray in her handbag and a defiant clip in her step, she practically dared the strangers she passed on the street to attempt to hurt her.

  Let them try. She would decimate them. This time.

  Then three months ago, a man had approached her late one night at the Saint-Michel metro station. He’d said hi in French. That’s it. Hi. Probably the most innocent word in any language.

  There’d been nothing sinister about his interaction with her. He was well-dressed, nicely groomed. Perfectly normal in every way. But he’d been tall. Burly. Big.

  Big enough that he could’ve stopped her if she’d tried to run away. Big enough to have caused quite a bit of harm. His intentions hadn’t mattered. Nothing he did or didn’t do directly caused the bile to rise in the back of her throat or the tight knot of panic to lodge in her chest. The danger was all in her head.

  By the time she left the metro, her hands were shaking, her heart felt like it was about to beat right out of her chest, and tears were streaming down her face. She’d slept with the lights on that night and buried her face in Gerard’s thick, furry neck, reliving a memory that she’d managed to convince herself no longer mattered.

  That’s when she first realized she wasn’t okay. Her solitary life wasn’t a by-product of her busy work schedule. It was a choice. It was self-preservation.

  She took a deep breath as she watched Maxim move about the apartment looking for her bag. She thought about his bruises, hidden from view, about the horrible thing that had happened to him. What happened to her had also left a mark. The damage was as real as the black-and-blue places on Maxim’s body, but her bruises were just easier to hide.

  Perhaps that’s why she’d been so fascinated by the sight of Maxim’s injuries. They were honest in a way she could appreciate. Brutally real. She could run her fingertips over the places where he’d been hurt. She could touch his pain and hold it in her hands.

  Maxim couldn’t hide behind his past the way Finley could. What must it be like to survive something like that and not remember what happened? Not remember anything?

  Maxim was doing everything he could to put the pieces of his life back together, but if Finley truly wanted to help him she would’ve urged him to let those pieces lie where they may. Some things were best left forgotten.

  She wished she could forget the sound of footsteps behind her in the dark. Wished she could forget the horrible sound her shoulder made when it hit the concrete. Most of all she wished she could forget the fear of what her attacker might do to her. Fear so intense that it had wrapped itself around her like a blanket. She’d been paralyzed, unable to move. Unable to breathe. She could only lie there, helpless, waiting for whatever unthinkable fate awaited her.

  She’d been relieved once she realized that all the stranger wanted was her valuables. She didn’t utter a single protest when he yanked her backpack from her arms. She hadn’t shed a tear when he’d ripped the gold locket from around her neck. She’d just wanted the whole ordeal to be over.

  The necklace had belonged to her great-grandmother. It was a family heirloom. Irreplaceable. Sometimes during rare moments of forgetfulness, Finley still found herself reaching for the gold locket that once rested against her breastbone. Then she’d realize it was missing, and the memories would come flooding back.

  Maxim strode back in the room with Finley’s handbag, dragging her thoughts back to the pres
ent. Her purse looked so small in his grasp. Delicate. He had strong hands. Capable hands. She loved the way they had felt buried in her hair. They’d probably feel even better on her bare breasts.

  She had to stop thinking about such things. But she couldn’t seem to help it. She missed being touched. Being kissed. Being loved.

  She missed the weight of a man on top of her as he entered her. She missed being filled. She hadn’t thought she missed those things, but she had.

  One kiss. That’s all it had taken for her to realize everything she’d given up.

  “Here you go.” Maxim offered her the bag.

  She took it, trying her best to avoid touching him as she did so. She no longer trusted herself around him.

  “Merci.” She clutched her purse to her chest like it was a life preserver.

  Too late. You’re already out of your depth.

  “You’re most welcome.” Maxim crossed his arms. His sleeves inched up, and it took superhuman effort for Finley not to stare blatantly at his forearms. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for a moment and take a look at my grandmother’s things? There’s not much. No more photographs. Just an old charm bracelet and some books. Mostly cookbooks and recipes. I got it all together before you came over last night.”

  Finley shook her head.

  No way was she staying. She was already running late. And she’d already kissed him. Again.

  She was willing to think of the first time as an innocent mistake, although their kiss had felt anything but innocent. But repeating that mistake in less than twelve hours wasn’t the kind of thing she could overlook.

  She wasn’t ready for this, despite what Scott had to say on the matter. Even if she was ready, she’d have to be the biggest idiot in Paris to kiss Maxim Laurent again, much less sleep with him.

  “Je suis désolé. There’s simply no time.” She smiled as politely as she could and called Gerard.

  But as she knelt to clip the leash onto the bulldog’s collar, Maxim looked down at her like he clearly didn’t believe her. And somewhere deep down, Finley knew she couldn’t keep running.

  She still had Maxim’s photograph. She was going to have to see him again.

  Ready or not.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  NINE

  Seconds after Finley left, Maxim’s cell phone chirped, signaling a new voice mail.

  He’d forgotten about the earlier call. He’d forgotten anything and everything except the welcoming warmth of Finley’s lips, the beautiful shock of her skin against his. He wanted her so much it hurt.

  He’d wanted her from the moment they met. Longer than that, if the dreams counted. He wanted her with a fierceness that made him ache inside. And he welcomed that ache. Craved it. Because when he was with Finley, things made sense.

  Easy now. It’s just lust.

  He was lying to himself, and he knew it. What he felt for Finley was far more complex than lust. But at the moment, he needed the comfort of the lie.

  She’d left.

  Again.

  And this time, he was certain she wasn’t coming back.

  Kissing her again probably hadn’t been his wisest idea. He hadn’t intended to do it. Not so soon, anyway. He needed her . . . for reasons that had nothing to do with the timeless way she made him ache. She knew more about the Romanov dynasty than anyone else in Paris. And for reasons he still didn’t quite understand, she seemed to want to help him.

  He needed Finley. Which made wanting her all the more complicated.

  If she hadn’t gone on and on about how much she didn’t want to sleep with him, he probably could have controlled himself.

  Possibly.

  He jammed a hand through his hair, and his voice mail alert chimed again. Maxim pulled the phone from his pocket and pressed play, expecting to hear Gregory’s voice. He almost hoped it was Detective Durand’s instead. Arguing with the detective would’ve at least been an effective distraction. He’d welcome pretty much anything that would keep his mind off how badly he’d botched things with Finley.

  The message wasn’t from Detective Durand, though. Nor was it from Gregory. It was from the same priest who’d called a few days before. Last time, the clergyman had only left a name and a number. Maxim had assumed he’d been calling on behalf of his church, seeking donations. He hadn’t bothered returning the call.

  Clearly he should have.

  “Monsieur Laurent, this is Father Kozlov. It’s been on my heart to call and check on you since you failed to show up for our scheduled appointment last week. Perhaps it slipped your mind, but you were so insistent when you called. I got the impression our meeting was of great importance to you. I pray this message finds you well.”

  The phone went silent in Maxim’s hand.

  He stared at it for a beat, then replayed the message. Several times. He listened to it four times in a row, struggling to make sense of what the priest said.

  Sometime before his attack, Maxim had made an appointment with a priest. An important appointment, apparently. He had no idea what the appointment could have been about, save for one important clue—the priest’s name.

  Kozlov.

  Surely the fact that he’d scheduled a meeting with a Russian priest wasn’t a coincidence. Whatever he’d wanted to discuss with Father Kozlov had something to do with the Romanovs. It had to.

  But what?

  * * *

  FINLEY CONSIDERED IT A minor victory when she managed to get to work less than fifteen minutes late.

  Every other assistant curator in the department was already bent over some rare artifact when she walked in the door. Madame Dubois raised an accusatory brow and made a grand show of checking her watch for the time. Her tardiness hadn’t gone unnoticed. But on some level, Finley still felt like she deserved a medal or something.

  She’d never been a minute late to work in her life. More importantly, she’d kissed Maxim Laurent—twice—and managed not to fall into bed with him. Quel miracle.

  Way to exercise some self-control. I didn’t sleep with the latest perpetrator of an Anastasia hoax. I only made out with him a few times.

  She felt guilty even looking at the blue velvet boxes stamped with the House of Fabergé seal and lined up neatly on her desk. Each box contained one of the original Imperial Easter eggs that had once belonged to the Tsar and his family. The eggs were insured for more than $30 million each, but how could anyone place a dollar amount on such a thing?

  Those eggs were made up of more than gold, silver, diamonds, and other precious stones. They were symbols of a lost era. They were all that was left of the Romanov dynasty, a time of breathtaking, opulent romance that ended in unspeakable tragedy.

  And they’d been placed in her care.

  Finley couldn’t see Maxim again. She just couldn’t. Not now that she knew about the Century Rule. And not now that she couldn’t seem to be in the same room with him without kissing him silly.

  She’d return his photograph by messenger. Going back to his flat would be begging for trouble. She was skating on such thin ice that she scarcely recognized herself anymore. Who was she?

  I know exactly who I am. I’m Finley Abbot.

  The only stranger in this scenario was Maxim Laurent.

  “Gather around, everyone. It’s time for our morning meeting.” Madame Dubois shot a meaningful glance at Finley. “Now that everyone’s here.”

  Finley reached for a notepad from her top drawer, and paused when something seemed off. Her drawer wasn’t usually quite this neat. Or empty.

  She frowned. What could be missing?

  Her heart stopped when she realized that just yesterday, the empty spot in her drawer had been occupied by the photograph she’d borrowed from Maxim. After the research department had spent the afternoon verifying its age, they’d returned it to her in a protective, ac
id-free white envelope. She’d tucked it away inside her desk so she wouldn’t have to think about what its authenticity could possibly mean. Or how she could possibly prove provenance. Out of sight, out of mind.

  And now it was gone.

  “Finley, join us please?” Madame Dubois stood at the head of the conference table with her arms crossed and a frown on her face.

  Maybe Finley needed to stop worrying so much about Maxim getting her fired since she was so clearly doing a good job of getting herself in trouble all on her own.

  “Coming.” She slunk to her place at the table.

  She couldn’t believe what was happening. Just when she’d vowed to return the picture, get her act together, and concentrate on her work, things were falling even more spectacularly apart. How had she managed to lose that photograph?

  “Now that we’re all here, I want to congratulate one of the members of our staff.” Madame Dubois glanced around the table.

  Finley followed her gaze and tried to figure out which of her colleagues had managed to do something fabulous while she’d been busy locking lips with Maxim and misplacing items of potential historical significance.

  The handwriting was on the wall. If she didn’t get her head out of the clouds, she could kiss her promotion good-bye. She’d either be a lowly assistant curator for the rest of her life, or she’d have to move back home and get a job stateside.

  That couldn’t happen. She didn’t want to go back to Connecticut. Even New York was out of the question. After working at the Louvre, anyplace else in the world would be a demotion.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  She’d just published a book. The opening gala for her Romanov exhibit was in less than a week. Everything would go off without a hitch. Just because one of the other assistant curators had managed to do something great didn’t mean she was out of the running.

  Yet.

  But when Madame Dubois’s gaze came to a rest, she wasn’t looking at one of the other assistants. She was looking right at Finley.

  Which should have been a good thing. A wonderful thing, actually. But any sense of elation Finley might have felt was immediately squelched by the sight of the large white envelope in her boss’s hand.