Royally Romanov

by Teri Wilson

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gregory said as he bent to scramble after the papers.

  Maxim ignored the mess and loomed over Gregory. His fists clenched at his sides. As much as he loathed admitting it, he was tempted to hit Gregory. He’d been Maxim’s friend. His business partner.

  And he’d nearly killed him over a con gone wrong.

  Maxim’s gaze snagged on one of the papers on the ground—the newspaper article with Finley’s picture situated just beneath the headline. Something inside him shifted—a memory—slowly coming into razor-sharp focus.

  Get close to her, and you’ll get close to the treasure.

  Shame coursed through Maxim, heavy and vile. But then another piece of the puzzle fell clearly into place.

  I won’t do it, Gregory. This isn’t what I signed up for. I’m out.

  Gregory stood and met Maxim’s gaze. His arms were full of the hastily gathered papers, and his eyes, so full of confidence only moments ago, had gone wary.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re the one who tried to kill me.” Disgust clogged Maxim’s throat. Disgust, and regret . . . so much regret. “I changed my mind. I started to believe I might actually be a Romanov, and when I told you I wouldn’t go along with your plan, you wanted to shut me up. Permanently.”

  “Don’t tell me you still believe you’re Russian royalty.” Gregory sneered. “Not that it matters. You can’t prove I’ve done anything.”

  Maxim shook his head. “I don’t need to. It’s over. All of it.”

  Then he walked away before he succumbed to his urge to beat Gregory to a pulp. He was carrying around enough regret as it was.

  How was he going to tell Finley what he’d done? He hadn’t gone through with the con, but early on he’d certainly intended to. Would it even matter that he’d changed his mind?

  He’d remembered her because she’d been a target. His target. How could he touch her again, kiss her, while he carried that terrible truth in his heart? How could he have anything to do with her?

  He couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.

  The DNA results were no longer of any consequence. Whether or not he was a Romanov didn’t matter anymore. Maxim knew who he was now, and that man had no place in Finley Abbot’s life.

  * * *

  FINLEY SOMEHOW MANAGED TO make it through the rest of the day at the Louvre.

  On the outside, she was the perfect assistant curator. She worked on finalizing the details for the gala and organizing the transfer of the exhibit’s major pieces from the museum to the Palais Garnier opera house.

  The infamous building was one of Finley’s favorite places in Paris. The ceiling of its theatre boasted a mural by Marc Chagall. It was the dreamiest thing she’d ever seen. The party would be held in the opera house’s stunning grand foyer, the most famous drawing room in the city. With its massive chandeliers and heavy gold-leaf detailing, it was like a slice of Versailles right in the heart of Paris. Finley could only imagine how the bejeweled Fabergé eggs would look in such opulent surroundings. They deserved to be seen in such a beautiful place.

  These were her concerns on the outside. On the inside, she worried the eggs might be confiscated by a judge somewhere and never even make it to Palais Garnier.

  That wouldn’t actually happen though, would it?

  Everything would be fine. Once she saw Maxim again, the doubts that Madame Dubois had planted in her head would be long forgotten.

  The DNA test would come back positive of course, but Maxim would put a stop to any attempts to reclaim the artwork. He was the Tsar’s grandson. He could fix the situation. There was certainly no truth to Madame Dubois’s assertions that he was using her.

  Last night had been real. No man had ever touched her like that before. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the brush of his lips against hers, the forbidden heat of his tongue on her thighs . . . the way she’d come apart on the piano bench, and again on the velvet bed. She could still feel him moving inside her. She’d opened herself to Maxim, and he’d done the same. He’d shown her the real him.

  That had meant something. Finley knew it had.

  The closer she got to Shakespeare and Company, the better she felt. But as soon as she walked through the door and saw Scott waiting for her behind the counter, she knew something was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  “Tell me why you have that awful look on your face.” At the sound of Finley’s voice, Gerard woke from his nap and shuffled toward her.

  She squatted to greet him, absently running a hand over his smooth little head while panic gathered in her chest. Gerard’s ears didn’t prick forward the way they ordinarily did. His eyes seemed even bigger and rounder than usual.

  Even her dog knew something was wrong.

  “He’s not coming,” Scott said.

  Like an idiot, Finley stood and asked, “Who?”

  She knew good and well whom Scott was talking about, but she couldn’t accept what he was saying. She just couldn’t.

  Maxim was supposed to meet her here. They were supposed to spend the night together again. He wouldn’t just disappear, not after they’d slept together.

  Unless something terrible had happened.

  “Finley.” Scott shook his head, and the pity in his eyes was too much for her to bear.

  “Did he have an accident? Is he hurt or . . .” Dead? She couldn’t even say it. She didn’t even want to think it, but she could see the kaleidoscope lights shining from Notre Dame’s stained-glass windows across the street—rainbow reminders of Maxim’s attack.

  “He’s perfectly fine. He’s just not coming.” Scott’s gaze fell to the floor. He didn’t want to be telling her these things. Why was he telling her these things? Had Maxim spoken to him? “For what it’s worth, he says he’s sorry.”

  So Maxim had been to the bookstore. He’d been there, but he couldn’t be bothered to stay and wait for her so he could explain things himself.

  Scott took a step toward her but stopped when she wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t want to be hugged right then. If he hugged her, she would cry, and she didn’t want to cry. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be furious. But instead, the emotions bearing down on her felt like some awful, mixed up version of fury, grief, and embarrassment.

  How could she have been so monumentally stupid?

  “No.” Her voice was too high, too loud. She sounded almost hysterical, which was about as mortifying as having to listen to her best friend tell her she was being stood up.

  Especially there.

  Her gaze flitted to the staircase. She could practically see herself leading Maxim to the second floor, pulling him by the hand. She blinked, trying to force the image from her mind. But then she remembered the scene on the piano. And the bed.

  She’d never be able to set foot upstairs again.

  Open for me, lovely.

  Her face burned with shame. She’d opened for Maxim. She’d opened her heart, her soul, and her body. He’d done the same in turn.

  It was real, damn it.

  “I don’t understand. There has to be a reason.” Nothing about this felt right. Maxim wouldn’t walk away without telling her good-bye. Not the Maxim she knew.

  Madame Dubois’s words of warning came flooding back, washing over Finley in a sickening remembrance.

  I think your Maxim Romanov is a fraud. Don’t be stupid. This isn’t a Russian fairy tale.

  Finley shook her head, as if she could rattle the thought right out of her mind.

  “Are you okay? You’re starting to scare me.” Scott eyed her with concern.

  “I’m fine.” She would not have a breakdown over a man she’d known only a matter of days. Even if those days had been the best she’d had in a long time. A very, very long time.

  And eve
n if that man could potentially ruin her career.

  “Tell me what he said.” She couldn’t walk into the gala tomorrow night wondering if Maxim was going to show up and make a claim under the Century Rule. A little warning would be nice. “I need to know.”

  “ ‘Tell her I’m sorry.’ That’s all he said. Then he handed me this.” Scott pulled a small box out of his back pocket.

  Finley removed the lid, and her heart gave a little squeeze when she saw the familiar charms—the jewel-encrusted crowns and the tiny ruby egg.

  Maxim had left her Anastasia’s bracelet.

  Just as he had the last time he’d walked away.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  SIXTEEN

  The DNA test results didn’t come in until late the following day. By the time he got the call, Maxim had already packed up most of his Paris apartment. He couldn’t stay there anymore. He couldn’t stay in Paris, period.

  There were too many memories in France now. The memories he’d tried so hard to recapture had brought him nothing but grief. Grief and shame. It was time to start over. For real this time . . . and by his own doing, rather than as a result of nearly losing his life.

  On some level he knew leaving was about more than needing a fresh start. If he stayed, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself away from Finley. Dropping off the bracelet with Scott had nearly killed him, and yet he knew it had been a coward’s way out. The truth of the matter was that he wouldn’t have been able to give it to her himself. He couldn’t have forced the word adieu from his mouth if he’d tried.

  He hoped he wouldn’t have to say it tonight when he saw her again. He doubted he would. She was probably furious with him now. Good. He deserved it. He deserved more of her disdain than she realized.

  Maxim had hoped the test results would arrive earlier in the day, so he could put to rest any concerns about his intentions prior to the gala at Palais Garnier. He would’ve preferred to take care of things at the Louvre. He even considered leaving without saying a word about either the DNA test or the exhibit, but he couldn’t do that. Finley deserved closure, and he owed her that much.

  He tucked the envelope with the DNA results in the inside pocket of his suit jacket as he climbed the massive staircase at the entrance of the opera house.

  To Maxim, walking inside Palais Garnier always felt like entering another world. His grandmother had taken him here regularly when he was a boy, and he could still remember how awestruck he’d been by its opulent décor. It had been like walking inside a wedding cake.

  It still was.

  He did his best not to dwell on that particular analogy as he climbed the stairs and made his way to the grand foyer where the Louvre gala was taking place. The last thing he needed was to picture Finley in bridal white. But when he caught his first glimpse of her dressed in spun-gold tulle, he couldn’t have imagined she’d ever look more beautiful, even if she were walking toward him to the tune of the wedding march.

  The ball gown floated around her, and her hair was styled in a sort of half-up, half-down chignon that almost made her look as though she’d just glamorously gotten out of bed. Arousal surged through Maxim with an urgency that nearly brought him to his knees.

  This was a bad idea. He shouldn’t be there. He stood for a beat—at war with himself—and debated whether to stay or go. Then Finley’s gaze strayed toward him, and it was too late.

  She stood beside an older woman Maxim recognized from his visit to the Louvre a few days ago. He seemed to remember the woman as Finley’s boss, which was probably a good thing. She’d been concerned about the Century Rule. Maxim suspected her worries over the matter had put Finley’s job in jeopardy. Maybe now he could put those worries to rest and do one good thing before he left.

  He made his way toward them, trying not to focus too hard on the hurt etched in Finley’s lovely features. Hurt that he’d caused. But he couldn’t seem to look away. Maybe he needed to punish himself. Or maybe he wanted to memorize everything about her before he said his final good-bye.

  More probably, both.

  “Monsieur Laurent.” Finley’s boss greeted him with a strained smile. “I’m Marian Dubois, head curator of the Louvre’s decorative arts department. We met the other day. How nice of you to join our little gathering this evening.”

  The tone in her voice indicated the direct opposite.

  “Bonsoir.” He nodded at Madame Dubois, then turned his attention to Finley, who’d gone alabaster white. “Good evening, Finley.”

  “Why are you here, Maxim?” She crossed her arms, and he noticed a flash of gold on her wrist.

  He blinked. She was wearing the bracelet. Even after the terrible way he’d treated her, it dangled from her wrist like a glittering symbol of hope.

  Stop. It ends here. Now.

  “Apologies for interrupting your party. Don’t worry, I’m not staying. In fact, I’m leaving Paris tonight for good. I’m moving to London. But before I go, I wanted you to know about this.” He pulled the envelope from his pocket so Finley and Madame Dubois could see the hospital’s official seal stamped on its cream-colored surface.

  Finley grew very still, while Marian Dubois glared at him. “I suppose this is the part where you announce that you’re a Romanov and all the art here tonight really belongs to you?”

  “No.” Maxim shook his head and stared down at the floor. He couldn’t look at Finley. He couldn’t bear to see the look in her eyes that would surely be there once he finished what he had to say. “On the contrary, I failed the DNA test. I’m not a Romanov at all.”

  “What?” Finley’s voice broke, and Maxim heard a world of heartbreak in that subtlest of sounds.

  She’d believed in him from the very beginning, and he’d turned out to be a disappointment. A fraud. He’d let her down.

  In more ways than she knew.

  Maxim slid the envelope back inside his pocket. “Your exhibit is safe. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. It wasn’t my intention.”

  He took a deep breath as he prepared to deliver the final blow. Then he looked at Finley one last time—really looked at her. He took in every detail of her luminous eyes and her cherry-pink lips.

  He’d tasted those lips. He’d kissed them. And they’d brought him healing in a way she’d never understand.

  Then he fixed his gaze with hers, because he needed her to hear him. He’d never be able to say it twice. “My memory is coming back. It was all a con. I know that now, and I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  “WELL, THAT SETTLES THAT,” Madame Dubois muttered as Maxim turned on his heel and walked away. “I told you he was a fraud.”

  Finley nodded mutely, as she followed Maxim’s tuxedo-clad back winding its way through the crowd.

  She would’ve bet her life on the results of that DNA test. How was it possible that Maxim wasn’t a Romanov? She couldn’t believe it.

  Literally could not.

  He was lying.

  She didn’t know why, but she was certain he wasn’t telling the truth.

  “I need to go speak to the other department heads,” Madame Dubois said. It was a wonder her voice even registered in Finley’s consciousness. “Perhaps you could stop staring at Monsieur Laurent long enough to check on the display?”

  Finley forced herself to look at Madame Dubois and smile. “Of course.”

  “Très bien.”

  Finley made her way to the gleaming glass display cases that held the Fabergé eggs as her mind spun in a thousand different directions—the photograph, Father Kozlov, Maxim’s ransacked apartment, the bracelet.

  So many things had happened in the past few days, and each and every one of them had led her to the same conclusion. Maxim was a Romanov.

  He’s lying.

  His grandmother was Anastasia, and she could prove it.

  She glance
d at the tiny charms resting against her wrist. If they were the missing Fabergé surprises, they would fit perfectly inside the eggs. All she had to do was test them and see.

  Of course the fact that the eggs were currently on display in front of hundreds of people threw a tiny kink in her plan. But she couldn’t accept what Maxim said. He was leaving Paris, and she’d never see him again.

  It was all a con. I know that now, and I’m sorry.

  He’d remembered something. Something he was ashamed of, obviously. But that didn’t change who he was now. He was different. She knew Maxim. She trusted him.

  She used to, anyway.

  The Rosebud egg was right there, less than a foot away. So close she could reach out and touch the glass case that surrounded it. If she was right about the charms, the little crown on her bracelet would fit perfectly inside the Rosebud egg’s little yellow bud.

  Her cardkey hung on a slim gold chain around her neck, tucked discreetly into the bodice of her dress. She could feel it pressing against her breastbone beneath a frothy layer of tulle and shimmering gold sequins. All she had to do was pull it out and unlock the case.

  Then what? She couldn’t very well try to fit the crown into the yellow enamel rosebud right there in front of everyone.

  She needed to take the egg. Not take . . . borrow. Just for a matter of seconds. Only long enough to test her theory.

  But how exactly was she supposed to walk off with a Fabergé egg worth more than a million dollars? French military officers stood at every entrance and exit to the room. Finley herself had hired six plainclothes security officers to mill about and keep an eye on things.

  If she’d been in the museum instead of the opera house, she’d have to worry about infrared motion sensors that could detect glass being broken. Thanks to the key around her neck, that wasn’t a problem. But for all practical purposes, the egg was being guarded by a literal army. It wasn’t like she could make herself invisible.

  Quel conundrum.

  Finley stared at the egg until the red enamel, gold trim, and bright yellow rosebud blurred together like a watercolor painting. She blinked, and beyond the glittering treasure, she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the massive mirrors on the opposite wall of the grand foyer. She scarcely recognized her reflection. Her shimmering gold dress made her look like a princess rather than what she actually was—a curator.