CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Finley managed to get to work on time, and it was a good thing, because her boss was ready and waiting for her when she walked into the curatorial workroom. Madame Dubois had parked herself in Finley’s chair, behind Finley’s desk, and was holding one of Finley’s pens.
Message received, she thought. None of this is mine. It can all be taken away as easily as it was given to me.
“Bonjour, madame.” She managed to smile, even though the afterglow she’d been basking in since waking up beside Maxim had just taken a serious hit.
“Good morning.” Madame Dubois’s gaze swept her up and down.
For a brief, nonsensical moment, Finley wondered if her boss was going to read her the riot act for sleeping with the enemy. But that was ridiculous. Her body felt as though it had been transformed overnight, but surely that change wasn’t visible to the outside world.
Besides, whom she slept with was her business. Nobody else’s. Even the Louvre couldn’t exert that kind of control over its employees.
Keep telling yourself that.
She stood beside her desk for a moment and waited for Madame Dubois to say something, but apparently the older woman was planning on sitting there silently and making Finley suffer.
She pasted on a smile. “Did you wish to see me about something?”
“Oui. I need confirmation that you returned Maxim Laurent’s photograph to him, as per my instructions.” Madame Dubois rose from the chair so they stood eye to eye.
Finley did her best to pretend it wasn’t unnerving. Because it was. Very. “About that . . . there’s been a slight complication.”
The room grew painfully quiet. Without looking, Finley knew the other assistant curators in the workroom were probably busy staring at some important artifact and pretending not to listen.
“Perhaps you’d like to discuss this in the privacy of my office?” Madame’s voice was overly polite in a bone-chilling sort of way, but Finley didn’t really care.
She very much wanted to discuss the matter in private. It wasn’t like she could blurt out the fact that Maxim was off taking a DNA test right there in front of everyone. “Oui, s’il vous plaît.”
“Very well then.”
Finley followed Madame Dubois to her office, which, for all practical purposes, was a transparent glass cube. Not completely private, but at least no one would overhear their conversation.
She took a seat opposite her boss and decided to just lay everything on the line this time. No beating around the bush. No stalling. “The Russian Orthodox Church believes Maxim Laurent is Anastasia’s grandson.”
For a long moment, Madame Dubois didn’t speak. She didn’t even move. Save for a tiny twitch in her left eye, she remained absolutely still as the blood drained from her face.
When she finally spoke, her voice was razor-sharp. “How do you know this, Finley? I believe I told you in no uncertain terms to return Monsieur Laurent’s photograph and then cease all contact with him.”
Through the glass wall of her boss’s office, Finley could see into the preservation department next door, where some of the most precious paintings in the world were being restored. A man in a white coat was bent over a Klimt canvas, meticulously applying tiny flakes of gold leaf.
She was sitting at the epicenter of the art world, and she was about to potentially give it all up for a man she’d known only a matter of days.
This is crazy. He’s my lover, not my husband.
Technically, he wasn’t even her lover. They’d slept together once. She wasn’t even sure it would happen again. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Finley cleared her throat. “I saw Monsieur Laurent last night and tried to return the photograph, but he wouldn’t accept it. He’d like to have the picture displayed in our exhibit.”
Madame Dubois released a tense exhale. “Unacceptable. The gala is tomorrow night, and provenance still hasn’t been established.”
“We won’t need to establish provenance. DNA testing can confirm that Maxim is related to the Romanovs.” Madame Dubois’s eyebrows rose at Finley’s casual use of Maxim’s first name. Great. She’d made exactly the sort of mistake she’d been trying to avoid. At least she hadn’t accidentally called him Monsieur Romanov. Madame Dubois’s head would have probably exploded all over the museum’s pristine white walls.
Finley corrected herself. “I mean Monsieur Laurent.”
Her boss rolled her eyes. “If the situation didn’t have such dire consequences for the Louvre, I might be tempted to laugh. Monsieur Laurent will never be granted a DNA test. He has no credibility. Or are you planning on holding the man’s hand, escorting him to Buckingham Palace, and introducing him to Prince Philip yourself?”
Too far.
Then again, Finley probably deserved it. Madame Dubois had drawn a line in the sand. And Finley had responded by leaping right over it and landing in Maxim’s bed.
Quel mess.
She forced her lips into a smile. “I don’t have to do any such thing. The church has Prince Philip’s DNA profile. Monsieur Laurent is getting tested this morning and should have the results in less than forty-eight hours.”
“Just in time to ruin our gala in spectacular fashion.” Finley’s boss sighed. “I thought you wanted to be considered for a promotion. But you’ve been helping this man, haven’t you?”
Finley didn’t bother answering. They both knew the truth. She wasn’t going to apologize for it either. Some things were more important than a promotion. Maxim had every right to know who he was.
The truth. A name. A history. Those were the things that mattered to Maxim, not the fortune. Even if he was Tsar Nicholas II’s heir, he wouldn’t invoke the Century Rule.
“Madame, there’s nothing to worry about. Monsieur Laurent has no intention of making a claim. He simply wants to find out who he is.” Finley took a deep breath and reminded herself to relax. Everything was going to be fine. There truly wasn’t a thing to worry about. “Trust me on this.”
“Trust you? After you’ve so clearly disobeyed my instructions and refused to cease contact with a man who could take down the entire museum?”
“But he won’t make a claim . . .”
Madame Dubois cut her off before she could finish. “He won’t have to. There are scores of people who could make a claim on his behalf.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Honestly, Finley. You need to read the law itself. I find it highly irresponsible that you haven’t done so already.”
She hadn’t read the law governing the Century Rule because Maxim assured her he had no interest in it whatsoever, plus she’d been a little busy trying to help him uncover the mystery of his identity. But that wasn’t the sort of reasoning her boss would approve of.
After a massive sigh, Madame Dubois continued. “Under the rule, if the heir himself doesn’t make a claim, their children and other relatives may do so.”
Finley breathed a tentative sigh of relief. “Maxim doesn’t have any children. Also, he’s an orphan. I don’t think he had any surviving family members at all.”
He was completely alone, which suddenly struck Finley as profoundly sad.
“Wait until the newspapers announce he’s the long-lost heir to the Romanov fortune. He’ll have relatives crawling out of the woodwork. The French government will probably issue a protective order preventing the artwork from leaving the country until the confusion can be sorted out. Even if all the pieces end up being returned to the other museums as planned, it won’t be until after a significant delay.” Madame Dubois leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Congratulations. Thanks to your help, the Louvre’s relationship with every other museum in the world will be ruined.”
Finley remembered waking up to find Maxim completely dressed. She remembered the seriousness in his gaze. He’d wanted to tell her something, but stopped when Scott arrived. What could it have been?
She took a deep breath and told herself she was worrying about nothing. Madame Dubois was blowing everything out of proportion. Maxim was the real deal, but that didn’t mean he had his eyes on a collection of Fabergé Easter eggs. “But if he’s actually Anastasia’s grandson, he deserves to know the truth. Don’t you think?”
“You want to know what I think?” Madame Dubois lifted a brow. “I think your Maxim Romanov is a fraud. Don’t be stupid. This isn’t a Russian fairy tale.”
A Russian fairy tale?
Hardly. It was beginning to feel more like a nightmare.
THE DNA TESTING AT the hospital took far longer than Maxim anticipated. He’d expected to spit into a cup or provide a simple cheek swab. But after he’d turned his birth certificate over to Father Kozlov, a lab technician took four vials of blood from his arm. Hair samples, saliva tests, and fingernail clippings followed.
The elder priest assured him there was nothing to be concerned about. Due to the sensitive nature of Maxim’s case, the test needed to be as accurate as possible.
But what would the results really mean?
Even if he was proven to be a Romanov, he still wouldn’t know what he’d done before he lost his memory. And he needed to know, once and for all. The memories weren’t encouraging. Far from it.
Maxim pinned his last hopes on his meeting with Gregory Joubert.
When he arrived at Point Zero fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, his cell phone showed two missed calls from Finley. But he was hesitant to return them. If he talked to her now, she’d no doubt hear the worry in his voice. The dread. The regret.
He wouldn’t be able to hide it, not from her.
He switched his phone to silent and buried it in his pocket as a young couple wearing skinny jeans and beanies hopped onto the copper star in the center of the Point Zero marker. The girl wrapped her arms around the boy, and he lifted her clear off her feet before planting a kiss on her mouth that was just a tad too passionate to be appropriate for a popular sightseeing destination during Paris rush hour.
Maxim couldn’t help but smile, even though the sight of them made his chest feel like his heart was being squeezed in a vise. There were practically as many customs and rituals tied to Point Zero as there were arrondissements. Young lovers typically favored the one that promised eternal devotion to couples who kissed above the copper plate.
He turned away, giving them a moment of privacy. Without intending to, he let his gaze stray to Shakespeare and Company, directly across the street.
The cherry tree in front of the bookshop was in full bloom. Pink blossoms swirled in the air, and the fairy lights strung from the store’s green trim twinkled against the setting sun, giving the quaint corner a poetic charm that made Maxim’s heart ache even more.
If what he suspected about himself was true, he could never go back there. Not with Finley. Not after what he’d done.
“Maxim.” Gregory tapped him on the shoulder, and bile rose up the back of Maxim’s throat.
He swallowed it down and turned to see Gregory standing behind him, clutching a file folder to his chest. It bore the Banque de France logo, which sparked a small glimmer of hope in Maxim’s consciousness.
Maybe he was wrong about what had happened here. Maybe his memories couldn’t be trusted, and Gregory had actually needed to see him about a simple insurance form.
“Bonsoir,” he said tightly. “I see you’ve brought the paperwork.”
Gregory let out a bitter laugh. “Save it. We both know I’m not here to discuss insurance papers.”
The tiny spark of hope withered and died. Maxim’s head spun. He felt like he was falling down a deep, dark hole.
Her name is Finley Abbot. She’s an assistant curator at the Louvre. American.
Get close to her, and you’ll get close to the treasure.
Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “When did you figure it out?”
Maxim took a deep breath and lied as best as he could. “Last night.”
There was a kernel of truth to it, but he still didn’t have all of his memory back. Far from it.
“Then you remember this, obviously?” Gregory thrust the folder at Maxim.
He took it, dreading what he might find inside.
Sure enough, the article from Le Monde about Finley was right on top. Maxim’s gut churned as he looked at the picture he’d seen so many times in his dreams. How could he have been so wrong?
He’d made love to her.
He never should have touched her, and instead he’d buried himself inside her until she’d cried out his name.
“We had a deal, Maxim. Fifty-fifty. I did all the heavy lifting. Hell, the whole thing was my idea. The only reason I chose you is because you look so much like Nicholas II.” Gregory paced back and forth in front of the marker. Behind him, its copper center shimmered beneath the blazing Paris sunset.
Maxim flipped through the folder. It contained more information about the exhibit, as well as a thoroughly annotated copy of the Century Rule, the law Finley had been so upset about.
She’d accused him of faking his background so he could take advantage of that piece of French legislation, and he’d denied it. He’d denied it, and then he’d kissed her.
I’m not a Romanov. I’m some kind of monster.
He felt dizzy, and his head throbbed. He was going to be sick right there in front of Notre Dame Cathedral.
Gregory continued ranting in a tone just loud enough for Maxim to hear. “How was I to know you’d begin to believe the lie?”
The notebook.
Maxim looked up, and pinned Gregory with a glare. “You broke into my apartment last night, didn’t you?”
Gregory shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His voice dripped with sarcasm. Maxim was right. The break-in didn’t have anything to do with his grandmother’s bracelet. Or the photograph of her as a little girl. Gregory had been looking for the notebook so Maxim wouldn’t find it and figure out what they’d been planning.
Too late.
“I’m calling the police.” Maxim reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
Gregory laughed. “Go ahead. I’m sure they’d be interested to hear all about how you planned to make Finley Abbot and the rest of the staff of the Louvre believe you’re a Romanov, especially since you and Mademoiselle Abbot have become so close in recent days.”
Maxim nearly punched him in the face.
The acid in Gregory’s tone made it sound like Maxim’s relationship with Finley was something dirty and wrong. Like he was trying to take advantage of her.
Which was exactly what Detective Durand would believe once Gregory showed him the folder. Who knew what other evidence Gregory had stored away somewhere in his office?
Maxim squeezed his eyes shut and conjured the memory of the way his own desk had looked when he’d stopped by the bank’s offices. It had been piled with old files and papers.
Now he knew why.
Once Gregory had heard about Maxim’s amnesia, he’d removed all evidence of their con and replaced it with documents that looked like legitimate bank business. Who knew what additional proof he had linking Maxim to his plan?
Whatever it was, the détective would probably be ready and willing to believe Maxim’s intentions had been malicious.
Because they had.
His worst fears had been confirmed. He wasn’t a royal. He was a thief. A thief who’d planned on using Finley to steal millions worth of artwork from the Louvre.
He hurled the file folder at Gregory. If he looked at it for another second, he’d vomit.
Maxim bent over, planted his hands on his knees, and concentrated very hard on not spilling the contents of his stomach onto the cobblestones underfoot. “Why are you here, Gregory? What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” Gregory moved closer. Close enough to mutter directly into Maxim’s ear. “I want my half. You don’t think I actually fell for your little virtuous act two weeks ago, do you? You’re setting her up to believe you’re a Romanov, just as we planned. Once she believes you, you’ll make a claim under the Century Rule with her full support. I won’t let you cut me out. You owe me.”
His breath was sticky and hot on Maxim’s neck. Maxim squeezed his eyes closed and tried not to retch. He took deep breaths in and out through his nose.
When he opened his eyes, he was still bent over with his hands planted on his knees. He could see coins scattered over the star in the center of the Point Zero marker, just like he’d remembered in the hospital. And he could see shoes . . . the same shoes he’d seen the night of his attack. Berluti loafers . . . smoky walnut-hued leather.
All this time, he’d thought they belonged to him.
They didn’t.
They were Gregory’s.
He forced himself into a standing position and shoved Gregory hard in the chest. “It was you.”
Gregory stumbled backwards. The file folder fell to the ground, sending its contents scattering in the wind.
“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 even 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.