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, acid-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.
She stared at it in abject horror. She didn’t need X-ray vision to know that the envelope contained Maxim’s photograph.
Mystery solved.
“You were late this morning, so I checked with the research department myself and they informed me your photograph checked out. It’s authentic to the time period.” Madame Dubois smiled.
Finley did her best to smile back.
“I have more good news.” Madame Dubois’s grin widened. During her whole tenure at the Louvre, Finley had never seen her boss look so pleased. It terrified her to her core. “Using facial recognition software, the research department was able to compare this photograph to documented photos of her from Tsar Nicholas’s collection. The image is a match. Finley, you’ve found a lost photograph of the Grand Duchess Anastasia.”
Her colleagues burst into applause. Finley felt sick to her stomach and somehow resisted the urge to slide under the table and hide. Because she knew what was coming next.
Madame Dubois slid the picture from the envelope and placed it in the center of the table. Everyone stared at it, the royal Holy Grail. “Now that this photo has been verified, we need to know exactly where it came from.”
And there it was.
Finley gripped the edge of the chair, holding on for dear life. She felt like she might faint. “Um, as I mentioned yesterday, I’m still trying to establish provenance.”
“Right. That’s your number-one priority now.” Madame Dubois pointed to Simone and Henri, the two assistant curators from the department who’d attended Finley’s signing at the bookstore a few nights ago. “As of now, you two will be helping Finley with final preparations for both the exhibit and the opening gala.”
Henri nodded.
“Yes, of course,” Simone said. As soon as Madame Dubois turned her attention back to the photo, Simone mouthed at Finley. Way to go!
Things were getting worse by the second.
She couldn’t keep postponing the inevitable. Sooner or later, everyone would know about Maxim. They’d know about his amnesia, and they’d know all about his alleged family tree. If Finley didn’t say something . . . right now . . . she’d look like she’d been trying to hide the facts.
Probably because she was.
“There’s something you all need to know,” she blurted.
Madame Dubois looked up from the picture. “Yes?”
Finley took a deep breath. Was it her imagination, or could she see her career dying before her eyes? Nope, there it was, going up in spectacular flames. “The photograph was loaned to me by a man named Maxim Laurent. According to Mr. Laurent, it’s a family heirloom.”
“Oui, I know. You’ve said all this before, Finley. Just yesterday, in fact.” Madame Dubois’s smile faded, ever so slightly. “What aren’t you saying?”
Just spit out. “Monsieur Laurent recently suffered a head injury, resulting in partial memory loss. But he claims to remember the picture, and he identifies the girl in the photograph as his grandmother.”
An awkward silence fell over the table. A silence so heavy, Finley wouldn’t have been surprised if it loomed over the entire museum like a mushroom cloud.
Madame Dubois stared at her. Seconds passed before she even blinked. Finley felt her credibility slipping away with each tick of the clock. One by one, the other curators looked away, refusing to meet Finley’s gaze. Even Simone was focusing intently on the floor.
Finally, their supervisor spoke. “So what you’re telling me is that this Monsieur Laurent claims his grandmother was the Grand Duchess Anastasia.”
Finley cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“And you say he’s also suffering from amnesia?”
“Yes.” Why did it have to sound so much like a bad soap opera?
“Does he have an explanation as to how his grandmother ‘escaped’ her family’s execution in 1918?” The air quotes Madame Dubois used around the word escaped made Finley flinch.
She shook her head. “No, he doesn’t. He only recently came to know that his grandmother was connected to the Tsar.”
Madame Dubois crossed her arms. “And what about Monsieur Laurent’s parents? Who are they?”
“They both passed away when Maxim was young.” Finley’s face went hot. She prayed no one noticed her casual use of Maxim’s first name. “Monsieur Laurent was raised by his grandmother.”
“You mean Anastasia.” Madame Dubois slid the photograph across the table, toward Finley.
Finley had memorized pretty much every detail of the picture, but she glanced down at it anyway, struck once again by its delicate beauty. She should have been stunned that the research department had verified Anastasia’s identity with facial recognition software. Flabbergasted, even.
She wasn’t.
That alone should have been alarming. When had she begun to buy into Maxim’s far-fetched story?
Finley swallowed. “Yes, the Grand Duchess raised him. She kept her true identity a secret, though. Monsieur Laurent only recently discovered who she was.”
She couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. She almost sounded like she believed Maxim was Anastasia’s grandson.
Did she believe?
“Finley, this is a serious problem. When you told me the photograph was a family heirloom, I assumed you’d procured it from an individual with ties to the Romanov court. Not someone who claimed to be an actual Romanov.”
“Excuse me.” Henri raised his hand. “Are we talking about the same Laurent Romanov who the police just named a person of interest in the attack at Point Zero a few weeks ago?”
“What?” Finley said. “That’s not possible. He was the victim. How can he be a person of interest?”
Henri shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But his name is all over the front page of the paper. The authorities are asking anyone with knowledge of Monsieur Laurent to come forward.”
Madame Dubois glared at Finley.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“I realize this complicates things.” Finley kept her gaze glued to the photograph. She couldn’t bear the strange looks being cast her way by the other curators. They probably thought she’d lost her mind.
Maybe she had.
“This more than complicates things, Finley. This puts the entire exhibit at risk . . . millions of dollars in art. Not to mention the reputation of the Louvre.” Madame Dubois sank into her chair. “Your Mr. Laurent is obviously a fraud. Surely it won’t be too difficult to discredit him.”
Maurice let out a laugh. “Is that even necessary? Wasn’t Anastasia’s body discovered in 2007 and verified through DNA evidence?”
“It was.” Madame Dubois nodded.
Finley averted her gaze. “Actually, not everyone accepts the DNA evidence as accurate.”
She looked up and squared her shoulders. She’d gone ahead and said it, so she may as well own it.
“What? Is that true?” Simone’s gaze swiveled back and forth between Finley and Madame Dubois.
Finley gave a firm nod, hoping to project far more confidence than she actually felt. “Yes. The Russian Orthodox Church disputes the DNA findings.”
For days, she’d been trying very hard to forget this obscure fact. No one seriously believed the church’s claim that the DNA tests were wrong. Their refusal to accept that the remains found in a Russian field in 2007 belonged to Anastasia and her brother, Alexei, was widely considered to be a political stance. Scientists and the art world considered it a way to protect the Soviet government from rumors that they’d faked the original burial of the Romanovs.
It was the most far-fetched loophole imaginable. The bones had been tested against the DNA of Britain’s Prince Philip, a distant relative of the Romanovs. Scientists claimed the DNA was a match. Case closed.
Who would believe the assertions of a church with a political agenda over the cold, hard facts?
Not Finley. Unless . . .
“You’re not seriously suggesting that the Russian Orthodox Church’s crazy conspiracy theory is true.” The incredulity of Madame Dubois’s tone made it clear there was only one correct way to respond.
Finley would have liked to say no, she wasn’t suggesting that at all.
Except she sort of was.
“I’m just saying there’s room for doubt.” The tiniest possible room, but that’s all she needed.
This isn’t about me. It’s about Maxim.
It was about what Maxim needed, and those needs were at odds with Finley’s. She didn’t even know why she was saying these things. She couldn’t back up a single thing Maxim had told her about his family. Neither could he.
“If this man makes a claim under the Century Rule and the art gets tied up in litigation, you’ll lose your job. There’s not a museum in Europe that would hire you if you claim this man is Anastasia’s grandson. So perhaps you need to rethink your position.” There was an undeniable tremor of fury in Madame Dubois’s voice.
It wasn’t too late to backtrack. She should just forget about the church and accept the DNA findings, just like every respectable member of the scientific community had. “But what if he’s right? What if he really is Anastasia’s grandson?”
As impossible as it seemed, it could be true. And if it was, the art belonged to him. Fair and square.
“He’s not. Period.”
“But what about the picture?” Simone asked.
Finley could have kissed her on the spot. “Exactly. At the very least, we have a duty to look into the photo’s provenance. The fact of the matter is that Maxim Laurent somehow had a photograph of Anastasia in his possession.”
She tried not to let her thoughts snag on the specifics of somehow. Maxim could have gotten the photo anywhere. He could have stolen it or even purchased it on the black market. Romanov antiquities had been floating around for decades.
An Imperial Fabergé egg had been discovered in a pile of scrap metal less than a year ago. Hardly any of the known Imperial eggs contained their treasures, just like the ruby necklace and the tiny bejeweled crown that were missing from the Rosebud egg.
These objects hadn’t simply vanished. They were out there. Somewhere.
Common sense told her that Madame Dubois was right. Maxim had somehow come across the photo and was now using it to re-create a past. A past that he claimed to no longer remember.
But her common sense had been in short supply of late.
“Finley, forget this nonsense. The Louvre can have nothing to do with this man, and neither can you.” Madame Dubois pointed at the picture in front of Finley. “If you value your position here, you will return that photograph to Monsieur Laurent at once. Is that understood?”
Finley’s gaze dropped to the ghostly image of Anastasia. Could she really be Maxim’s grandmother? Upon closer inspection, the girl in the picture had the same eyes as her father, the same as Maxim. Finley hadn’t noticed the similarity before because she’d been preoccupied with the ruby pendant around Anastasia’s neck.
She wished Maxim still had the necklace. It might be easier to convince people to take him seriously if he did. Even if he only had the ruby teardrop charm itself . . .
A shiver went up Finley’s spine as she remembered what Maxim had said earlier when she’d been in such a hurry to leave his apartment.
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 . . .
Surely the pendant and the charm bracelet had nothing to do with each other. She was grasping at straws. And why? Was she really so desperate to believe Maxim was telling the truth? It would destroy her.
Madame Dubois cleared her throat. Loudly. “Finley, I asked you a question. You are to return the photograph to Monsieur Laurent and cease contact with him. Is that understood? Entendu?”
Finley nodded and tucked the photo back into its envelope. “Understood.”
But maybe she should take a look at the charm bracelet, just to convince herself once and for all that Maxim Laurent wasn’t who he said he was. She could forget she’d ever set eyes on him and get her life back on its proper track, both professionally and romantically. She’d look at it, see it was nothing more than an old, meaningless bracelet, and go back to her quiet, orderly life.
What could be the harm in that?