Page 12 of Royally Romanov
She went eerily quiet, no doubt trying to figure out how a Russian dynasty that had been destroyed nearly a century ago could possibly be related to a random accident in modern-day Paris.
But what if it wasn’t random?
“Is there someplace where we can talk? Get some coffee perhaps?” He held his breath, waiting for her answer.
“Finley?” The store manager appeared from the narrow, book-strewn hallway. He had a set of keys in one hand and was busy rummaging through the messenger bag slung over his shoulder with the other. When he looked up and saw Maxim, he slowed to a stop.
“Is everything okay?” His gaze flitted back and forth between Maxim and Finley.
“Just peachy.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Maxim braced himself.
Here it comes.
She was bound to tell the manager that Maxim had been lurking around waiting for her. And oh yeah, he was also unstable to some degree.
“Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Abbot.” He turned to go.
His head had begun to hurt again, aching with despair. He’d hoped to find answers tonight, and now he was leaving with more and more questions. Why did he remember Finley Abbot so keenly when she insisted they’d never met? And why had he believed he was a descendant of a woman who’d perished nearly one hundred years ago?
He shouldn’t have come here. He most definitely shouldn’t have asked Finley to go for coffee. She might not know him, but he knew she meant something to him.
That dichotomy didn’t bode well.
“Wait,” she called after him, and placed a hand on his forearm.
The gentleness of her touch stopped him in his tracks. He stared down at her fingertips on his sleeve. When was the last time a woman had touched him? Other than one who was dressed in scrubs, obviously.
He didn’t know. He was beginning to think he never would. “Yes?”
Her green eyes glittered in the shadowed room full of books. Her hand stayed, resting tenderly on the sleeve of his suit jacket, and hope stirred ever so faintly in Maxim’s chest.
The bookstore manager cleared his throat. “Finley.”
Without breaking eye contact with Maxim, she said, “I’ll be right there, Scott.”
Scott.
Maxim slid a glance toward him and wondered if they were a couple. He hoped not. The very idea felt like a blow to the chest, and he’d taken more than his fair share of blows lately.
When he looked back at Finley, there was a hint of smile on her lips. She removed her hand from his sleeve and slid it into to the pocket of her ruffled trench coat. “Enchanté, Monsieur Laurent.”Nice to meet you. “Thank you again for coming, but I really must be going now.”
She reached toward him again, this time for a handshake. When his hand slid against her palm, she slid a small square of stiff paper into it and winked.
“Bonnenuit.”Good night.
Maxim nodded. “À la prochaine.”Until next time.
Because there would be a next time. Therehadto be. So little about his life made sense that he longed for something familiar, something real. And for reasons he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand, he remembered Finley. He remembered her smoky eyes. He remembered the elegance of her slender wrists. He remembered the supple curve of her neck.
She was important to him.
He just didn’t know why.
He waited to look at the card she’d handed him until he’d left the bookstore and turned the corner that lead to Square René-Viviani, a hidden sanctuary lush with locust trees and tulip blooms tucked beside the church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre.
The square was empty, save for a young couple kissing quietly on one of the park benches. Off in the distance, Notre Dame’s gargoyles were silhouetted by the pink April moon. Maxim settled himself on the bench farthest away from the young lovers and at last pulled the card from his suit pocket.
