Page 14 of Royally Romanov
“It’s eleven o’clock at night. If he wanted to date you, he should have asked you for a proper date. At a normal time of night,” Scott said.
One of the bakers waved at them from the other side of the glass. They both waved back, and then continued down the cobblestone path.
“I appreciate the protective-older-brother vibe you’ve got going on right now. I do. But I can take care of myself.” She’d made sure of that. Afterward. “Why are you so sure he’s dangerous, anyway?”
“Why areyouso sure he’s safe?” Scott countered. “Other than the obvious.”
Butterfly wings beat against Finley’s rib cage. “The obvious?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice how hot the guy is. Those moody blue eyes of his can probably be seen from space.” Indeed they could. They could probably be seen from every galaxy in the cosmos. “Just because he’s pretty doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer.”
“It doesn’t mean he is one either.”
Scott cut her a sideways glance. Finley could recognize an impatient expression when she saw one, even in the dim glow of the Paris lamplights. He was still waiting for an answer.
“Fine, I’ll tell you why I think he’s safe. Don’t call me crazy, but I have a feeling about him.” The butterfly wings kicked into overdrive. “He’s the one, Scott.”
Scott’s footsteps slowed to a stop. “The One?As in you’re going to marry this guy?”
“God, no. Are you insane?” Marriage was the last thing on her mind. It was as far from her thoughts as dating was for the foreseeable future. And sex, for that matter.
But the memory of the cozy bed that had loomed behind Maxim at the bookstore lingered in her consciousness. So much decadent red velvet. So many books.
The intensity of Maxim’s gaze...
Something she hadn’t felt in a very long time wound its way through her. A dark satin ribbon of longing. She blinked. Hard.
When she opened her eyes, Scott was frowning down at her. “I believeyoursanity is the one in question here, Finley.”
“I meant he’s the one you told me about earlier. The man who was attacked outside of Notre Dame.” She tightened her grip on her handbag without even thinking about it. “It was Maxim.”
The color drained from Scott’s face. “He told you that?”
“Not exactly.” But he’d said enough, hadn’t he? “He told me he’d recently suffered a head injury. He said he doesn’t know what happened to him, and he’s trying to put the pieces of his life back together. I’m not sure he can even remember his own name. You saw the bruises, Scott. It’s him.”
“Oh my God.” Scott’s gaze drifted over her shoulder toward the Pont de l’Archevêché and the cathedral glowing in the Parisian moonlight.
A chill ran up Finley’s spine. She would’ve been lying if she said she’d never been afraid while walking around Paris. But the city still felt new to her, unexplored. Breathtaking in its Gothic beauty. Now it was starting to feel less like a beautiful dream and more like reality.
Like home.
And that wasn’t always a good thing.
She swallowed. “He thinks I can help him.”
Scott’s eyes darted back to her. His brow furrowed. “You? How?”
“He seems to think it might be connected to the Romanovs.” Now that she was saying it out loud, it sounded even more outlandish.
Maybe Scott was right. Maybe she should’ve just walked away from Maxim Romanov and his perfectly chiseled face.
MaximLaurent. Not Romanov. Good grief.
Scott snorted with laughter. “How is that even possible? Does he think Anastasia’s still alive and she conked him over the head?”
Finley jammed a pointer finger at his chest. “As I recall,you’rethe one who wants to believe Anastasia escaped Russia back in 1918.”
He held up his hands. “Guilty. But I never said she was roaming the streets of Paris and mugging people.”
