Page 16 of Royally Romanov
CHAPTER
FOUR
Shortly after he’d been released from the hospital, Maxim was rather relieved to discover that he’d been legitimately employed at the time of his attack. That’s what he assumed anyway, when he found a small stack of his business cards in one of the kitchen drawers.
Maxim Laurent
Banquier senior d’investissement
Comptes internationaux
Banque de France
He couldn’t remember anything about his job, obviously. He had no recollection of ever interviewing at the Bank of France. Nor could he recall ever having a burning desire to go into banking or finance. The last job he could remember was when he’d worked as a waiter at Les Deux Magots during his years at university.
How long ago had that been? Four years? Eight?
Probably closer to ten. Long enough to progress from waiter to banking executive, a move that struck him as an odd choice. Investment banking had a boring ring to it. Maxim had always preferred working with his hands to crunching numbers. But maybe that had changed, along with everything else.
He wanted to see Finley again.
She was all he could think about. But the museum wasn’t open yet, and even though she’d given him her card, he wasn’t sure if turning up first thing in the morning was such a good idea. He opted to go by his office en route to the Louvre. Perhaps he’d find something that would shed some light on the mysterious notebook. Or his life in general.
He’d settle for anything at this point.
“Mr. Laurent, you’re here.” The receptionist did a double take when she looked up from her desk and found him standing there.
“Oui.” Maxim nodded, immediately realizing that showing up unannounced at his office had been a mistake.
Nothing about the posh lobby was familiar. Not the paintings on the walls, not the polished oak furniture, not the woman behind the desk. Not even the large silver letters that spelled outBanque de Franceon the wall behind her. Maxim could see his reflection in them. He looked distorted and blurry around the edges, which pretty much mirrored the way he felt at the moment.
He forced himself to focus on one thing rather than trying to take all his surroundings in at once. Maybe that would be better. Surely he could remember one small thing.
He concentrated on the receptionist. She was young, early twenties maybe. Pretty.
Maxim had no recollection of her whatsoever.
Luckily, he could sneak a discreet peek at the name plate in front of her. Anna Picard. “Bonjour, Miss Picard. Perhaps you could direct me to my office?”
Her polite smile faded a bit. He should know who she was. The fact that he didn’t was obvious.
Her gaze flitted to the bruise on his temple. She stood and cleared her throat. “Of course, Monsieur Laurent. Follow me.”
She led him down a long, quiet corridor, past a large conference room with glass walls, until they reached one of the corner offices.
“Here we are.”
Maxim followed the wave of her hand with his gaze. His name was emblazoned across the smooth wood, along with the title Senior Investment Banker.
“Thank you.” He nodded, hesitating as he reached for the doorknob. He felt like an intruder all of a sudden, which was absurd. The office was his, after all.
But Anna Picard was still standing there, watching him with that strange expression that hovered somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. So he opened the door and pretended to recognize the huge desk and the floor-to-ceiling window with its sweeping view of the Eiffel Tower and Champ de Mars.
“I’ll let Monsieur Joubert know you’re here,” she said, and glided back in the direction of the lobby.
Monsieur Joubert. Yet another name that Maxim didn’t know. Wonderful.
His ever-present headache throbbed at the base of his skull. The awful, metallic taste that had been his constant companion in the hospital rose up to the back of his throat again. Maxim sank into the wingback leather chair behind the desk while he tried to get his bearings.
