Page 19 of Royally Romanov
She used her cardkey to exit the curatorial offices and waved at the security guard stationed by the door. Heels clicking on the marble floor, she made her way to the main building, past the mob of tourists fighting their way toward theMona Lisa. For the sake of time, she took the employee elevator to the second floor rather than battling the stairs.
Her gaze landed on Maxim Laurent the moment she entered the portrait gallery. She recognized him at once, even from behind.
Broad-shouldered and brooding, he stood staring at the painting in front of him, almost as if in a trance. She moved toward him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Not even when she faced him straight on.
Finley concentrated on breathing in and out as she allowed herself a brief moment to take in the sculpted beauty of his face—aristocratic cheekbones, impossibly straight nose, and a jaw that looked as though it could grind coal into diamonds.
But it was his eyes that made her go weak in the knees. Eyes so intense they could unearth secrets. Deep, Prussian blue.
Bedroom eyes.
Could this be the man from the awful video and the pictures she’d been poring over all morning? It was impossible to tell. The photos were grainy, and the guy had been facedown. But he had the same build as Maxim.
She swallowed hard, and her gaze drifted to the painting that had so captured his attention. It was Valentin Serov’s portrait of Nicholas II, the last of the Romanovs. Emperor of all Russia. Husband of Alexandra Feodorovna. Father of Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Alexei, and of course, Anastasia.
Finley had seen the painting many times. Hundreds, if not thousands. She’d studied it so often while writing her book that she sometimes dreamed about it. But seeing it hanging before Maxim was almost like seeing it for the first time.
Her breath caught in her throat. The resemblance between the man in the painting and the man who’d introduced himself to her as Maxim Romanov was uncanny.
Surely she was imagining things. It was the power of suggestion that made the slant of their jawlines so similar. Nothing more. He’d all but told her he believed himself to be a relative of the last Tsar.
But what of the smooth, noble planes of their faces? Or the serious cut of their brows? And those Prussian blue eyes...
No wonder she’d thought Maxim seemed familiar.
Stop. You’re only seeing what he wants you to see.
She cleared her throat. “Monsieur Laurent.” She placed special emphasis on his surname, purely for her own benefit.
Trance broken, he blinked and swiveled his gaze toward her. “Maxim. Call me Maxim, please.”
“This is quite a surprise.” She swallowed. “Maxim.”
A hint of a grin came to his lips, and she realized she’d never seen him smile before. It somehow made him more handsome, if such a thing were possible.
She cast a meaningful glance at the painting. “I see you’ve found Nicholas II.”
He nodded and swiveled his gaze toward the canvas, where the last Romanov Tsar stared back at them from a vivid eruption of colorful brushstrokes. “He looks different in this portrait from the others I’ve seen.”
Finley agreed, but was curious to hear why he thought so. Most of the people she knew had spent years reading about art and discussing it. It was intriguing to get a fresh perspective. “How so?”
Maxim’s brow furrowed. “He looks less like an emperor in this one, and more like an actual person. Human.”
Finley’s throat grew tight for some silly reason. “Like a man instead of a political figure. I agree. It’s my favorite rendering of Nicholas II, actually.”
“Then it seems we have something in common.” Maxim smiled again, and this time, it sent a riot of awareness skittering through her. She felt the same unfurling ribbon of desire that had begun to loosen inside her at the bookstore the night before. She pressed her thighs together, to no avail.
What am I doing?
Whatever she was doing, she shouldn’t be doing it here. This was her workplace. Maxim had already spoken to her boss, obviously. What if he’d introduced himself as MaximRomanov? Wouldn’t that have been a treat?
If she were being honest with herself, she shouldn’t be doing thisanywhere. At least not until she’d figured out why Maxim thought she could help him. The more she considered the things he’d said, the more ridiculous they sounded. Scott was right. The man was a total stranger. Emphasis on strange.
Those things were just so easy to forget, though, when he was standing less than a foot away looking as good, if not better, than practically all of the Greek gods in the museum’s sculpture gallery.
But it wasn’t just his appearance she liked. It was the way he looked at her. His focus was concentrated. Singular. They could have been standing in an empty, windowless room. But they weren’t. They were surrounded by the finest art in the world, yet he only had eyes for her.
It should have embarrassed her or at the very least, unnerved her. It didn’t. On the contrary, she quite liked it. Which was odd, considering that she’d spent the past few years trying to make herself invisible.
