Page 21 of Royally Romanov
Her gaze drifted to the bruise on his temple. It had deepened to an angry shade of violet since the night before.
Every rational thought in her head told her to run. Run as far away from this stranger as she could. Since she’d been mugged, that had been her game plan when she met someone she was mildly attracted to. Run.
The attraction she felt toward Maxim wasn’t anything close to mild, though. It bordered on scorching, which made her want to run even harder.
But simple curiosity got the best of her. Curiosity, and a desire to know as much as she could about the Romanovs. She’d spent a solid year of her life immersed in their tragedy. What if there was more to the story?
Her love of history was to blame. Because her willingness to hear him out certainly didn’t have anything to do with his penetrating blue gaze. Or the way his soulful promise gave her the utterly foolish urge to rise up on tiptoe and kiss him on the mouth.
She stared at his mouth and tried to imagine what it would feel like on her lips, her neck, and the hidden softness of her thighs.
God, what was wrong with her?
She crossed her arms, a barrier of sorts. Clearly she needed one. “You said you had something to show me, Mr. Laurent. I should be getting back to work, so I suggest we take a look at whatever that something is. Right now.”
MAXIM FOCUSED INTENTLY ONFinley’s face as she flipped through the pages of the leather-bound journal, but her expression remained neutral. Her posture was guarded.
He counted himself lucky that she was even sitting there beside him on a bench beneath the shade of a pomegranate tree. With the Eiffel Tower behind her and a blanket of tulips at her feet, she was lovelier than any image his memory or imagination could have conjured. She was beauty and grace personified. On another day—in another life, perhaps—he might have leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands. He might have run the pad of his thumb over the soft, pink swell of her bottom lip. Then he would have kissed her until the journal fell from her lap, forgotten. Buried amid the blooms.
But it wasn’t just a journal. Not today. It was his life. Or what was left of his life, anyway. And it rested—open, exposed—in Finley’s delicate hands.
She looked up at him and pushed the fringe from her eyes. Her hair was gloriously windswept, just as he’d remembered. Although where those memories had come from were still very much a mystery.
“You wrote this? There are pages and pages of genealogical research here. Yet you have no memory of it?”
He shook his head. “None whatsoever. The police found it on me after I was attacked. That seems significant, don’t you think?”
“It does.” She glanced down at the final line of the final page.Je suis Maxim Romanov. “You’ve obviously spent quite some time building a case that you’re the long lost descendant of the Romanov Empire, the Grand Duchess Anastasia’s grandson.”
“I have no memory of that either. The last few years are nothing but a blur.” Bits and pieces had begun to come back. At first, walking into his grandmother’s apartment after he’d been discharged from the hospital had been like visiting a museum. But the books on the shelves felt familiar in his hands. The clothes in the bureau felt right. It fit... this life he knew so little about.
Except for the notebook. He couldn’t wrap his head around either of those things. But then he’d found the photograph. Now, even the notebook was beginning to make a morsel of sense. His job at the bank somehow seemed even more confusing than the journal.
He spoke with exaggerated care. “Believe me, I know how improbable it sounds that I could be a direct descendant of Tsar Nicholas II.”
“Impossible, not improbable.” She leveled her gaze at him. “Grand Duchess Anastasia died in 1918. The notion that she could have been your grandmother is out of the question. If you’ve sought me out in the hopes that I could verify your claim, I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Oddly enough, she did seem sorry. Which was more kindness than Maxim had any right to expect.
“There’s more.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket for the photograph and handed it to her.
She stared at it long and hard, until the picture began to tremble in her grasp. “Where did you get this?”
“At home. My apartment belonged to my grandmother before she died. Some of her things are still there.” He still couldn’t remember moving in. Couldn’t remember the funeral.
But he’d remembered the picture. He’d gone straight home from Shakespeare and Company the night before and searched the flat until he’d found it.
“She used to keep it on her dressing table. I’ve seen it since I was a little kid.” Which was undoubtedly why he’d hung onto it after she’d died.
The flat was filled with a curious mixture of old and new. Familiar and foreign. Maxim was still trying to make sense of it all. He was still trying to make sense ofeverything. Even his cell phone was a mystery. He recognized none of the names listed in his contacts, and the only message on his voice mail was from a priest whose name wasn’t familiar.
“I see why you asked about the blouse last night,” Finley said, without lifting her gaze from the picture. “The girl in this photo is wearing one just like it.”
“Exactly.” Maxim nodded. “I suppose it could be a coincidence. Most young girls in the early 1900s probably dressed in similar fashion.”
“Yes and no.” Finley shrugged. “Only girls from wealthy families. Aristocrats. Bluebloods.”
“Royalty?” Maxim lifted a brow.
