Page 27 of Royally Romanov
“It is.” She nodded and waited, as though she expected him to chime in with some meaningful contribution to the conversation. When he failed to do so, she regarded him through narrowed eyes. “I suppose you have no idea that one hundred years is the statute of limitations for surviving family members to make a claim on stolen artifacts.”
“Stolen artifacts?” Maxim set his wineglass down. Red liquid splashed over the rim and onto the counter, but he didn’t care. He was beginning to get a feel for what Finley was implying, and he didn’t like it.
“The photos, the jewels, the Fabergé pieces... all of it. Almost every item in the exhibit once belonged to the Romanovs themselves. The Bolsheviks confiscated everything the family owned when they put them in exile. What little they were allowed to keep obviously ended up in Bolshevik hands as well.” She paused. Swallowed. “Russia sold the Romanov treasures to the West and used the funds to help build a new Communist government.”
Maxim hadn’t given a lot of thought to what had happened to the Romanovs’ personal effects after they’d been murdered. Listening to Finley explain it made his gut churn.
The Romanovs had been wealthy. They’d been royal. But they were human beings. A family. And they’d been brutally murdered. Having their personal belongings, especially things like clothing, sold to the highest bidder seemed unnecessarily cruel.
He stared into his wineglass and tried to wrap his head around all that had happened and why it mattered. “We’re talking about things that occurred a century ago, Finley. Yet I get the impression it’s somehow related to why you’re suddenly so angry with me.”
“Almosta century ago.” She lifted an accusatory brow. “But not quite.”
He stared at her, long and hard. He’d handed her a piece of his family history earlier today. He’d shown her hisjournal. And now he’d become the bad guy.
When at last he trusted himself to speak without raising his voice, he said, “Finley, do you believe I came to see you today because I intend to lay claim to the Romanov treasures?”
He already knew the answer, of course. But he needed to hear her say it. He’d been beaten and left for dead in the street. He was so desperate to put the pieces of his life back together that he’d pleaded with her—a total stranger—for help. He’d shown her the leather-bound notebook, even though he knew it made him look like a madman. If she was accusing him of faking all of it, he was going to make her say it to his face.
“I’d be a fool not to consider the possibility, don’t you think?” She wrapped her arms around herself, and despite the fact that she was basically accusing him of telling her nothing but lies since the moment they’d met, he had an urge to comfort her. She looked more vulnerable now than angry.
No, not vulnerable exactly. Wounded, on a soul-deep level.
He’d hurt her simply by existing.
In that moment, Maxim hated himself a little. Maybe even a lot. “Consider it all you like, but know this. I never lied to you. Not once. I came to you for help, nothing more. This isn’t about the Romanov treasures. This is about my life, about who I am. I need to know.”
She let out a shaky exhale. “I want to believe you.”
“But?”
“But it doesn’t look good, Maxim.” Her gaze drifted to the bruise on his face.
“You think I bashed myself in the face and faked amnesia so I could convince you my grandmother was someone who’s been scientifically proven to have died ninety-nine years ago?”
Her features softened a little. Just enough to take the edge off Maxim’s anger. Enough for him to feel that same, enigmatic pull toward her that he’d felt since the moment he’d set eyes on her at the bookstore. “I know nothing about you, Maxim.”
“Neither do I.” He offered her a sad smile.
He almost wished the detective had never given him the godforsaken notebook. Those pages hadn’t brought answers. He was neck-deep, drowning in questions. And he’d managed to pull Finley under right along with him.
He couldn’t bring himself to fully wish such a thing, though. The notebook had led him to Finley, and for some strange reason, she brought him peace. She soothed his soul. He didn’t know how or why, but she was familiar. More familiar than Gregory Joubert, his closest friend.
Since Maxim’s visit to Banque de France, Gregory had called regularly to check on him. And as much as it comforted Maxim to have someone to talk to, he couldn’t quite bring himself to confide in Gregory about the journal. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because sharing his possible connection with the Romanovs with Finley had clearly been a mistake.
Whoever Maxim was—Romanov or not—one thing was obvious. He was a selfish bastard. If he wasn’t, he’d ask her to leave right then and there.
Instead, he watched as she took a tentative sip of wine and tried to decide if he was out to ruin her. “My boss thinks the photograph you showed me today is genuine. She believes it could be one of the last remaining pictures of Anastasia. I showed it to the research department, and they agree that the cardstock the picture is printed on came from the early twentieth century.”
“And?” Maxim reached for his glass.
“And how am I suppose to explain where it came from?” She glanced down and frowned. “Wait, what is that?”
Maxim studied the contents of his wineglass. “It’s a Bordeaux from the Médoc region. Is it not to your liking?”
He quite enjoyed it. But given his need for a drink during this interrogation, even rubbing alcohol would have done nicely.
“Not the wine. Your bracelet.” She pointed at the silver chain around his wrist. “Is that a medical symbol?”
