Page 33 of Royally Romanov
The detective nodded. “As you’ve said before. You’ve also said that a significant portion of your memory is missing.”
“Correct, but I know where I was today. I can’t be held accountable for the actions of a stranger who tried to break into my apartment.” Maxim’s hands balled into fists again. The urge to punch the detective had returned.
How long was this murky existence going to continue?
“Agreed. You cannot.” The detective glanced around the apartment. His gaze scanned the book-lined walls of the living room, the coffee table where the leather-bound notebook lay open to the final page, and the pair of wineglasses on the kitchen counter. His focus lingered for a moment on the mark that Finley’s red lipstick had left behind, then he turned back toward Maxim. “Do you mind if I take a look around?”
Maxim took a deep inhale. No way in hell did he want this guy rummaging through his apartment. “I do mind, actually.”
“Are you quite certain? Perhaps there’s some sort of clue lying about. Something that could provide an explanation as to why trouble is following your every step?”
Maxim wished there was a clue. He wished for that harder than the detective could possibly know.
There wasn’t. He’d checked. He’d gone over the entire flat with a fine-toothed comb and found nothing.
That’s not true. You found the photograph.
If his grandmother was Anastasia, then the photograph was definitely linked to his notes in the leather-bound notebook. Which meant it was a clue—just the sort of clue the detective would probably be interested in.
But the thought of Detective Durand sifting through his things—his books, pictures, and family heirlooms—made Maxim physically ill. The detective wasn’t conducting an investigation. He was on a witch hunt. The Paris police needed to make tourists feel safe again. They needed to sweep his case under the rug so people would no longer be afraid.
Whatever Detective Durand found during his search would no doubt be used to build a case against Maxim and determine that he’d played a part in his own attack weeks ago.
“No crime has been committed here, so there’s no reason for a search.” He was finished with this conversation. “I’m assuming there have been no new developments in my case?”
The detective nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Then you need to leave.” Maxim opened the front door and jerked his head in the direction of the rain-pattered street.
“As you wish.” The detective flipped his notepad closed and tucked it away in the inside pocket of his coat. “Bonne nuit, Monsieur Laurent. I’ll be in touch.”
Oh joy.
“Au revoir,” Maxim said.
Then he slammed the door closed on the detective, on the glittering lights of Paris and on Finley.
Wherever she’d gone.
FINLEY DIDN’T REALIZE SHE’Dleft her handbag at Maxim’s flat until she was standing on the doorstep of her apartment building. In the rain.Sanshouse key.
If ever there were a perfect ending to such a thoroughlyimperfect night, it was being locked outside in the rainy Paris weather.
I deserve this.The lights of Notre Dame shimmered like liquid gold in the distance, a glowing reminder of the spectacular mistake she’d just made. She’d just kissed the one man in all of France who could ruin her career. At least she assumed he was the only man who had the power to thwart her promotion and get her fired. Maybe there were more insanely hot fake Romanovs running around Paris that she’d yet to come across. If so, she should probably track them down and kiss them, too, just to make sure her self-sabotage was thoroughly complete.
Somehow she doubted there were more. If Maxim was anything, he was unique. And yes, hot. Absolutely scorching.
She’d just about died when he’d taken his shirt off. Good grief, that chest.
Of course her reaction seemed weirdly inappropriate now that she’d removed herself from the situation. He’d shown her his injuries, and she’d all but jumped his bones. Not to mention the fact that that chest of his, as glorious as it was, could possibly be in a jail cell right now. The policeman at Maxim’s apartment had looked at him like he was a criminal. And she supposed that was a possibility.
A fat raindrop hit her square on her forehead,Yep, I definitely deserve this.
Gerard pawed at her foot. When Finley glanced down at the little bulldog, he let out a snort of displeasure. “Don’t judge me. You were just as charmed by him as I was.”
Well, that was going to stop. Obviously. Neither one of them would be melting at Maxim’s feet again anytime soon.
She’d made up her mind on her wet hike back to the fifth arrondissement. She wouldn’t be seeing Maxim again. Period. There was simply too much at stake. She couldn’t risk her place at the Louvre and her elusive promotion by believing in an amnesiac who thought he was Anastasia’s grandson.
