Page 40 of Royally Romanov
“I need to go. I’m supposed to be at work in half an hour.Half an hour.” She threw up her hands. “I need my bag, Maxim. Then I’m leaving. Believe it or not, my job is important to me.”
“I know it is.” He swallowed around a sandpaper throat.
He’d almost slipped and asked what had given her the impression he didn’t think she cared about her job. Then he’d remembered that in her eyes, he was basically the equivalent of an art thief.
Marvelous.
He glared at her. “Wait here. I’ll go fetch it, and you can be on your way. Apologies for detaining you.”
Then he turned his back on her, determined to let her go this time. Really let her go.
But the images had already begun to move behind his eyes. He saw Finley gazing up at him, her spun-gold hair fanned over a velvet pillow. He saw her bare body rising above him, bathed in Parisian starlight. He saw a red jewel, dangling from her dainty wrist.
Only this time he wasn’t sure if the visions in his head were memories or dreams.
FINLEY TRIED NOT TOwatch Maxim as he strode out of the room. She tried her very best not to pay complete and total attention to his every movement—the tight knot flexing in his jaw, the way the broad muscles of his back strained beneath his shirt as he prowled around the flat searching for her bag.
She failed miserably.
Why had she thought it was okay to come here?Why?She should’ve called a locksmith and considered her bag and its contents a loss. But no.
I’m not here to sleep with you, in case you were wondering.
Where on earth had that come from? She was going to murder Scott the next time she saw him. Strangle him or better yet, tear him limb from limb. Something long, drawn out and painful.
Who showed up at someone’s door and announced they didn’t want to have sex?
A person who wanted to. Obviously.
No wonder they’d ended up kissing again. She needed to get out of here. Now. Before she did something even more foolish.
She was just so confused about everything. Confused and sleep-deprived. She hadn’t slept a wink last night. For all the times she’d thought that sleeping in the bookstore would be the comfiest thing imaginable, once she finally had the chance she couldn’t stop her mind from spinning.
Her rare moments of actual sleep were interrupted by dreams of Maxim. Dreams that left her breathless and aroused, sensations that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in months. Years, if she was being truthful with herself.
Scott was right. She hadn’t been on a single date since she’d moved to Paris. When she wasn’t in class at the École du Louvre, she was busy putting in time at the museum. Her weekends and evenings had been spent holed up at Shakespeare and Company, working on her book.
Her book was finished now, though. But that didn’t mean she was ready to download Tinder and hit the social circuit. She had standards. And baggage.
So much baggage.
The ironic thing was that until recently, she hadn’t even known she was still afraid. She walked around after dark in Paris all the time. With her pepper spray in her handbag and a defiant clip in her step, she practically dared the strangers she passed on the street to attempt to hurt her.
Let them try. She would decimate them. This time.
Then three months ago, a man had approached her late one night at the Saint-Michel metro station. He’d said hi in French. That’s it. Hi. Probably the most innocent word in any language.
There’d been nothing sinister about his interaction with her. He was well-dressed, nicely groomed. Perfectly normal in every way. But he’d been tall. Burly. Big.
Big enough that he could’ve stopped her if she’d tried to run away. Big enough to have caused quite a bit of harm. His intentions hadn’t mattered. Nothing he did or didn’t do directly caused the bile to rise in the back of her throat or the tight knot of panic to lodge in her chest. The danger was all in her head.
By the time she left the metro, her hands were shaking, her heart felt like it was about to beat right out of her chest, and tears were streaming down her face. She’d slept with the lights on that night and buried her face in Gerard’s thick, furry neck, reliving a memory that she’d managed to convince herself no longer mattered.
That’s when she first realized she wasn’t okay. Her solitary life wasn’t a by-product of her busy work schedule. It was a choice. It was self-preservation.
She took a deep breath as she watched Maxim move about the apartment looking for her bag. She thought about his bruises, hidden from view, about the horrible thing that had happened to him. What happened to her had also left a mark. The damage was as real as the black-and-blue places on Maxim’s body, but her bruises were just easier to hide.
Perhaps that’s why she’d been so fascinated by the sight of Maxim’s injuries. They were honest in a way she could appreciate. Brutally real. She could run her fingertips over the places where he’d been hurt. She could touch his pain and hold it in her hands.
