Page 54 of Royally Romanov
“You’re not as clever as you think you are. There was no scrap of paper lying about.” His lips twitched. If Finley hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought he was on the verge of smiling at her. “It was a voice message that tipped me off.”
“Aha! I was right.”
This time he did smile. Finley had the sudden, nonsensical urge to kiss the dimples that flashed on his masculine face. “Not completely right.”
She shrugged. “Right enough. Shall we go in?”
His brows rose. “We?”
“We’ve already established that you need me here. What are we waiting for?” There was no way he’d push her away again. Not now.
His smile faded, and in the depths of his cool blue gaze, Finley saw something dark. Tortured. He didn’t want her here, but he needed her. He knew it, and so did she.
“Relax, it’s a church. I’ll be fine. I don’t think there’s a bad guy hanging around here for choir practice.” She squared her shoulders and tried her best to project a confidence she didn’t quite feel.
So far, she and Maxim had only spoken about his family history between themselves. Once they walked through those doors, that would no longer be true. And now Maxim had proof—actual, physical proof—that tied him to Tsar Nicholas’s family. It glittered on Finley’s wrist.
Things had progressed pretty far pastcomplicated.
But that didn’t necessarily mean she was putting herself in danger.
Her gaze flitted to the bruise on Maxim’s temple. She seemed to have forgotten how to swallow all of a sudden.
“You’re not going to take a dog into a church, are you?” Maxim glanced down at Gerard.
Gerard let out a timely snort. Finley’s gaze flitted toward the posh apartment buildings on either side of the church. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower twinkled against a violet sky. “This is Paris, remember? Dogs can go anywhere.”
He gazed down at her, and for a moment, she forgot that the only reason she was standing beside him was because she’d stalked him through three different arrondissements.
His sapphire eyes grew soft and dark. Like velvet. And suddenly, Finley wasn’t afraid anymore. The strange, sweet pull she’d been fighting for days was back. But now that she’d opened up to him, it was worse.
They weren’t strangers anymore. They hadn’t been strangers for a while now, but she’d been able to pretend that they were. Now she couldn’t. The wall had come tumbling down, and she wasn’t sure how to put it back in place. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. Not when he looked at her the way he was now.
She recognized that look. She felt it down to her toes. He wanted to kiss her.
Maxim’s gaze fell to her lips, and he looked at her mouth like he was a starving man. He swallowed hard, and Finley tried not to stare at the muscles in his strong neck. “Point taken.”
ACCORDING TO THE PLAQUEjust inside the door of Cathédrale Saint-Alexandre-Nevsky, the church had been built and consecrated in 1861. Maxim wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d found out Father Kozlov had been around that many years himself.
The clergyman’s beard was so long that it nearly reached his stomach, and it was as white as snow. He had a thick, serious brow, which, combined with his heavy cassock and black cylindrical hat, gave him a somber demeanor. Somber bordering on terrifying if Maxim was being honest.
He stood near the altar, watching a group of similarly dressed men sing a succession of Slavic chants. Maxim and Finley had arrived just in time for choir practice, apparently—the reason Father Kozlov was still at the church at such a late hour. How a man who had to be pushing ninety managed to work overtime was a mystery Maxim couldn’t begin to fathom.
The church secretary approached the priest, said something, and gestured to the spot where Maxim and Finley stood. And Gerard, too, obviously. The Frenchie was focused intently on the music. His ears, which looked comically huge on any given day, were pricked so far forward it seemed as if they’d doubled in size.
Maxim understood his fascination, though. The chants rang through the massive church, bounced off every elaborately decorated surface, and somehow settled deep inside his chest. He didn’t understand a word of what he was hearing, but it was profoundly moving all the same.
Get ahold of yourself.
His emotions were all over the place. He couldn’t believe Finley had followed him here. He wanted to be angry. But he couldn’t manage to muster an ounce of fury where Finley was concerned. Mostly, he was relieved she was standing beside him right now, given that she claimed to know why he’d be interested in talking to a Russian Orthodox priest.
She’d yet to shed any light on the subject. There hadn’t been time.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Finley whispered, glancing at him in wide-eyed wonder.
He was spellbound by those eyes. Every time she looked at him, his chest ached, especially now that he knew her story. Standing beside her and not touching her was nearly impossible. “Beautiful indeed.”
Walking inside the cathedral had been like entering one of the bejeweled Fabergé eggs Finley had talked about at her lecture. Everything was covered in either deep crimson brocade or luminous gold leaf. Massive ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling. They held slim tapered candles, lit with actual flames. Maxim would have thought they’d be considered some sort of safety hazard, but since the building had managed to survive nearly one hundred and fifty years thus far, he figured the Orthodox Russians knew what they were doing.
