Page 68 of Royally Romanov
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Maxim slept in fits and starts. Having Finley’s bare, beautiful body draped over him should have been like something out of a dream. A blissfully perfect fantasy. He’d wanted this since the moment he first set eyes on her.
But that wasn’t quite true, was it? He’d dreamed of Finley before they’d even met. He’d thought the vision of her he’d had in the hospital had been a sign.
It hadn’t. He knew that now. The dream was turning into a nightmare. Memories were dancing on the perimeter of his mind, and those memories had voices. He could hear them as clearly as if someone were standing beside him, whispering in his ear.
Her name is Finley Abbot. She’s an assistant curator at the Louvre. American.
He’d discussed Finley with someone, but he couldn’t remember whom. Right here, right now, with her sleepy head resting on his chest and her willowy legs intertwined with his, the unknown person’s identity hardly seemed to matter. Maxim was far more worried about his own role in the memory than anyone else’s.
He’d known who she was. He’d known about her job at the museum. And the picture his subconscious had been clinging to was just that—a photograph. Not a memory. Not an actual encounter he’d had with Finley that she’d somehow forgotten, but a picture in the newspaper.
Maxim squeezed his eyes closed and prayed he was wrong.
But no amount of willful denial would change the memories that were rising to the surface like cream. He’d waited weeks for this. He’d been so desperate to remember, and now he just wanted to forget.
Finley’s picture had been on the front page of the Arts section ofLe Monde. He remembered sitting at an outdoor café as he’d read the accompanying article. He remembered the bitter taste of the espresso he drank, the feel of the newsprint against his fingertips.
But what did the memory mean?
Maxim didn’t know, and he didn’t like it.
He should have known better than to let himself believe in fate. He should’ve taken a long, hard look at the fresh scars on his body and realized what they represented. Trouble. Reality.
Was he a victim, as he’d considered himself all along? Or had he been complicit in what had happened that night at Point Zero? Thepolicierscertainly thought so. Maybe they were right.
Maxim could find a way to live with himself if he was some kind of criminal. It would be hard to accept, but he’d manage. What he couldn’t live with was the idea that he’d been targeting Finley and her exhibit in some kind of con. That couldn’t be true. He refused to believe it.
Finley stirred in the darkness and made a tiny, kittenish noise. Her foot made a slow, sultry glide up the length of his calf. Maxim’s body responded at once. Arousal moved through him, a softly burning fire, and before he could stop himself, he was sliding his hand up the back of her thigh and pulling her to sit astride him.
“Hello there, Monsieur Romanov.” Her voice was low, soft. Laced with sleep and dreams.
She bent to kiss him, and her hair fell around them in a curtain of spun-gold waves.
They shouldn’t be doing this. Not after what he’d remembered. But she tasted so good, so sinfully sweet. And when she reached for his erection and guided him toward her entrance, he was powerless to stop her.
He’d left the hospital wanting only one thing—to figure out who and what he was. But somewhere along the way, the search for his identity had become less about himself and more about her. He wanted to make her proud. He wanted to be a good man.
For Finley.
She smiled down at him as she took him inside, and whatever part of him that had remained whole after his beating shattered into a million shameful pieces.
What had he done? Why?
He groaned as she clenched around him, hating himself more and more with each rapturous grind of her hips. His eyes drifted closed as he thrust up into her. Harder. And harder still, as if he could lose himself once and for all. As if her goodness could swallow him up. Light devouring darkness.
But the voices were back, whispering things he didn’t want to hear. He couldn’t make them stop. The past was unraveling, spilling its secrets like pearls falling from a string.
You knew this was the plan all along.
His eyes flew open.
There’d been a plan, and he’d been part of it.
“Maxim.” Finley murmured his name with the reverence of a prayer, like it was something holy and pure.
