Page 7 of Royally Romanov
Scott moved closer and murmured so quietly that Finley had to strain to hear him. “Also, tell me you’re not walking home alone tonight.”
“Are you propositioning me, Scott?” She widened her eyes in mock horror. “What would Pierre say?”
“Pierre knows better than to believe I’d ever cheat on him, silly girl.” His expression then turned uncharacteristically grim. “And I’m being serious. Someone was attacked near here a few weeks ago. A man.”
“News flash. Paris is big city. I’m sure people get mugged here all the time, men included.” How many times had she been warned about the pickpockets in Europe before she’d left Connecticut for the curatorial program at École du Louvre? Dozens. At least.
Although in her experience, Paris got a bad rap in that department. The good things about living here far outweighed the bad. Paris was so beautiful that being here was like walking inside an Impressionist masterpiece. Even after three years as a Parisian, the sheer beauty of the city never failed to take her breath away.
Besides, bad things happened everywhere. Unspeakable things. Violent things. No place was entirely safe.
As Finley knew all too well.
“It wasn’t just a mugging. Someone beat the poor guy to a pulp and left him for dead right across the street.” Scott’s gaze flitted toward the front window of the shop where Notre Dame glowed like a golden beacon of hope against the swirling Van Gogh sky.
“By the cathedral?” That seemed wrong on every possible level.
Scott lifted a brow. “Directly across the square from the church’s entrance. You know the spot.”
Finley nodded. Point Zero. The place where everything in Paris found its beginning. “That’s horrible.”
“It’s more than horrible. People can’t stop talking about it. They’re afraid. Business is down by more than ten percent. We’ll be fine. The bookstore can take a hit like that, but some of the smaller neighborhood businesses are struggling. Everyone’s terrified. Since when do people get attacked right in front of a church?” Scott shook his head.
Finley’s throat went dry. “Do the police have any leads?”
“Not that I know of. They came by asking questions right after it happened.” He shrugged. “None of the Tumbleweeds saw anything.”
The Tumbleweeds—writers and artists from all walks of life who lived in the store from time to time. On any given night, there were people tucked into the shop’s bunks like books on a shelf.
“Do you know anything about the guy who was attacked?” Finley’s heart pounded hard against her rib cage. “Is he okay?”
Of course he wasn’t. No one would be okay after being so brutally assaulted. She didn’t even know why she’d asked.
Except she did. She just didn’t want to think about it.
“I don’t know much, other than the guy apparently doesn’t remember a thing. He’s got amnesia.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Finley said.
Scott’s brow furrowed. She ignored the questions in his eyes and dug around in her handbag for her lecture notes. She should be thinking about her presentation right now, not a tragedy that had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
“Whoever he is, he’s lucky to be alive. The photos on social media are horrifying,” Scott said under his breath.
“Photos?” Finley stared at him, mouth agape. “A person got mugged and someone took pictures instead of helping him?”
“The world is a cruel place,oui? In fairness, the pictures weren’t taken during the attack, but afterward. The guy is just lying there in a huge pool of blood. It’s terrifying.” Scott shuddered. “Just do me a favor and try not to walk around the area by yourself late at night. Promise me.S’il vous plaît?”
Finley nodded. “I promise.”
She’d promise anything if it meant a change in subject matter. She couldn’t go down that road right now. She just couldn’t.
Besides, she was telling the truth. She had an escort pretty much everywhere she went. Granted, that escort had four legs and a tail and wasn’t here tonight. But he totally counted.
The door opened again, and a pair of curators from the Louvre’s paintings department, Simone and Henri, waved to her. Before the door clicked shut, four more people walked in.
Showtime.
Scott had been right. By eight o’clock, the tiny bookshop was packed from wall to wall. Finley spotted a few familiar faces from the museum, including her boss from the decorative arts curatorial department, but there were plenty of regular people, too. Actual readers. The sight of all those people clutching her book had a strange, calming effect.
