Page 72 of Royally Romanov
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Finley managed to get to work on time, and it was a good thing, because her boss was ready and waiting for her when she walked into the curatorial workroom. Madame Dubois had parked herself in Finley’s chair, behind Finley’s desk, and was holding one of Finley’s pens.
Message received,she thought.None of this is mine. It can allbe taken away as easily as it was given to me.
“Bonjour,madame.” She managed to smile, even though the afterglow she’d been basking in since waking up beside Maxim had just taken a serious hit.
“Good morning.” Madame Dubois’s gaze swept her up and down.
For a brief, nonsensical moment, Finley wondered if her boss was going to read her the riot act for sleeping with the enemy. But that was ridiculous. Her body felt as though it had been transformed overnight, but surely that change wasn’t visible to the outside world.
Besides, whom she slept with was her business. Nobody else’s. Even the Louvre couldn’t exert that kind of control over its employees.
Keep telling yourself that.
She stood beside her desk for a moment and waited for Madame Dubois to say something, but apparently the older woman was planning on sitting there silently and making Finley suffer.
She pasted on a smile. “Did you wish to see me about something?”
“Oui. I need confirmation that you returned Maxim Laurent’s photograph to him, as per my instructions.” Madame Dubois rose from the chair so they stood eye to eye.
Finley did her best to pretend it wasn’t unnerving. Because it was. Very. “About that... there’s been a slight complication.”
The room grew painfully quiet. Without looking, Finley knew the other assistant curators in the workroom were probably busy staring at some important artifact and pretending not to listen.
“Perhaps you’d like to discuss this in the privacy of my office?” Madame’s voice was overly polite in a bone-chilling sort of way, but Finley didn’t really care.
She very much wanted to discuss the matter in private. It wasn’t like she could blurt out the fact that Maxim was off taking a DNA test right there in front of everyone. “Oui, s’il vous plaît.”
“Very well then.”
Finley followed Madame Dubois to her office, which, for all practical purposes, was a transparent glass cube. Not completely private, but at least no one would overhear their conversation.
She took a seat opposite her boss and decided to just lay everything on the line this time. No beating around the bush. No stalling. “The Russian Orthodox Church believes Maxim Laurent is Anastasia’s grandson.”
For a long moment, Madame Dubois didn’t speak. She didn’t even move. Save for a tiny twitch in her left eye, she remained absolutely still as the blood drained from her face.
When she finally spoke, her voice was razor-sharp. “How do you know this, Finley? I believe I told you in no uncertain terms to return Monsieur Laurent’s photograph and then cease all contact with him.”
Through the glass wall of her boss’s office, Finley could see into the preservation department next door, where some of the most precious paintings in the world were being restored. A man in a white coat was bent over a Klimt canvas, meticulously applying tiny flakes of gold leaf.
She was sitting at the epicenter of the art world, and she was about to potentially give it all up for a man she’d known only a matter of days.
This is crazy. He’s my lover, not my husband.
Technically, he wasn’t even her lover. They’d slept together once. She wasn’t even sure it would happen again. She wasn’t sure ofanythinganymore.
Finley cleared her throat. “I saw Monsieur Laurent last night and tried to return the photograph, but he wouldn’t accept it. He’d like to have the picture displayed in our exhibit.”
Madame Dubois released a tense exhale. “Unacceptable. The gala is tomorrow night, and provenance still hasn’t been established.”
“We won’t need to establish provenance. DNA testing can confirm that Maxim is related to the Romanovs.” Madame Dubois’s eyebrows rose at Finley’s casual use of Maxim’s first name. Great. She’d made exactly the sort of mistake she’d been trying to avoid. At least she hadn’t accidentally called him MonsieurRomanov. Madame Dubois’s head would have probably exploded all over the museum’s pristine white walls.
Finley corrected herself. “I mean Monsieur Laurent.”
Her boss rolled her eyes. “If the situation didn’t have such dire consequences for the Louvre, I might be tempted to laugh. Monsieur Laurent will never be granted a DNA test. He has no credibility. Or are you planning on holding the man’s hand, escorting him to Buckingham Palace, and introducing him to Prince Philip yourself?”
