Page 79 of Royally Romanov
He’d tasted those lips. He’d kissed them. And they’d brought him healing in a way she’d never understand.
Then he fixed his gaze with hers, because he needed her to hear him. He’d never be able to say it twice. “My memory is coming back. It was all a con. I know that now, and I’m sorry.”
“WELL, THAT SETTLES THAT,”Madame Dubois muttered as Maxim turned on his heel and walked away. “I told you he was a fraud.”
Finley nodded mutely, as she followed Maxim’s tuxedo-clad back winding its way through the crowd.
She would’ve bet her life on the results of that DNA test. How was it possible that Maxim wasn’t a Romanov? She couldn’t believe it.
Literally could not.
He was lying.
She didn’t know why, but she was certain he wasn’t telling the truth.
“I need to go speak to the other department heads,” Madame Dubois said. It was a wonder her voice even registered in Finley’s consciousness. “Perhaps you could stop staring at Monsieur Laurent long enough to check on the display?”
Finley forced herself to look at Madame Dubois and smile. “Of course.”
“Très bien.”
Finley made her way to the gleaming glass display cases that held the Fabergé eggs as her mind spun in a thousand different directions—the photograph, Father Kozlov, Maxim’s ransacked apartment, the bracelet.
So many things had happened in the past few days, and each and every one of them had led her to the same conclusion. Maxim was a Romanov.
He’s lying.
His grandmother was Anastasia, and she could prove it.
She glanced at the tiny charms resting against her wrist. If they were the missing Fabergé surprises, they would fit perfectly inside the eggs. All she had to do was test them and see.
Of course the fact that the eggs were currently on display in front of hundreds of people threw a tiny kink in her plan. But she couldn’t accept what Maxim said. He was leaving Paris, and she’d never see him again.
It was all a con. I know that now, and I’m sorry.
He’d remembered something. Something he was ashamed of, obviously. But that didn’t change who he was now. He was different. She knew Maxim. She trusted him.
She used to, anyway.
The Rosebud egg was right there, less than a foot away. So close she could reach out and touch the glass case that surrounded it. If she was right about the charms, the little crown on her bracelet would fit perfectly inside the Rosebud egg’s little yellow bud.
Her cardkey hung on a slim gold chain around her neck, tucked discreetly into the bodice of her dress. She could feel it pressing against her breastbone beneath a frothy layer of tulle and shimmering gold sequins. All she had to do was pull it out and unlock the case.
Then what? She couldn’t very well try to fit the crown into the yellow enamel rosebud right there in front of everyone.
She needed to take the egg. Not take... borrow. Just for a matter of seconds. Only long enough to test her theory.
But how exactly was she supposed to walk off with a Fabergé egg worth more than a million dollars? French military officers stood at every entrance and exit to the room. Finley herself had hired six plainclothes security officers to mill about and keep an eye on things.
If she’d been in the museum instead of the opera house, she’d have to worry about infrared motion sensors that could detect glass being broken. Thanks to the key around her neck, that wasn’t a problem. But for all practical purposes, the egg was being guarded by a literal army. It wasn’t like she could make herself invisible.
Quelconundrum.
Finley stared at the egg until the red enamel, gold trim, and bright yellow rosebud blurred together like a watercolor painting. She blinked, and beyond the glittering treasure, she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the massive mirrors on the opposite wall of the grand foyer. She scarcely recognized her reflection. Her shimmering gold dress made her look like a princess rather than what she actually was—a curator.
A curator.She smiled at her image in the mirror.At the Louvre.She had security clearance at the most prestigious art museum in the world. If anyone could walk off with that egg, she could. She’d organized this entire exhibit. It wasn’t as if she was an art thief.
Like Maxim?
