Page 80 of Royally Romanov
No. He wasn’t a thief. She refused to believe it. He’d stood right there and pretended not to be a Romanov to save the art. To saveher. Whoever... whatever... he’d been in the past no longer mattered.
Unless he’s telling the truth and he’s really not Anastasia’s grandson.
Finley took a deep breath. Maxim was a Romanov, and she was about to prove it. If only to herself. She needed to know she’d been right about him.
She needed to know she hadn’t been a fool.
She ran her fingertip along the gold chain around her neck, drawing the cardkey up and out of the bodice of her gown as she moved closer to the egg. On the far side of the room, Madame Dubois was deep in conversation with the head of the Egyptian antiquities department. Good. He was a talker. Finley had chatted with him once at a cocktail party and had been unable to extricate herself from his presence for almost half an hour. He was sure to keep Madame Dubois busy long enough for Finley to borrow the egg, see if the tiny crown fit, and then return it to its proper place.
The only things she needed to worry about now were the soldiers. And the security officers. And the other one hundred or so people gathered in the ornate room.
She pretended it was any ordinary day at work and slid the cardkey into the electronic lock on the display case. The tiny light in the corner of the lock changed from red to green, and the front panel of the glass popped open.
Take it. Just reach inside and pick it up.
Her hands hung limply at her sides. She seemed to have forgotten how to move. Or breathe.
He’s getting away.
If she didn’t make her move now, she might never catch up with Maxim. He was leaving Paris. He might never come back.
The thought was enough to propel her into motion. She reached inside the display case and plucked the egg from its twenty-four-carat stand.
This was happening.
She could feel her heartbeat in her throat. Her hands were trembling so hard she was afraid she’d lose her grip on the egg, drop it, and be forced to scramble after it while it rolled across the floor.
With both hands wrapped around it, she turned around to head straight to the ladies’ room, for lack of a better place. But a man in a dark suit was standing right behind her, blocking her getaway. Finley immediately recognized him as one of the security officers she’d hired for the event.
Why, oh why had she enlisted such competent help?
“Miss Abbot?” Brow furrowing, his gaze flitted from the empty display case to the bejeweled egg in her grasp. “What are you doing?”
Breathe. Just breathe. You’re basically his supervisor.
She lifted her chin and looked him square in the eyes. “I noticed a smudge on this piece. It needs repolishing.”
The security guard shifted from one foot to the other. “But according to the written instructions you gave us, we’re supposed to prevent the removal of any and all artwork from the display cases.”
“Right.” She nodded. “And now I’m changing those instructions. The media is scheduled to arrive any moment. The Rosebud egg is one of the most priceless objects in this exhibit. I can’t allow it to be photographed in anything less than pristine condition. I’m sure you understand.”
The furrow in his brow deepened. He looked confused. Confused, and more than a little suspicious.
“I’ll be back momentarily,” she said with as much authority as she could muster. “Stay here and guard the display case while I’m gone.”
She brushed past him in a swish of tulle and chiffon before she lost her nerve. With her head down and the egg cradled tightly against her chest, she wove through the crowd. She didn’t dare make eye contact with anyone. Nor did she look back. If there was an army of security guards behind her, she didn’t want to know.
The door to the ladies’ room was tucked away in a corner at the far end of the grand foyer, practically invisible among the heavy brocade and gold leaf that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. When the doorknob was within arm’s reach, Finley finally glanced at the mirrored wall to see if anyone was following her.
By some miracle, no one had.
She pushed through the bathroom door, locked it behind her, and tried not to collapse into a heap of exhausted relief. In the mirror above the sink, Finley’s reflection looked back at her, wild-eyed and flushed.
What am I doing? This is insane.
It was too late to back out now. Insane or not, she’d just stolen a Fabergé egg right out of its display case during a major art opening.
Borrowed. Youborrowedit, remember?
