Page 83 of Royally Romanov
“You should be at your party. What are you doing?” His gaze moved beyond her, in the direction of the grand foyer.
Finley had to stop herself from placing her hands on either side of his face and forcing him to look at her. “Following you.”
When he didn’t react, she added, “Again.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but she’d take it. “So I see.”
His gaze met hers again, and this time, she could feel it deep in her center. She loved it when he looked at her like that. Likeshewas royalty instead of the other way around.
“What do you want, Finley?”
I want this. I wantyou.
She lifted her chin. “I want you to tell me why you lied.”
His mouth straightened into a flat line, and he sighed. He was braced to argue with her, but she wouldn’t let him stand there in this beautiful place that had been the sparkling centerpiece of Paris since before Tsar Nicholas II sat on Russia’s throne and let him disavow his identity. Not again. “Don’t even try to deny it. I know who you are, Maxim.”
She opened her hand. The bracelet sparkled in her outstretched palm.
“This belonged to Anastasia. The charms are the lost Fabergé treasures. See the little diamond crown? It fits perfectly inside the Rosebud egg. I checked.” She was faking it, obviously. She was taking a leap of faith, but she’d never been less afraid to fall. “It was a perfect match.”
The quiet between them grew heavy with implication.
“Finley.” He reached for her hand, closing her fingers around the bracelet and hiding it from view. “Don’t.Please.”
Despite his words, it felt so good to have him touch her again, she could have wept with relief. “Show me. Let me see the DNA results.”
She jammed a finger at his solid wall of a chest, right at the spot where he’d tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I just quit my job so I could chase you down. You owe me this.”
His gaze softened, and Finley had to look away.
He tipped her chin with a light touch of his fingertips and forced her gaze back to his. This time when she looked at him, she saw him through a veil of tears.
“Don’t cry, love.” With a bittersweet smile, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the envelope and handed it to her.
She opened it with trembling fingers, blinked back her tears, and tried to focus on the paper in her hands.
The wordsDNA Reportwere typed in block lettering at the top of the page, followed by columns of numbers under the headingsMaxim LaurentandPhilip Mountbatten. Finley wasn’t sure what to make of any of it until she followed the trails of figures and mysterious abbreviations to the bottom of the page.
Interpretation: 299,578,200,170,722
Probability of Relation: 99.99999999996%
The subject is not excluded as a great-grandnephew to the tested individual. Based on testing results obtained from analyses of the DNA loci listed, the probability of relation is 99.99999999996%.
It was the most definitive proof they could have hoped for.
Maxim was a Romanov. He was the Grand Duchess Anastasia’s grandson.
Finley peered up at him, bashful all of a sudden. “I knew it all along, you know.”
“You did.” He reached to brush a tear from her cheek, but let his touch linger, cupping her face.
“Why did you lie?” she whispered.
“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of you. I don’t care about the treasures, Finley.” He held her face very still and fixed his gaze with hers. There was no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes. “Maybe I did once, but I’m not that man anymore. I tried to put a stop to things weeks ago, and it nearly cost me my life. The truth could hurt you, too. I won’t let it.”
She rose up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his. It was a gentle kiss. Tender. Tentative.
