by Teri Wilson
Was it eleven o’clock already?
Finley reached into her bag to check her cell phone but it wasn’t in the side pocket where she usually kept it. “Don’t turn off the lights yet. I’ll be right back. I think I left my phone in the Blue Oyster Room.”
She dashed through the maze of bookshelves toward the spot where she’d given her lecture. The shop was uncharacteristically still and quiet. Eerie almost, as if the books themselves were sleeping.
But when she strode into the Blue Oyster Room, she realized she wasn’t alone.
“Hello again,” she said.
It was him. Maxim. He was standing right beside the new fiction table reading something. Not just any something, but the card about her upcoming exhibit.
He tucked it between the pages of the book in his hands—her book—and looked up. “Hello.”
“You realize the store’s closing now, don’t you?”
“I do, yes.” Again, he just stood there. Watching. Waiting.
She had no idea what for. “Are you stalking me?”
Finley wasn’t sure why those were the words that popped out of her mouth. Maybe because the crime section loomed right behind him. Or maybe she was still a little freaked out about the man who’d been attacked at Point Zero.
But as far as stalkers went, she could do worse. Way worse.
He was even more handsome at close range, if such a thing were possible. She wondered how he’d gotten the bruise. But seeing him so close up, she barely noticed it. She couldn’t seem to look away from his eyes. They were a shade of blue that belonged on a canvas, not a mere human. Contrasted with his dark hair and the thick scruff lining his jaw, they were almost hypnotic.
Get a grip. The man probably wanted to ask her a scholarly question, and she was thinking about his eyes. And his hair.
But it was such a nice head of hair. And that close-cropped beard . . . so masculine. He’d probably grown it in a day.
“Am I stalking you?” His brow furrowed. His gorgeous, gorgeous brow.
What in God’s name was she saying? She’d spent so much time around inanimate objets d’art that she’d forgotten how to interact with an actual person.
She shook her head. “Sorry, I was just . . .”
“Am I?” he asked. A look of alarm had crept into his lovely eyes. “I mean, do I do this often? Attend your lectures? I do, don’t I? Please accept my apologies.”
He moved to slip past her, but before he could make a getaway, he bumped into one of the ubiquitous stacks of books and sent them tumbling to the floor.
Okaaay. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who needed to work on the delicate art of conversation.
He mumbled a curse word as he bent to pick up the scattered books.
Finley stooped to help him. “I don’t think you’re stalking me. It was a joke. Je suis désolé.” I’m sorry.
He paused midreach for a hardback edition of Baudelaire’s poetry and met her gaze. “A joke?”
Ever so subtly, he smiled. It was just a tiny half-grin, but somewhere beneath the neatly trimmed scruff lining his jaw, Finley spotted a perfectly charming set of dimples. Because, of course.
“A bad joke, admittedly.” She gave him a tiny shrug. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, if it’s any consolation. Other than earlier tonight. My lecture, I mean. You asked a question. Then I signed your book.” Stop babbling.
Clearly she was incapable of interacting with a handsome man surrounded by so many books. It was too overwhelming for her bibliophile sensibilities. She averted her gaze in an effort to regain her composure, but no sooner did she look away than her gaze landed on the bed situated in a darkened nook off to their right. The narrow mattress was covered with a deep crimson coverlet. Velvet.
Not helping.
She gathered as many books as she could and flew to her feet. “It’s late. I should be going. It was a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for coming, monsieur . . .”
She realized she’d never caught his last name.
He took the books from her arms, which was a really good thing. Because if he hadn’t, his next words would have caused her to drop them on his feet.
“Romanov,” he said. “My name is Maxim Romanov.”
CHAPTER
* * *
THREE
Maxim Romanov? Really?
Maxim wanted to smack himself in the head, but he figured his head had already suffered enough. Still . . .
He’d pretty much just blurted out that he was a descendent of the Romanovs to a woman who was an expert on that very subject. What had he been thinking?
He hadn’t been, clearly. He was incapable of coherent thought at the moment. It was a miracle he could even stand there and do a passable impersonation of a rational person.
He’d found her.
At last.
He’d somehow stumbled upon the woman who’d been haunting his dreams for weeks, the one whose face he saw every time he closed his eyes.
Just when he’d begun to think she was nothing but a figment of his imagination or some ethereal, exquisite fever dream, she’d walked right into his life. Technically, he’d blindly walked into hers, but the difference hardly mattered when the end result was the same.
She was real. She had a name, and she was lovely.
She was also staring at him as though he’d sprouted another head.
“Romanov,” she echoed. “I see.”
I see. There were a thousand unspoken implications in those two syllables, none of them good.
She saw that he looked like he’d been beaten to a pulp. She saw that he’d waited around to talk to her until after everyone else had gone. Most notably, she saw that he was a crazy person.
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I misspoke. My name is Maxim Laurent.”
That was the name printed on the stacks of mail that had been waiting for him when he’d finally been released from the hospital. It was the name on the French passport he’d found at his grandmother’s apartment, which by all appearances had become his apartment after she’d passed away two years prior. He was Maxim Laurent, plain and simple.
Except amnesia was anything but simple. And since the day he’d opened that mysterious notebook and seen the words Je suis Maxim Romanov written by his own hand, he’d believed it to be true. Which probably meant she had every reason to look at him as if he were delusional.
Her luminous eyes narrowed. “You misspoke? As in, you forgot your own name for a minute?”
“Oui.” He swallowed and tried his best to concentrate on the few truths he knew about himself rather than the fullness of her lips. Or the bottomless green of her eyes. God, she was gorgeous. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen . . . his lost years undoubtedly included. “It happens sometimes.”
“Does it now? Excuse me for saying so, Mr. Laurent, but that’s an unusual problem to have.” She crossed her arms.
Maxim considered himself lucky she didn’t turn on the heel of her black patent stiletto and walk away. “It is, and believe me, it’s not very enjoyable.”
“I can imagine.” Her lips curved into a smile that was a bit too patronizing for his taste.
Say something. Something sane, for crying out loud. “Look, I realize how mad it sounds—I promise I do. I’ve suffered a recent head injury, and things are rather fuzzy. I came here tonight hoping you could help me.”
It was the God’s honest truth. He just hadn’t realized the author of the new book on the Romanovs would be her.
Her gaze moved slowly to the bruise above his eyebrow and lingered there. “Why me?”
“Because I think you might be the only one who can.”
She shook her head, and a strand of her fringe got caught in her eyelashes. Maxim balled his hand into a fist to stop himself from reaching for her and sweeping the hair from
her eyes. “I don’t understand.”
Join the club.
“I . . . ah . . . fell down.” Technically, he had. And it sounded better than saying he’d been attacked and almost bled out on the steps of Notre Dame. She already looked like she wanted to bolt. Leading with his near murder might not be the best idea. “I don’t know what happened to me, exactly. But I think it might have something to do with the Romanovs.”
She went eerily quiet, no doubt trying to figure out how a Russian dynasty that had been destroyed nearly a century ago could possibly be related to a random accident in modern-day Paris.
But what if it wasn’t random?
“Is there someplace where we can talk? Get some coffee perhaps?” He held his breath, waiting for her answer.
“Finley?” The store manager appeared from the narrow, book-strewn hallway. He had a set of keys in one hand and was busy rummaging through the messenger bag slung over his shoulder with the other. When he looked up and saw Maxim, he slowed to a stop.
“Is everything okay?” His gaze flitted back and forth between Maxim and Finley.
“Just peachy.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Maxim braced himself.
Here it comes.
She was bound to tell the manager that Maxim had been lurking around waiting for her. And oh yeah, he was also unstable to some degree.
“Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Abbot.” He turned to go.
His head had begun to hurt again, aching with despair. He’d hoped to find answers tonight, and now he was leaving with more and more questions. Why did he remember Finley Abbot so keenly when she insisted they’d never met? And why had he believed he was a descendant of a woman who’d perished nearly one hundred years ago?
He shouldn’t have come here. He most definitely shouldn’t have asked Finley to go for coffee. She might not know him, but he knew she meant something to him.
That dichotomy didn’t bode well.
“Wait,” she called after him, and placed a hand on his forearm.
The gentleness of her touch stopped him in his tracks. He stared down at her fingertips on his sleeve. When was the last time a woman had touched him? Other than one who was dressed in scrubs, obviously.
He didn’t know. He was beginning to think he never would. “Yes?”
Her green eyes glittered in the shadowed room full of books. Her hand stayed, resting tenderly on the sleeve of his suit jacket, and hope stirred ever so faintly in Maxim’s chest.
The bookstore manager cleared his throat. “Finley.”
Without breaking eye contact with Maxim, she said, “I’ll be right there, Scott.”
Scott.
Maxim slid a glance toward him and wondered if they were a couple. He hoped not. The very idea felt like a blow to the chest, and he’d taken more than his fair share of blows lately.
When he looked back at Finley, there was a hint of smile on her lips. She removed her hand from his sleeve and slid it into to the pocket of her ruffled trench coat. “Enchanté, Monsieur Laurent.” Nice to meet you. “Thank you again for coming, but I really must be going now.”
She reached toward him again, this time for a handshake. When his hand slid against her palm, she slid a small square of stiff paper into it and winked.
“Bonne nuit.” Good night.
Maxim nodded. “À la prochaine.” Until next time.
Because there would be a next time. There had to be. So little about his life made sense that he longed for something familiar, something real. And for reasons he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand, he remembered Finley. He remembered her smoky eyes. He remembered the elegance of her slender wrists. He remembered the supple curve of her neck.
She was important to him.
He just didn’t know why.
He waited to look at the card she’d handed him until he’d left the bookstore and turned the corner that lead to Square René-Viviani, a hidden sanctuary lush with locust trees and tulip blooms tucked beside the church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre.
The square was empty, save for a young couple kissing quietly on one of the park benches. Off in the distance, Notre Dame’s gargoyles were silhouetted by the pink April moon. Maxim settled himself on the bench farthest away from the young lovers and at last pulled the card from his suit pocket.
Finley Abbot
Conservateur adjoint
Louvre
And at the bottom of the card, a phone number.
Bonne nuit.
A very good night indeed.
* * *
FINLEY INDULGED SCOTT AND waited while he did a thorough sweep of the cramped bookshop. Once he seemed satisfied that Maxim had indeed vacated the premises and the only person remaining in the store was the lone Tumbleweed who’d turned up for the night, he flipped off the lights and locked the door.
Finley didn’t have to ask if he was walking her home. He fell in step beside her, and she accepted the situation as a given. She was actually somewhat glad. The evening had been strange, to say the least.
Silently, they walked deeper into the Latin Quarter where Finley’s third-floor walk-up was situated. When her building came into view, Scott finally gave voice to the words she’d known were coming.
“Please tell me you didn’t give that guy your number.”
Finley shrugged. “I didn’t.”
Technically, she’d done no such thing. He might be insanely attractive, but she knew better than to give a complete and total stranger her cell number. Especially a complete and total stranger who was possibly some kind of wacko conspiracy theorist. “I gave him my business card.”
Scott gaped at her. “You gave him your card? The one that has all of your contact information at the Louvre?”
“The last time I checked, the Louvre was my only place of employment. So yes, that business card.” She appreciated Scott’s concern, she really did, but wasn’t he going a little overboard?
Of course he was, and it was because he was one of the only people in Paris who knew what had happened to her back home. She trusted Scott. He’d earned that trust by helping her adjust to life in a foreign country and by teaching her how to act like a native Parisian so she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.
Maxim, on the other hand, was a total stranger. She had no reason to trust him.
But if he knew something about the Romanovs—some secret that history hadn’t yet uncovered—she was willing to give him a chance.
She had to.
“It’s not that big of a deal when you think about it.” That’s what she’d told herself anyway, when she’d slipped the card into Maxim’s hand. He had nice hands. Large. Warm. Smooth. The hands of an artist. Or a writer, maybe. Not the hands of a fighter—the deep purple bruise on his temple notwithstanding. “He has my book. My bio is right there on the inside flap, and it says I work at the Louvre. Newsflash: the Louvre is pretty recognizable. Anyone can find it.”
Scott sighed. Mightily. “You have a point. Still, I don’t like it. I have a bad feeling about that guy.”
“Why?” Because he believed himself to be an actual stalker or because he can’t remember his own name?
“For starters, he was lurking around at closing time hoping to talk to you.”
Finley wouldn’t exactly call it lurking. More like waiting . . . in a ridiculously gorgeous manner. “He’s a lurker? That’s his big crime?”
They paused at the window of Aux Merveilleux patisserie to watch the late night bakers roll delicate cakes in shaved chocolate. Finley’s stomach growled.
In the reflection of the window, Scott’s gaze met hers. “He also asked you out for coffee. I heard him, Finley.”
“Men do ask me out occasionally. I realize that might be a shocking revelation, but it does happen.” She just never said yes.
For st
arters, she had too much on her plate already. Between trying to make a name for herself at the Louvre and writing her book, she barely had time to walk her dog, much less date.
Also, she wasn’t ready. Not yet.
She might never be ready.
She knew it was absurd. The man who’d mugged her on her college campus back home had been a stranger. A person she’d never seen before. But for months afterward, she couldn’t bear it when her boyfriend touched her. She’d just wanted to be left alone. Eventually, he’d gotten frustrated enough to do just that.
“It’s eleven o’clock at night. If he wanted to date you, he should have asked you for a proper date. At a normal time of night,” Scott said.
One of the bakers waved at them from the other side of the glass. They both waved back, and then continued down the cobblestone path.
“I appreciate the protective-older-brother vibe you’ve got going on right now. I do. But I can take care of myself.” She’d made sure of that. Afterward. “Why are you so sure he’s dangerous, anyway?”
“Why are you so sure he’s safe?” Scott countered. “Other than the obvious.”
Butterfly wings beat against Finley’s rib cage. “The obvious?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice how hot the guy is. Those moody blue eyes of his can probably be seen from space.” Indeed they could. They could probably be seen from every galaxy in the cosmos. “Just because he’s pretty doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer.”
“It doesn’t mean he is one either.”
Scott cut her a sideways glance. Finley could recognize an impatient expression when she saw one, even in the dim glow of the Paris lamplights. He was still waiting for an answer.
“Fine, I’ll tell you why I think he’s safe. Don’t call me crazy, but I have a feeling about him.” The butterfly wings kicked into overdrive. “He’s the one, Scott.”
Scott’s footsteps slowed to a stop. “The One? As in you’re going to marry this guy?”
“God, no. Are you insane?” Marriage was the last thing on her mind. It was as far from her thoughts as dating was for the foreseeable future. And sex, for that matter.
