by Teri Wilson
“What are the police doing here?” Finley pulled away and peered up at him, wide-eyed. She blinked a few times, as if trying to regain her bearings.
A dull ache throbbed to life in Maxim’s temples. He preferred Finley’s bearings wherever they’d been a few seconds ago, before the knock on the door. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
But he doubted they’d come for a social call.
“Monsieur Laurent, I know you’re in there.” Another round of pounding knocks commenced. If Maxim didn’t do something soon, the door would probably come loose from its hinges.
He rested his forehead against Finley’s and cupped her cheek, memorizing the way it felt to touch her like this. To brush the pad of his thumb over her full bottom lip, flushed and swollen from their kiss. He had the sinking feeling he wouldn’t be kissing her again anytime soon. Or ever. “I should probably go answer the door.”
“You really should.” She took a step back, placing herself just out of reach.
Maxim suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. They hung limply at his sides as he watched the breathless expression on Finley’s face close like a book.
I shouldn’t be standing here like an idiot. I should be doing something about the damned door.
He reached for his shirt and slid his arms into the sleeves as he made his way to the foyer where he found Finley’s silly dog snorting and pacing in front of the threshold like the arrival of the police was the most wonderful thing in the world.
“You’re a strange one, Gerard.” He scooped the dog into the crook of his elbow and opened the door.
Gerard licked the side of Maxim’s face as he took in the sight of Detective Julian Durand, the same officer who’d visited him in the hospital. Maxim forced a smile. “May I help you, Officer?”
The detective’s gaze dropped to Maxim’s unbuttoned shirt, then flitted to the squirming bulldog in his arms. He frowned. Not that Maxim had expected otherwise. “Yes, Monsieur Laurent. You can let me inside.”
“Very well, come in.” It was the last thing Maxim wanted, but he clearly didn’t have much of a choice.
For a flicker of a moment, he allowed himself to fantasize that perhaps the détective had come bearing good news. Maybe there’d been a lead in his case. Maybe they’d even located his attacker.
But Maxim wasn’t foolish enough to believe it. The police didn’t beat a door down to give someone good news. That kind of aggressive knocking typically signaled something else.
Like an imminent arrest, for instance.
“Bonjour.” Finley drifted into the foyer from the direction of the kitchen and greeted the detective.
Perfect. Just in time to see me carted off to jail.
She shot him an awkward glance. “I should go.”
The detective’s eyebrows rose. “Je suis désolé.” I’m sorry. A bullshit apology, as far as Maxim was concerned. The détective didn’t look a bit désolé. “Have I interrupted something?”
“Yes,” Maxim said flatly.
“No,” Finley said simultaneously. She shook her head. “I was just leaving, actually.”
She plucked the dog from Maxim’s arms and he searched her gaze, but she could no longer seem to look him in the eye.
“Bonne nuit.” The detective gave her a curt nod.
“Bonne nuit,” Finley murmured, still focusing on anything and everything except Maxim as she reached for the door.
He wanted to scream. Turn around. Look at me, damn it.
By some miracle she did. “Au revoir, Maxim.”
Not bonne nuit. Not good night.
Au revoir.
Good-bye.
The difference wasn’t lost on him.
He fixed his gaze with hers, imploring her to change her mind. Stay. Please. “Au revoir, Finley.”
Then the detective slammed the door shut, and she was gone. Maxim’s hands balled into fists as he turned his attention toward the officer. He felt like hitting something. No, not something. Someone. Namely, the détective.
He managed to refrain, figuring he was in enough trouble already.
“It seems you’ve gotten back on your feet with remarkable speed.” Detective Durand glanced at Maxim’s exposed chest and lifted a brow.
Maxim glared at the détective and began buttoning his shirt. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
“One of your neighbors reported suspicious activity around your flat earlier today.” He pulled a notepad from his pocket and flipped through it until he found the page he was looking for. “A Madame Pinot in unit three.”
Maxim frowned. “Unit three is right upstairs.”
“Oui, I know. I took Madame Pinot’s statement earlier today.”
If the detective had been here earlier, then he knew Maxim hadn’t been home. He’d been at the Louvre with Finley. “Then you’re aware I wasn’t home this afternoon, so how could I have been doing anything suspicious?”
The detective shrugged. “I didn’t say that you were, Monsieur Laurent.”
Maxim crossed his arms. “Then I fail to see a problem here.” Other than the fact that Finley had run away and would probably never return. Oh, and he still couldn’t remember the past few years. Nor did he know why he’d been attacked.
The detective narrowed his gaze. “You don’t consider it a problem that someone tried to break into your apartment today?”
“Is that what happened?” He’d said suspicious activity. He’d never mentioned a burglary.
Maxim raked a hand through his hair and glanced around the apartment. Nothing appeared to be out of place. Then again, he couldn’t be certain—he’d only been home from the hospital a few weeks and was still adjusting to a home he only remembered as his grandmother’s.
The detective gave his notepad another cursory glance. “Around noon today, Madame Pinot saw a man attempting to enter your flat. A man who bore no resemblance to you.”
Of course the guy didn’t look like him. Why would he break into his own apartment? Nothing about this police visit was making sense. “And?”
“She confronted the man and he left the premises. Madame Pinot then called the police. She’s concerned, not only for your apartment but for the building as a whole. First you were attacked, and now there’s been an attempted break-in. I’m sure you can appreciate her apprehension.”
Maxim swallowed. “Because I was the victim in both of those instances.”
The detective said nothing. He just continued to gaze impassively at Maxim as if waiting for some sort of explanation. An explanation he clearly didn’t have.
Maxim squeezed his eyes shut, willing his memory to return. He didn’t need all of it. Just a flash of recollection of what had happened that night near the steps of Notre Dame. A face. A name. He’d settle for anything.
But all he saw was the doubt that had clouded Finley’s emerald gaze earlier before he’d taken off his shirt. Before she’d touched him. Before they’d kissed.
It doesn’t look good, Maxim.
It didn’t. He knew that. And now things looked even worse.
He opened his eyes. “I understand your need to make the city feel safe again. I get it. People are afraid. But I’ve done nothing wrong.”
That I remember.
He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.
The detective nodded. “As you’ve said before. You’ve also said that a significant portion of your memory is missing.”
“Correct, but I know where I was today. I can’t be held accountable for the actions of a stranger who tried to break into my apartment.” Maxim’s hands balled into fists again. The urge to punch the detective had returned.
How long was this murky existence going to continue?
“Agreed. You cannot.” The detective glanced around the apartment. His gaze scanned the book-li
ned walls of the living room, the coffee table where the leather-bound notebook lay open to the final page, and the pair of wineglasses on the kitchen counter. His focus lingered for a moment on the mark that Finley’s red lipstick had left behind, then he turned back toward Maxim. “Do you mind if I take a look around?”
Maxim took a deep inhale. No way in hell did he want this guy rummaging through his apartment. “I do mind, actually.”
“Are you quite certain? Perhaps there’s some sort of clue lying about. Something that could provide an explanation as to why trouble is following your every step?”
Maxim wished there was a clue. He wished for that harder than the detective could possibly know.
There wasn’t. He’d checked. He’d gone over the entire flat with a fine-toothed comb and found nothing.
That’s not true. You found the photograph.
If his grandmother was Anastasia, then the photograph was definitely linked to his notes in the leather-bound notebook. Which meant it was a clue—just the sort of clue the detective would probably be interested in.
But the thought of Detective Durand sifting through his things—his books, pictures, and family heirlooms—made Maxim physically ill. The detective wasn’t conducting an investigation. He was on a witch hunt. The Paris police needed to make tourists feel safe again. They needed to sweep his case under the rug so people would no longer be afraid.
Whatever Detective Durand found during his search would no doubt be used to build a case against Maxim and determine that he’d played a part in his own attack weeks ago.
“No crime has been committed here, so there’s no reason for a search.” He was finished with this conversation. “I’m assuming there have been no new developments in my case?”
The detective nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Then you need to leave.” Maxim opened the front door and jerked his head in the direction of the rain-pattered street.
“As you wish.” The detective flipped his notepad closed and tucked it away in the inside pocket of his coat. “Bonne nuit, Monsieur Laurent. I’ll be in touch.”
Oh joy.
“Au revoir,” Maxim said.
Then he slammed the door closed on the detective, on the glittering lights of Paris and on Finley.
Wherever she’d gone.
* * *
FINLEY DIDN’T REALIZE SHE’D left her handbag at Maxim’s flat until she was standing on the doorstep of her apartment building. In the rain. Sans house key.
If ever there were a perfect ending to such a thoroughly imperfect night, it was being locked outside in the rainy Paris weather.
I deserve this. The lights of Notre Dame shimmered like liquid gold in the distance, a glowing reminder of the spectacular mistake she’d just made. She’d just kissed the one man in all of France who could ruin her career. At least she assumed he was the only man who had the power to thwart her promotion and get her fired. Maybe there were more insanely hot fake Romanovs running around Paris that she’d yet to come across. If so, she should probably track them down and kiss them, too, just to make sure her self-sabotage was thoroughly complete.
Somehow she doubted there were more. If Maxim was anything, he was unique. And yes, hot. Absolutely scorching.
She’d just about died when he’d taken his shirt off. Good grief, that chest.
Of course her reaction seemed weirdly inappropriate now that she’d removed herself from the situation. He’d shown her his injuries, and she’d all but jumped his bones. Not to mention the fact that that chest of his, as glorious as it was, could possibly be in a jail cell right now. The policeman at Maxim’s apartment had looked at him like he was a criminal. And she supposed that was a possibility.
A fat raindrop hit her square on her forehead, Yep, I definitely deserve this.
Gerard pawed at her foot. When Finley glanced down at the little bulldog, he let out a snort of displeasure. “Don’t judge me. You were just as charmed by him as I was.”
Well, that was going to stop. Obviously. Neither one of them would be melting at Maxim’s feet again anytime soon.
She’d made up her mind on her wet hike back to the fifth arrondissement. She wouldn’t be seeing Maxim again. Period. There was simply too much at stake. She couldn’t risk her place at the Louvre and her elusive promotion by believing in an amnesiac who thought he was Anastasia’s grandson.
Although, she couldn’t deny the crazy notion was getting easier and easier to believe.
He had hemophilia. How was that possible? Hemophilia was incredibly rare. It was also hereditary, which weakened her resolve all the more.
He can’t be Anastasia’s grandson. He just can’t.
Gerard grunted again, and this time it was followed by a sharp bark. Clearly the dog was annoyed. Finley couldn’t blame him. She was annoyed, too, mainly at herself. Kissing Maxim had messed with her head.
It also had quite an effect on a few other body parts she’d rather not dwell on. There was something very wrong with her. Clearly.
“Come on, Gerard. Let’s go somewhere warm and dry.” She gave the dog’s leash a gentle tug and headed down the gently sloping hill that lead toward Rue de la Bûcherie.
Puddles had already begun to pool on the cobblestoned walkways. At this rate, Finley’s ballerina flats would be ruined by the time she got to Shakespeare and Company. Whoever had come up with the misguided notion that Paris in the rain was the epitome of romance needed to have their head examined.
The bookstore was unusually quiet when she finally got there, even for the last half hour before closing. Apparently she was the only one foolish enough to be walking the city streets on such a wet night.
“Finley.” Scott looked down at her from his perch atop a library ladder near the corner where the beat poets were shelved. “You’re drenched.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” She bent and released Gerard from his leash. He gave himself a good shake before making a beeline for the dog bed tucked behind the register. Finley winced. “Sorry. I think we just soaked the entryway.”
“T’inquiète.” No worries. “It was wet before you got here.”
Scott climbed down, and Finley busied herself with trying to look like she hadn’t come straight from a make-out session with the very man he’d warned her about.
Obviously she failed, because as soon as Scott was on eye-level with her, he frowned. “Something’s wrong.”
“No, it’s not.” A lie of colossal proportions.
“Are you sure? Because you seem a little . . .” Unhinged? Mortified? On the verge of career-ending self-sabotage? Scott’s gaze narrowed. “. . . excited.”
Excited . . . as in aroused? Guilty as charged.
God, she wanted to die.
She took a deep breath and willed herself to stop thinking about Maxim’s warm, bare chest. Or the way he’d kissed her. Or the way he’d whispered her name with the aching grace and reverence of a prayer. “I just left Maxim Laurent’s flat.”
Way to maintain some sense of discretion, Finley. Not that discretion mattered where Scott was concerned. He was her friend. Besides, she obviously needed someone to stop her where Maxim was concerned since she apparently couldn’t seem to control herself.
A muscle flexed in Scott’s jaw. His gaze darkened. “Did he hurt you? Because if he did . . .”
She held up a hand. “Stop. Of course he didn’t.”
“Then why are you stumbling in here looking like you’ve been wandering the streets of Paris in a daze?”
Maybe because he just kissed me within an inch of my life. She swallowed. “Because I left my handbag behind and now I’m locked out of my apartment.”
“So?” Scott shrugged. “If Monsieur Laurent is so harmless, why don’t you just go back and get your bag?”
“It’s complicated.”
Scott studied
her so intently that she was certain he was trying to peer inside her head. Thank goodness that was impossible. He sighed. “Sit down. I’ll get us some espresso. Then you’re telling me everything.”
Everything?
Maybe. Then again, maybe not.
“Okay.” She moved a pile of books from the wooden chair opposite the cash register and sank into it.
Given her “excited” state, Finley nearly turned down the espresso. She didn’t need to feel any more keyed up than she already did. But the espresso smelled heavenly in the way that only good, rich European coffee could. Plus she was shivering in her dampened clothes, and a good caffeine fix might clear her head.
The sight of the policeman standing in Maxim’s foyer had definitely had a sobering effect. But her body hadn’t quite caught up to her brain. She felt drunk, even though she’d had no more than two or three sips of wine.
Quel night.
“Here.” Scott slid a demitasse across the counter toward her. “Now spill.”
She sighed and launched into an explanation of everything that had happened over the course of the evening. She gave Scott all the details, leaving nothing out. Although she might have skimmed over the part about the kiss, inasmuch as it was possible to skim over the greatest kiss of her life.
“And then the police came.” She took a deep breath. “That’s when I came to my senses and left.”
“The police? Why?” Scott frowned.
“I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.” She sighed.
Maybe things weren’t as bad as they looked. Maybe Maxim just had an overdue parking ticket or something. That would make sense, given his amnesia.
Listen to yourself. You sound ridiculous.
She wasn’t sure why she was clinging to the absurd notion that there could be an innocent reason the policier had almost beaten Maxim’s door down. Or maybe she did know why and just didn’t care to admit it.
