Royally Romanov Page 11

  She stared at it in abject horror. She didn’t need X-ray vision to know that the envelope contained Maxim’s photograph.

  Mystery solved.

  “You were late this morning, so I checked with the research department myself and they informed me your photograph checked out. It’s authentic to the time period.” Madame Dubois smiled.

  Finley did her best to smile back.

  “I have more good news.” Madame Dubois’s grin widened. During her whole tenure at the Louvre, Finley had never seen her boss look so pleased. It terrified her to her core. “Using facial recognition software, the research department was able to compare this photograph to documented photos of her from Tsar Nicholas’s collection. The image is a match. Finley, you’ve found a lost photograph of the Grand Duchess Anastasia.”

  Her colleagues burst into applause. Finley felt sick to her stomach and somehow resisted the urge to slide under the table and hide. Because she knew what was coming next.

  Madame Dubois slid the picture from the envelope and placed it in the center of the table. Everyone stared at it, the royal Holy Grail. “Now that this photo has been verified, we need to know exactly where it came from.”

  And there it was.

  Finley gripped the edge of the chair, holding on for dear life. She felt like she might faint. “Um, as I mentioned yesterday, I’m still trying to establish provenance.”

  “Right. That’s your number-one priority now.” Madame Dubois pointed to Simone and Henri, the two assistant curators from the department who’d attended Finley’s signing at the bookstore a few nights ago. “As of now, you two will be helping Finley with final preparations for both the exhibit and the opening gala.”

  Henri nodded.

  “Yes, of course,” Simone said. As soon as Madame Dubois turned her attention back to the photo, Simone mouthed at Finley. Way to go!

  Things were getting worse by the second.

  She couldn’t keep postponing the inevitable. Sooner or later, everyone would know about Maxim. They’d know about his amnesia, and they’d know all about his alleged family tree. If Finley didn’t say something . . . right now . . . she’d look like she’d been trying to hide the facts.

  Probably because she was.

  “There’s something you all need to know,” she blurted.

  Madame Dubois looked up from the picture. “Yes?”

  Finley took a deep breath. Was it her imagination, or could she see her career dying before her eyes? Nope, there it was, going up in spectacular flames. “The photograph was loaned to me by a man named Maxim Laurent. According to Mr. Laurent, it’s a family heirloom.”

  “Oui, I know. You’ve said all this before, Finley. Just yesterday, in fact.” Madame Dubois’s smile faded, ever so slightly. “What aren’t you saying?”

  Just spit out. “Monsieur Laurent recently suffered a head injury, resulting in partial memory loss. But he claims to remember the picture, and he identifies the girl in the photograph as his grandmother.”

  An awkward silence fell over the table. A silence so heavy, Finley wouldn’t have been surprised if it loomed over the entire museum like a mushroom cloud.

  Madame Dubois stared at her. Seconds passed before she even blinked. Finley felt her credibility slipping away with each tick of the clock. One by one, the other curators looked away, refusing to meet Finley’s gaze. Even Simone was focusing intently on the floor.

  Finally, their supervisor spoke. “So what you’re telling me is that this Monsieur Laurent claims his grandmother was the Grand Duchess Anastasia.”

  Finley cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And you say he’s also suffering from amnesia?”

  “Yes.” Why did it have to sound so much like a bad soap opera?

  “Does he have an explanation as to how his grandmother ‘escaped’ her family’s execution in 1918?” The air quotes Madame Dubois used around the word escaped made Finley flinch.

  She shook her head. “No, he doesn’t. He only recently came to know that his grandmother was connected to the Tsar.”

  Madame Dubois crossed her arms. “And what about Monsieur Laurent’s parents? Who are they?”

  “They both passed away when Maxim was young.” Finley’s face went hot. She prayed no one noticed her casual use of Maxim’s first name. “Monsieur Laurent was raised by his grandmother.”

  “You mean Anastasia.” Madame Dubois slid the photograph across the table, toward Finley.

  Finley had memorized pretty much every detail of the picture, but she glanced down at it anyway, struck once again by its delicate beauty. She should have been stunned that the research department had verified Anastasia’s identity with facial recognition software. Flabbergasted, even.

  She wasn’t.

  That alone should have been alarming. When had she begun to buy into Maxim’s far-fetched story?

  Finley swallowed. “Yes, the Grand Duchess raised him. She kept her true identity a secret, though. Monsieur Laurent only recently discovered who she was.”

  She couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. She almost sounded like she believed Maxim was Anastasia’s grandson.

  Did she believe?

  “Finley, this is a serious problem. When you told me the photograph was a family heirloom, I assumed you’d procured it from an individual with ties to the Romanov court. Not someone who claimed to be an actual Romanov.”

  “Excuse me.” Henri raised his hand. “Are we talking about the same Laurent Romanov who the police just named a person of interest in the attack at Point Zero a few weeks ago?”

  “What?” Finley said. “That’s not possible. He was the victim. How can he be a person of interest?”

  Henri shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But his name is all over the front page of the paper. The authorities are asking anyone with knowledge of Monsieur Laurent to come forward.”

  Madame Dubois glared at Finley.

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  “I realize this complicates things.” Finley kept her gaze glued to the photograph. She couldn’t bear the strange looks being cast her way by the other curators. They probably thought she’d lost her mind.

  Maybe she had.

  “This more than complicates things, Finley. This puts the entire exhibit at risk . . . millions of dollars in art. Not to mention the reputation of the Louvre.” Madame Dubois sank into her chair. “Your Mr. Laurent is obviously a fraud. Surely it won’t be too difficult to discredit him.”

  Maurice let out a laugh. “Is that even necessary? Wasn’t Anastasia’s body discovered in 2007 and verified through DNA evidence?”

  “It was.” Madame Dubois nodded.

  Finley averted her gaze. “Actually, not everyone accepts the DNA evidence as accurate.”

  She looked up and squared her shoulders. She’d gone ahead and said it, so she may as well own it.

  “What? Is that true?” Simone’s gaze swiveled back and forth between Finley and Madame Dubois.

  Finley gave a firm nod, hoping to project far more confidence than she actually felt. “Yes. The Russian Orthodox Church disputes the DNA findings.”

  For days, she’d been trying very hard to forget this obscure fact. No one seriously believed the church’s claim that the DNA tests were wrong. Their refusal to accept that the remains found in a Russian field in 2007 belonged to Anastasia and her brother, Alexei, was widely considered to be a political stance. Scientists and the art world considered it a way to protect the Soviet government from rumors that they’d faked the original burial of the Romanovs.

  It was the most far-fetched loophole imaginable. The bones had been tested against the DNA of Britain’s Prince Philip, a distant relative of the Romanovs. Scientists claimed the DNA was a match. Case closed.

  Who would believe the assertions of a church
with a political agenda over the cold, hard facts?

  Not Finley. Unless . . .

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that the Russian Orthodox Church’s crazy conspiracy theory is true.” The incredulity of Madame Dubois’s tone made it clear there was only one correct way to respond.

  Finley would have liked to say no, she wasn’t suggesting that at all.

  Except she sort of was.

  “I’m just saying there’s room for doubt.” The tiniest possible room, but that’s all she needed.

  This isn’t about me. It’s about Maxim.

  It was about what Maxim needed, and those needs were at odds with Finley’s. She didn’t even know why she was saying these things. She couldn’t back up a single thing Maxim had told her about his family. Neither could he.

  “If this man makes a claim under the Century Rule and the art gets tied up in litigation, you’ll lose your job. There’s not a museum in Europe that would hire you if you claim this man is Anastasia’s grandson. So perhaps you need to rethink your position.” There was an undeniable tremor of fury in Madame Dubois’s voice.

  It wasn’t too late to backtrack. She should just forget about the church and accept the DNA findings, just like every respectable member of the scientific community had. “But what if he’s right? What if he really is Anastasia’s grandson?”

  As impossible as it seemed, it could be true. And if it was, the art belonged to him. Fair and square.

  “He’s not. Period.”

  “But what about the picture?” Simone asked.

  Finley could have kissed her on the spot. “Exactly. At the very least, we have a duty to look into the photo’s provenance. The fact of the matter is that Maxim Laurent somehow had a photograph of Anastasia in his possession.”

  She tried not to let her thoughts snag on the specifics of somehow. Maxim could have gotten the photo anywhere. He could have stolen it or even purchased it on the black market. Romanov antiquities had been floating around for decades.

  An Imperial Fabergé egg had been discovered in a pile of scrap metal less than a year ago. Hardly any of the known Imperial eggs contained their treasures, just like the ruby necklace and the tiny bejeweled crown that were missing from the Rosebud egg.

  These objects hadn’t simply vanished. They were out there. Somewhere.

  Common sense told her that Madame Dubois was right. Maxim had somehow come across the photo and was now using it to re-create a past. A past that he claimed to no longer remember.

  But her common sense had been in short supply of late.

  “Finley, forget this nonsense. The Louvre can have nothing to do with this man, and neither can you.” Madame Dubois pointed at the picture in front of Finley. “If you value your position here, you will return that photograph to Monsieur Laurent at once. Is that understood?”

  Finley’s gaze dropped to the ghostly image of Anastasia. Could she really be Maxim’s grandmother? Upon closer inspection, the girl in the picture had the same eyes as her father, the same as Maxim. Finley hadn’t noticed the similarity before because she’d been preoccupied with the ruby pendant around Anastasia’s neck.

  She wished Maxim still had the necklace. It might be easier to convince people to take him seriously if he did. Even if he only had the ruby teardrop charm itself . . .

  A shiver went up Finley’s spine as she remembered what Maxim had said earlier when she’d been in such a hurry to leave his apartment.

  Are you sure you don’t want to stay for a moment and take a look at my grandmother’s things? There’s not much. No more photographs. Just an old charm bracelet . . .

  Surely the pendant and the charm bracelet had nothing to do with each other. She was grasping at straws. And why? Was she really so desperate to believe Maxim was telling the truth? It would destroy her.

  Madame Dubois cleared her throat. Loudly. “Finley, I asked you a question. You are to return the photograph to Monsieur Laurent and cease contact with him. Is that understood? Entendu?”

  Finley nodded and tucked the photo back into its envelope. “Understood.”

  But maybe she should take a look at the charm bracelet, just to convince herself once and for all that Maxim Laurent wasn’t who he said he was. She could forget she’d ever set eyes on him and get her life back on its proper track, both professionally and romantically. She’d look at it, see it was nothing more than an old, meaningless bracelet, and go back to her quiet, orderly life.

  What could be the harm in that?

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  TEN

  A person of interest.

  Maxim wasn’t altogether sure what that meant, but it couldn’t be good. His name and face were all over the news. He’d turned on the television to see Detective Durand urging the citizens of Paris to come forward if they had any information regarding Maxim’s background.

  Maybe he should have been relieved. He wanted answers.

  But being a person of interest didn’t exactly cast him in the best light. He’d promptly turned the television off.

  He had to do something. Maxim figured he had only one course of action left. He needed to get in touch with Father Kozlov and make another appointment. From the sound of his message, the priest might not even know why Maxim had reached out to him. But it was worth a try, especially considering that Maxim had run out of other options.

  He called the number the priest had left but was only able to reach the church secretary who informed Maxim that Father Kozlov was completely booked for the next ten days.

  “I’m afraid the earliest appointment I can give you is Thursday of next week,” she said.

  Maxim dropped his head in his hands. What was he supposed to do for the next week? Sit around and will himself to remember who he was?

  “You don’t have anything sooner? It’s kind of an emergency.”

  “Kind of an emergency or an actual emergency?”

  Maxim hesitated for a beat. “An actual emergency. I’m recovering from a, um, medical problem. I think Father Kozlov may be able to help me.”

  He hated talking about what had happened to him. He hated even thinking about it, given the way the police had responded to his attack.

  Did everyone think he was at fault? Did everyone in Paris think he was dangerous? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that question.

  But in this instance he had no choice. If his injuries could get him an audience with Father Kozlov sooner than next week, so be it. He’d even go so far as to bring along his medical chart if necessary.

  “Je suis désolé.” The secretary’s voice softened. “I can try and fit you in with Father Kozlov today, but it won’t be until later this evening. Will that work?”

  “Oui. Merci beaucoup. I’ll be there.” He hung up, and for the first time since Finley had walked out his door, he felt a glimmer of hope.

  Finley.

  He closed his eyes and waited for the dream, the one that always came. The one he’d first seen in the hospital before he’d even found her. He waited for the vision of her hair whipping in the wind, her ruby-red lips, and her slender curves clad in black. Her hands were always tucked into her pockets, and she stood with one stilettoed foot slightly askew—the telltale adorable quirk that revealed her to be an American. Otherwise, everything about her was classically French. She was elegance personified, with history waltzing in her beguiling mind and poetry on the tip of her tongue.

  This time though, his mind conjured a different portrait of her. Instead of the static memory that had gotten him through the long days and even longer nights at Hôpital Hôtel-Dieu, his mind kept coming back to the real Finley. Finley in motion. He saw her face tipped up, her eyes darkened by desire. He saw her in the moment before he’d kissed her for the first time. This wasn’t just a dream, this was a moment he’d lived. A moment he could still hear and ta
ste and feel.

  This was remembrance.

  The sudden sound of Maxim’s ringtone startled him so badly that he dropped his cell as he came out of his trance. He scrambled to answer it in case it was Father Kozlov and spoke without bothering to glance at the screen.

  “Allô?”

  “Maxim?” The voice on the other end definitely wasn’t Father Kozlov’s. It wasn’t Detective Durand’s either. It was Finley’s.

  “Oui, it’s me.” He lowered his voice, because she was practically whispering, and it seemed the thing to do.

  “It’s Finley.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I know. Why are we whispering?”

  Her voice dropped another octave. “I’m at work. I can’t talk long, but I was wondering if we could meet again tonight . . . at Shakespeare and Company this time.”

  The bookstore was a public place. Maxim was certain the choice had been deliberate. He was also certain that he didn’t care. He just wanted to see her again.

  But he also wanted to see Father Kozlov, and he couldn’t be a no-show this time. “Can we make it early? I have an appointment tonight.”

  “Oh.” Her surprise was evident in her voice. If Maxim wasn’t mistaken, he also detected a note of disappointment. To his great pleasure, she didn’t sound a bit like a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. “Okay, then. I’ll head straight to the bookstore after work.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he said, then reminded himself he was supposed to be keeping things professional.

  He needed her help.

  No more sexual overtures.

  Note taken. He grew hard in a millisecond. Because of course he did.

  “Oh, and Maxim. One more thing—can you bring the charm bracelet you mentioned?”

  “Oui.” So she’d changed her mind about the bracelet? Interesting. “À tout à l’heure.” See you soon.

  Night fell on Paris early in the springtime so by the time they were scheduled to meet, Shakespeare and Company was already glowing gold on its tiny corner on Rue de la Bûcherie. The twin cherry blossom trees out front had been strung with fairy lights, and a few couples sat clustered at the café tables by the entrance, giving the whole block a bohemian, romantic flavor. Finley obviously spent quite a bit of time there, and Maxim could see why. The place suited her.