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“You’re right there,” Marcus murmured. His face was very close, giv ing Phoebe an opportunity to examine his eyes more closely. They were bluer than she had first realized, bluer even than the azurite- and ultramarineenriched pigments Hilliard used. The phone rang. When Phoebe reached to answer it, she thought his hand drifted down, just for a moment, to her waist. “Give the man his miniatures, Phoebe.” It was Sylvia. “I don’t understand,” she said numbly. “I’m not authorized—” “He’s purchased them outright. Our obligation was to get the highest possible price for their pieces. We’ve done that. The Taverners will be able to spend their autumn years in Monte Carlo if they choose. And you can tell Marcus that if I’ve missed the danse de fête, I’ll be enjoying his family’s box seats for
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