Page 139 of Marked By Moonlight
“Wait. Your phone?” I protested. The damn thing had only ever brought us bad news.
“Just for a moment,” he assured me.
I let him back in bed, not all too enthusiastically. What could he possibly have on there that would add to this perfect moment?
He scrolled through his pictures — not that he’d taken many — then stopped, grinning at one.
I cocked my head. “Yes?”
He looked up, then set the phone on the dresser.
“Nah. You’re right. This is no time to look at pictures.”
He was teasing, of course, and I was hooked like a prize marlin.
“But my present…”
He grinned and reached for the phone again. “All right, already.” He located what he wanted, then motioned to me. “Lie back. Get comfortable.”
I frowned. Just to look at a picture?
Still, I complied. Otherwise, he would draw out the suspenseforever.
“Now close your eyes…” he murmured.
I did, going all warm again. Even if his present turned out to be a dud, this position was awfully convenient for other activities. And we were both naked, so…
I drifted deep enough into a sexual fantasy that I didn’t open my eyes when Marius told me to. But when I did…
I stared at the picture, then at Marius.
“No way.”
He grinned. “Yes, way.”
I jackknifed up into a seated position, grabbing his phone for a closer look.
“Where did you get this?”
“At Anastasia’s, that first time we went there.”
I stared and stared. The picture showed me from the back, gazing atThe Tower of Blue Horses.
“I know you said a picture couldn’t capture the painting, but I thought one might capture the moment,” Marius said quietly.
“Pretty sneaky, mister,” I joked over the lump in my throat.
He shrugged. “I don’t always play by the rules, you know.”
Oh, I knew. And boy, was I grateful. And not just for this picture.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you so much.”
The image blurred as tears sprang to my eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” was all I could manage.
For years, the only image art scholars like my father had of Franz Marc’s masterpiece was a grainy 1940s photo, plus a postcard-size copy the artist had sent to a friend. And for years, my father had investigated what had become of the original, to no avail.
