His fingers moved just a bit against her back. Enough to make her aware of them anew. His shadowless gaze moved likewise across her face. “Did I mention how beautiful you are tonight? Like the lilies of the field, whose splendor eclipses that of a king.”

Biblical flattery. It made her grin. “You did, but not so eloquently before. I won’t object to the poeticism, even if it is blatant exaggeration.” She nodded toward the bride and groom, who had taken to the dance floor as well. “Only one of us is allowed to eclipse Solomon in his splendor tonight, and it is without a doubt Margot.”

His smile when he looked at his colleague, however, was more amused than charmed. “She does not look as though her mother insisted she have a dance lesson twice a week, does she?”

She directed her gaze there too. Margot definitely didn’t take up her position on the dance floor opposite her new husband with obvious joy. She held herself stiffly, precisely, and Lily could all but hear her reciting the proper angles and planes and lines to herself.

But then Drake pulled her closer than he needed to, leaned down, whispered something into her ear, and her whole demeanor changed. Precision melted into . . . trust, she saw as she watched them move. Margot kept her gaze fixed on his eyes, kept her limbs where he’d positioned them, and let him whisk her around the floor.

“Sorry.” Lily tugged Zivon back toward her bag. “That demands a photo. Quickly, before their expressions change.”

Zivon laughed and moved with her. “Of course it does. Do you know what you need, Lily of the fields? A strap on your camera, so you can loop it around your neck.”

“Now, that is a good idea.” She rushed to her satchel and pulled the Kodak back out, taking a moment to model how it would look. “A necklace to put the jewels to shame, I should think.”

“It can flash brighter than any diamond.”

She laughed and opened it up. Whatever had gotten into her had clearly infected him too. She had a feeling this was a night she’d not soon forget.

13

For the first time in more years than he cared to count, Zivon found himself plotting how he might convince a girl to slip away from the crowds with him long enough to steal a kiss. He could probably achieve it by wondering what the dance, in full swing, would look like from outside the French doors, looking into the ballroom. Or suggest that they position themselves by an exit to get an unhindered shot of the bridal couple when they left for the night, which surely they would do soon.

Or, if she kept giving him those looks that said she was having every bit as good a time as he was, he might just forget himself and kiss her in the middle of the crowd.