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see
anything.”
              “Hold
on,” Rene replied. “There’s a switch.” He strode down the hallway, leaving
Annette and Clifford alone together.
              “I
want to kiss you right now,” Clifford said. “So very much.”
              “We
can’t do that!” Annette replied, scandalized. Rene could see both of them
easily, even if he couldn’t hear every word they were saying.
              “Why
not?” Clifford reached his hand out, letting his fingertips brush against
Annette’s forearm, just above her wrist. “What’s going to happen?”
              Annette
blushed.
              “Don’t
you want me to kiss you?” Clifford asked.
              “I
do,” she replied, letting her eyes flicker up to meet his own. “And if we were
alone…”
              “I
would do more than kiss you,” Clifford proclaimed.
              Rene
found the switch. The hallway brightened, revealing three nearly identical
prints. They were very colorful, with bright green and blue shapes intersected
by swooping khaki colored lines.
              “Oh,
these are nice,” Annette said, stepping forward to take a closer look. She
wanted to see the signatures, of course, but she also needed to put some space
between herself and Clifford. The longer she stood close to him, feeling his
nearness, smelling the scent of his cologne in her nose, the harder it became
to maintain her focus.
              Clifford
raised an eyebrow. “Tell me about them.”
              Rene
had rejoined them. “They are Stanley Hayter ,” he
said.
              “ Hayter was part of Atelier 17,” Annette added. “ Miró worked there for a time as well, as did Ernst.” She
examined the prints for a long moment. “These are good examples of his work,
but not really what we’re looking for.”
              Rene’s
eyes flashed, but he kept smiling. “Of course. Come this way. You mention Miró ; I think you might like this.” He led them into the
next room. There was a giant canvas on the wall. It was painted bright blue,
with four black dots angled across it and a bright red slash of paint. The
signature was unmistakable.
              “Wow,”
Annette said. “That’s lovely.” She took a moment to examine the painting. It
didn’t hold Clifford’s interest, and he wandered further into the room.
              “Annette,”
he said, excitement clear in his voice. “Come here.” She looked up to see him
beckoning to her. He was standing in front of a small frame. “You’ve got to see
this.”
              She
joined him to see a sketch of Max Ernst, white haired with a sharp nose. “This
is the Carrington?” she asked.
              Rene
nodded. “You see what he’s working on?”
              “That’s
his bird sculpture,” Annette said. She turned to Clifford. “After Leonora and
Max became lovers, they moved in together. And they each sculpted protective
animal spirits to guard over them and their new relationship. Max did the
birds, Leonora made a horse’s head.”
              Clifford
was beaming. “I love the energy of this.” He was practically bouncing on his
heels. “There’s such an intimacy in this moment.”
              Rene
agreed. “She was bearing witness to Max in the moment of creation. And of
course, she was no small talent herself.”
              “You
know I have to ask,” Clifford said.
              “The
heirs would love to get fifteen for it,” Rene said. “But for you, it would be
only ten.”
              Annette
nodded. “Why don’t you show us the rest,” she said. “And then we’ll talk
numbers.”
              Rene
pressed on. “Of course, you can see here in the way she’s sloped his shoulders
and angled the neck the same lines in the portrait,” he said, pointing to the
sketch.   “It’s dated