Jean-Philippe has been the curator of the Museum of Archeology in Paris for at least a decade.

He’s been a good friend of my parents for at least twice as long, which is one of the reasons I’d refused his offer to take over as the Paleolithic art curator when the current one retires in a few weeks. All the scandalmongers whispering about nepotism behind my back, staffers citing my family name in hallways, unlucky contenders rolling their eyes as if to say, the old boys are looking after their own… Grrr!

If only I could impress upon every single museum curator and archeologist in France that my parents never intervene on my behalf!

But I can’t, nor do I believe it would help. Even if I wore a sign across my chest that said exactly that, chances are nobody would believe me.

Except, it’s the truth.

Mother and Father hate owing favors to other people—even to good friends. And they love knowing that my achievements are my own.

As it happens, I love knowing that, too.

Then why am I dialing Jean-Philippe’s number at this juncture?

Sebastian d’Arcy, that’s why.

True, the count had never overtly flirted with me, but I’d convinced myself flirting just wasn’t in his character. I had deluded myself that his interest in the Grotto and his frequent invitations to gatherings at the chateau had meant more than neighborly solicitude and a genuine interest in the rock paintings discovered on his estate.

I was such a fool!

“My dear Penelope, it’s so good to hear your voice!” Jean-Philippe says on the other end of the line. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I hesitate for a moment and confront the issue head on. “That job you mentioned two weeks ago—is it still up for grabs?”

“I’ve done a bunch of interviews, but I’m not entirely happy with any of the candidates.” There’s a brief silence. “Why? Have you had enough of sweet Burgundy and want to move back to Paris?”

“I’ve changed my mind about the job. It’s too good to pass up.”

“When I made the offer, you told me you preferred to be a big fish in a small pond rather than a small fish in a big one. I’m just curious—what gives?”

“It’s like you said,” I lie. “My small pond is beginning to feel like a tiny fish bowl.”

“I knew it!” He chuckles, pleased with his perspicacity.

If only he knew how far he is from the truth!

“You were born for the ocean, mon enfant,” Jean-Philippe says when he’s done chuckling. “Your parents have no doubt about it.”

My stomach clenches at the brutal accuracy of the latter observation. Jean-Philippe is right. What with being dyed-in-the-wool atheists and certified pessimists, Mother and Father believe in me more than they have ever believed in anything.

And that is the root of the problem.

“With the TGV train, Auxerre is less than two hours away from Paris, right?” Jean-Philippe asks.

“That’s right.”

“So, you can easily zoom to the Grotto, if you need to check something for your research, and be back within the day. Isn’t that convenient?”

“It is, indeed.”

“Send in your application straightaway,” he says. “And expect to be called for an interview very soon.”

“Thank you.”

“The job is as good as yours, but we’ll need to do it by the book.”

“You’ll be accused of favoritism no matter how we do it,” I say.

He chuckles again, unfazed. “Let me worry about that, mon enfant.”

After I hang up, I email him the application form I’d already filled out, my CV, and a letter of motivation.

That was easy.

If everything goes to plan, I’ll hand in my notice in April and move back to Paris. Another archeologist will take over as the curator of the Grotto. As for this archeologist, she’ll have no reason to cross paths with Sebastian d’Arcy ever again.

My phone beeps, reminding me it’s time.

I shut down my computer, grab my jacket, and head over to the cave for the daily tour.

The first thing I notice in the crowd waiting in front of the entrance is the strapping, sun-kissed man who towers above everyone.

Cowboy.

Immediately, I avert my gaze, refusing to acknowledge him and denying him the chance to acknowledge me. It’s rude, and God knows I feel guilty doing it, but so far, my selective blindness has worked at keeping him from approaching me.

He hasn’t even dared to ask a question!

And that is great on more than just the obvious level of sparing both of us some awkwardness. The second, less obvious and more twisted, level is that I expect him to say something dumb if he opens his mouth. Call me a prejudiced snob, but I just can’t picture this country hick asking an intelligent question about the paintings. Or even about stalactites.

Beats me why, but I don’t want to hear him say something embarrassingly inane. It would pain me to watch the others in the group—most of them tourists from big cities—choke down giggles while stealing glances at the thickheaded hayseed.

After all, I’ve had sex with that hayseed repeatedly in my dreams!

Nina hands me my flashlight and we start the one-hour tour, which continues without any incidents. Cowboy keeps silent. Others ask lots of good questions about the techniques our ancestors used to paint the animals on the walls. In the Mammoth Hall, everybody gapes in awe at the beauty of the creatures on the ceiling.

I realize just how much I love this place, and that I’ll miss serving as a tour guide. It won’t be part of my new job in the Paris museum, which has dedicated personnel for that.

When we’re done, Nina accompanies the group to the exit. I stay behind for a moment, intrigued by a detail on one of the horses in the Dance Hall that I hadn’t noticed before. Or, to be more exact, I had noticed it, but hadn’t realized its significance.

I pull my phone out and begin to dictate my observations.

When the Grotto grows quiet, Nina returns by my side. “Ready to leave?”

“Not yet,” I say. “You go ahead—I’ll lock up.”

She nods. “See you at the office later this afternoon?”

I glance at my watch, at the painting, and at the five other horses in the cave that I’d like to study more. “This might take a while, so I can’t promise I’ll be there before closing time.”

“OK.” She waves goodbye.

I wave back.

Half an hour later, I’m done. It’s only five, so I will catch Nina at the office. She’ll be the first to hear my new theory. I smile, brimming with enthusiasm and pride as I stride to the gate. Once I’ve aired it with Nina, I’ll have her transcribe my dictated notes while I call Father.

And after that, I’ll go home and begin researching and building arguments to support my hypothesis.

Grinning like an idiot, I pull the door toward me. It resists. I push the handle down and pull harder. The door still resists. I stick the key into the keyhole and try to turn it at the same time as I push the handle down. No luck. I jerk it up. No effect whatsoever.

Oh great.

I whip out my phone but, just as I feared, there’s no service. Why, why didn’t I listen to Nina and switch to her cell phone carrier? She can usually use her phone close to the gate, while I must leave the Grotto and get away from the limestone to get one or two bars.

OK, let’s take stock of the situation.

Everyone is gone. The door has malfunctioned. I’ll keep trying, but if I don’t manage to open it, I’m stuck here until eight-thirty in the morning.

The light coming in through the upper part of the door made of thick, burglarproof glass is growing dimmer by the minute. In an hour or so it will be dark. I can work through the evening, using my flashlight and my phone. But what about the night? There’s nothing to lie on or to cover myself with. And even if the temperature in the Grotto is constant, it’ll be too cold for my silk shirt and cotton jacket.

I’m so screwed.

“Dr. Muller,” someone calls from the recess to my left.

My eyes widen as I spin around.

Cowboy takes a step forward. “Apologies if I spooked you.”

I’m still too startled to produce a verbal response.

He gives me a sheepish smile. “I stayed behind, hoping to ask you about that painting over there.”

I look in the direction he’s pointing.

“Is that a child’s hand?” he asks. “Looks like that to me, but since you never commented on it, I wasn’t sure.”

Oh, so he did look at the art and not just at me!

He even listened to my commentary.

Finally, my tongue recovers its mobility.

“It is a child’s hand,” I say. “But, much more importantly, do you have a phone?”