“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

“Can I use it?”

I fish my phone out of the pocket of my jeans and hand it to her.

“Merde!” She points at the screen.

I raise my eyebrows, surprised to hear her curse.

“Merde, merde, merde!” She squeezes her eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and opens them, looking calmer. “No signal.”

“Try another spot?”

She shakes her head. “If it doesn’t work here, it won’t work anywhere else in the cave.”

“Would you like me to have a go at the lock?”

Her eyes light up. “Will you? You might be better at this sort of thing than I am.”

She hands me the keys.

I begin to tinker with the lock, which shows no intention of giving in. But I’ve never been a quitter, so I persist.

Clarissa folds her arms over her chest and watches me.

This sort of thing, huh?

She must be referring to all the nonintellectual, physical stuff that I do with my hands day in and day out. Does she know what my occupation is? Then again, do I look like the eggheads Celine raves about? Nope. I look like someone who could easily gobble one of them for dinner.

“Damn lock!” I puff, frustrated with my lack of success at the “sort of thing” I’m supposed to be good at.

When I hand the keys back to Clarissa, she narrows her eyes. “Did you have something to do with this?”

I frown. Whatever does she mean?

She stares at me and then at the lock.

My frown deepens.

She curls her lip as if to say, Should I draw you a picture?

Comprehension hits me. Exasperation and anger come next. “Really? Is that what you think?”

“We never had the slightest problem with this lock,” she says through her clenched jaw. “It’s been tampered with. And, yes, I think it was you.”

“Hell, no!”

She blinks, taken aback at the vehemence of my reaction.

OK, calm down, Nathan, and put your cards on the table. Given the circumstances, it’s the best thing to do.

“The first time I took your tour,” I say, “it was to learn about the paintings.”

I pause, searching for words.

“And the second?” she prompts.

“The second time was to get a better look at you.” I cock my head. “And so were the third, fourth, fifth and sixth times.”

She juts her chin up. “So, you admit to interfering with the lock?”

“I admit no such thing. Today’s tour was my last attempt to establish eye contact and get a sense of how you’d react to me. When that failed, I lingered so I could walk out at the same time as you and strike up a conversation. That’s all, Clarissa. No foul play.”

I fold my arms across my chest, mirroring her posture, and wait for her to decide if she believes me. For a long moment, neither of us moves. Clarissa glares at me, and with every passing second, I lose hope.

Now that my righteous anger has dried up, there’s no denying that the situation does look fishy from her vantage point. In her place, I’d probably suspect me of trapping her here, too.

Do I come across as a stalker?

Is she scared of me?

Jeez, and then I up and call her Clarissa, when I’m not even supposed to know her middle name!

Just as I begin to panic, she sighs and gives me a feeble smile. “Nina told me you’ve been asking her lots of questions about me.”

I nod, still too tense to smile back.

“Nathaniel Girault, right?” She holds her hand out.

“Nathan, please.” I shake it, relief washing over me. “Sounds like you’ve asked her a question or two of your own.”

Clarissa’s smile widens. “Nina likes you. She was disappointed when she realized what you were after when you chatted with her.”

“I didn’t mean to—” I begin.

She waves her hand dismissively. “That’s OK. Nina’s over it. I believe she’s been dating someone lately.”

“Good for her.” I hesitate, before asking, “Am I off the hook, premeditation-wise?”

“Hmm… Considering all the good things Nina and Anne-Chantal have said about you… I guess you are.”

“Anne-Chantal?” Meddling old—Urgh! “What did she have to say?”

“Not much.”

Clarissa’s smile grows playful—the most kittenish I’ve ever seen on her.

God, I love that smile! I want to drink it in.

“She said she’s friends with your mom,” Clarissa says, “and that you’ve been her favorite since your most tender age.”

I roll my eyes skyward.

She tucks her bottom lip in with her teeth. “Your champion also reported how she changed your diapers when you were a baby, and that you were the cutest and sweetest baby boy she’d ever laid eyes on.”

Shoot me now.

“She also said”—Clarissa pauses to gaze at me with an innocence that’s so blatantly fake it isn’t even trying to pass for authentic—“that you’ve grown up to be the handsomest young man in the area, and quite possibly in the whole world, that you’re single at the moment, that you work really hard running your operation, which is big and profitable, that—”

“Enough. Please.” My face is on fire.

“I’m sorry.” She surveys me. “It was unkind of me to tease you like that… even though I wasn’t exaggerating. She really did say all of those things.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“Please don’t be angry with her. She meant well.”

“Uh-huh.”

I’m not angry, but I’m having words with Anne-Chantal next time she shows up at the farm.

Clarissa picks up her flashlight. “Since we’re stuck here, anyway, I’m going to head back into the Dance Hall to work for a bit.”

“Mind if I tag along?” I point my chin at the flashlight. “I can hold it so your hands are free.”

She hesitates a split second and hands me the flashlight. “Sure. Thanks.”

We backtrack to one of the inner caves, where she halts in front of a horse painted in black charcoal and ochre, and points to its hooves. “See how the feet are twisted in an unnatural way?”

I bring the flashlight closer to the hooves and study them. “You’re right.”

“I believe this painting had an educational value. The artist was trying to show, perhaps to children, what tracks this animal would leave.”

I tilt my head to the side and inspect the horse’s feet again, this time considering Clarissa’s hunch.

“It might seem like small fry to you,” she says. “But to a young archeologist, that kind of finding could potentially be huge. Career-making huge.”

I turn to her. “I don’t think it’s small fry. As someone who spends most of his days around animals, I think it’s an amazing insight. You should be very proud of yourself.”

She beams happily.

One more Clarissa smile I’d never seen before!

As I peer at her lovely face made even lovelier by her toothy grin, time seems to stop. She stares back as her smile fades slowly, and her cheeks begin to redden. I lean forward ever so slightly, my eyes still locked with hers. Clarissa’s hand shoots to the side of her neck and strokes it. When my gaze shifts to her mouth, her blush deepens.

Could that mean…?

Does Ice Ice Baby, as Celine sometimes calls her, want me?

Emboldened I take a step forward.

As if waking up from a trance, Clarissa jerks her hand from her neck and balls it into a fist.

I freeze.

She pulls the zipper of her thin jacket all the way up and turns toward the wall. “Do you mind pointing the flashlight at the horse’s feet again?”

“Of course.”

She turns her phone recorder on and describes every part of the horse and every tiny detail of its twisted feet. When she’s done describing, Clarissa begins to develop her theory on the “educational” function of the painting. From there, she talks about the purpose of cave art in general.

When she pauses to collect her thoughts, I toggle the flashlight off. “Saving your batteries.”

She says nothing, but it’s obvious she’s uncomfortable in the dark. So, I pull an app on my phone that lights up my screen instead. The light is dim but it will do.

“Not worried your batteries will die?” she asks.

I shake my head. “They’ll die on the altar of science.”

“Father could’ve said that.” She chuckles. “Without the tongue-in-cheek.”

“Really?”

“He’d say, ‘Penelope, the advancement of science should always be uppermost in your mind.’ ”

I lower my brows. “You’re messing with me. Nobody speaks like that.”

“He does.”

“What would your mom say?”

“Hmm.” She rubs her chin, thinking. “She’d say, ‘Penelope, there’s no progress without sacrifice.’ ”

“OK, you are messing with me. There’s no way both call you Penelope when you prefer Clarissa.”

“But they prefer Penelope, and that’s what they call me.”

“They must have a nickname for Penelope.” I wrinkle my brow. “Ellie?”

“No.”

“Nellie?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Pen?”

“They don’t use diminutives.”

“OK.” I hesitate before asking the next question. “Why do you prefer Clarissa to Penelope?”

She sighs. “You mean, it’s just as long, right?”

“No—”

“It isn’t entirely wrong,” she says. “But my closest friends call me Clarissa. They’ve done so since we were in Cambridge together—”

“You went to Cambridge?”

Of course, she did.

Clarissa nods.

I lean against a stalagmite column and cross my ankles, trying to play it cool. “I went there, too.”

Her brows fly up.

“For a visit,” I add. “The summer I backpacked around Europe with my buds.”

She smiles.

“So, you like the name Clarissa?” I ask.

“I don’t like the name as such, but I like being called it.”

“What do you mean?”

“When someone calls me Clarissa, it momentarily erases from my mind the litany I grew up with.”

“Which is?”

“That I’m a fourth-generation archeologist on both sides, and that I’m destined for ‘great things.’ ”

“Ouch,” I say. “Heavy stuff.”

“Very heavy. But as Clarissa, I can be a regular girl who sometimes goes to the movies to watch a dumb comedy and who enjoys shopping for clothes.”

“In short, who has fun.”

She nods.

“Are you an only child?” I ask.

“Yes. I wish I had a sibling, so he or she could carry half of my burden.”

“Amen,” I say. “I could sign under that.”

“Only child, too?”

“Yeah…”

“The future of the farm? The savior? Last hope of the rural world?” She gives me a wink. “Daddy’s hero?”

“Yes, to the first three, but not to the last one. It’s Pop who was my hero.”

“Not anymore?”

I run my hand through my hair. “He passed ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” She hugs herself and rubs her arms.

“You’re cold.”

“A little.”

“Here, put this on.” I take off my padded leather jacket and hand it to her.

She shakes her head. “Are you crazy? You’ll freeze.”

“It would take more than this for me to freeze,” I say, laughing. “Besides, my sweater is a lot warmer than what you have under your flimsy jacket.”

“How about we swap?”

I tilt my head to one side and just stare at her, letting her realize the ridiculousness of her proposition.

“Right.” Her gaze shifts from my face to my chest. “You could throw my jacket over your right shoulder.”

I snort.

“Or the left one,” she adds, a smile crinkling her eyes, “if it’s more sensitive to the cold.”

“How about a compromise?”

“Listening.”

“You put my jacket over your jacket, and we transfer to the nook where I was waiting for you,” I say. “It has a bench to sit on and it’s closer to the door, in case someone notices one of us is missing and comes looking.”

“Deal! My mind is too foggy now to continue working, anyway.”

Murmuring a thank-you, Clarissa turns toward the wall. I help her into my jacket, which hangs down to her mid thigh, and with sleeves so long her hands get lost.

She turns back toward me, smiling, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, flaring her nostrils.

Uh-oh.

Seized by panic, I scrutinize her for signs of disgust. What if my jacket reeks of manure or—worse—sweat, both of which I’ve grown desensitized to over the years? I make a point of keeping my body and clothes clean, but people have different thresholds for smells.

“Holy cow!” She opens her eyes.

My panic level is about to go through the rock above our heads.

Clarissa grins. “Feels like I’ve been dropped into a sea of testosterone.”

Is that a bad thing? Or good?

“It’s surprisingly homey,” she says, answering my unspoken question.

Homey.

I let out the breath I was holding. Even if “homey” is a Parisian euphemism for “smelly,” in situations like this, the best thing to do is stick to the facts.

Fact number one: She didn’t return my jacket.

Fact number two: Right now, she’s pulling its collar up as if to take in more “homeyness.”

All is not lost.

I point my phone’s light at the ground so we can see where we step and offer her my hand.

After a brief hesitation, she pushes the sleeve of the jacket up to free her beautiful hand and places it into my open palm. Her touch is soft—and electrifying. I close my fingers over her hand, and start walking slowly. We reach the nook much too soon.

With difficulty, I let go of her hand.

Clarissa scoots to the right side of the bench and pats the space next to her. “Plenty of room for both.”

Nodding, I sit down and place the phone between us.

An awkward silence follows, during which I try hard not to think about the sleeping arrangements we’ll need to discuss soon.

Except, that’s all I can think about.

Even the smartphone next to me—the ultimate twenty-first-century gadget—makes me think of a medieval “sword of honor” trick I’d read about somewhere. A knight would place it between himself and a lady who wasn’t his wife if circumstances forced them to sleep next to each other.

Thing is, Clarissa may well be a lady who isn’t my wife, but I’m no knight in shining armor.

I fully intend to use our circumstances to my advantage.