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His voice was nonchalant, but I didn’t believe it. “Oh?”

“My parents had picked out the son of a consul. Ernesto Rodriguez. He’s exactly the sort of person my mother would approve of. Polite and well-mannered, connected, and from an old Argentine familia.”

“How wonderful for him.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic,” I said.

“I’m not,” he said, predictably.

“Liar.”

“I keep telling you, Olivera. Don’t believe anything I say.” Then he wrenched his gaze away. I resumed my work, squinting at one of the columns, trying to discern the hieroglyphs, but the reliefs were too far away. I stood and handed him my sketchbook, careful not to smear the paint. I dusted myself off, and walked closer to the reliefs carved into the stone, brow furrowed. There were hundreds of symbols I didn’t know, drawings of various people in different kinds of clothing.

“Olivera.”

“Hmmm?”

“Will you please come over here?”

“In a moment.”

“Now.”

Well, now I wouldn’t go over there for another ten minutes. “I’m busy, Whit.”

“That’s six times now,” he said. He stood and walked to me, my sketchbook open. For some reason he appeared to brace himself, as if preparing for something he didn’t want to hear.

“You’re counting how many times I call you by name?”

“I notice because I haven’t given you permission to address me so informally.”

I let my gaze travel from the buttons undone at the collar, his wrinkled and untucked shirt, and the windswept, untidy hair. “You can’t be serious.”

“I thought you said I was never serious.”

“So youarepaying attention to me. I wasn’t sure how much of that was because my uncle is paying you to do so. I notice the way you stare.”

“Istareat many pretty ladies, Olivera. Don’t make anything of it,” he said, but the words came out stern, without their usual teasing lilt.

“You’ve certainly warned me enough.”

His blue gaze narrowed. “I don’t like your tone. Just what are you implying?”

“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

“Bloody hell,” he said. “Shakespeare again.”

“What did you want, Whit?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I want you to explainthis.” He pointed to an illustration in my sketchbook.

An illustration of the gate.

I crossed my arms. “It’s a temple gate.”

“Right.” Whit narrowed his gaze. “Where did you see this?”

I waved my hand airily. “In a travel brochure, I think. I can’t be sure.”