“Very fetching, as are the men’s trousers.”

“I need something to cover my drawers, as you have pointed out their obvious deficiency.”

“I would not call it a deficiency.”

I laugh and lean down onto my arm. “Still, it would be rather shocking if I stripped down to them. I could not stretch on the floor like this. Or move my legs like this. Or certainly not sit up and cross them like this.” I lean forward, hair falling over my shoulders. “Why is your gaze going there, Nico? There is nothing to see but a well-stitched seam.”

“Did I mention I have an excellent imagination?”

“Good. Then I shall not need to do anything as scandalous as remove my trousers. You can simply use your imagination.”

“I could, and I am, but an artist must always admit that imagination is no substitute for real life. I could be imagining the scene entirely wrong, and that would be a shame. Also, while I was loath to mention it sooner, those trousers are still damp, as I’m sure the drawers are beneath it.”

My brows shoot up. “My, my, you do give yourself airs, sir. Imagining my drawers growing damp when you have not laid a finger on me.”

He chokes on a laugh. Then his eyes dance in the firelight. “If you think such a thing is not possible, I am tempted to take that as a challenge.”

“Oh, I am certain you are.” I toy with the button on my trousers. “You are correct about the dampening, though it is purely seawater. I presume you are suggesting I remove these to dry my undergarments.”

“It is merely a suggestion. For your own comfort.”

I unfasten the trousers and ease them over my hips. Then, demurely keeping my legs as together as possible, I slide off the trousers and inch closer to the fire.

“Better?” I say.

“They will not dry with your knees quite so tightly bound.”

“You are full of such practical advice.”

I slide my knees apart, one lifting over the other as he tries to get a better view from where he sits. When he goes to move, I warn him back with a raised finger. Then I look around the cave.

“It is too bad we lack a table,” I say. “I could replicate that pose you mentioned. See whether I have it correct in my mind. I do like to be correct.”

“Give me five minutes, crécerelle, and I shall build you a table.”

“No need.” I stretch onto my back, letting my knees fall half-open. “I am certain you are quite tired of seeing women in that particular pose.”

“I do not ever draw that one from life. It would . . .” He clears his throat. “As the artist, I must maintain some degree of professionalism.”

I laugh softly. “I wondered about that. Having women in all states of undress, striking all sorts of poses, while you must sit there and wield a pencil instead of . . .”