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was his. Or, more specifically, his secretary Darlene’s. It sounded like Ms. Martin had accepted the job offer in good faith.
    He tried to reconstruct the series of events that led to Darlene’s call. Will, the grad student who had taken on the role as the department photographer, had broken his leg only a few days before they were due to depart. While Nate was frantically trying to think of someone else with the skill to climb the massive cliffs and shoot the photos, his eyes had focused on a poster in his office. It was a favorite of his, a beautiful picture of an eagle in flight, and the signature at the bottom said A. Martin.
    The name had reminded Nate of an article in an old National Geographic magazine about Anasazi cliff dwellings by the famed photojournalist Alexander Martin. Then he had remembered hearing about Martin’s new studio near the university. Nate had put two and two together and asked his secretary to contact the obviously well-qualified photographer.
    And that was the photographer they hired. But this was not Alexander Martin.
    Come to think of it, he never did ask if Darlene had talked to a man or a woman. He’d just assumed. He’d have to remember not to assume anything, especially with Darlene the Ditz, ever again. Nate took a deep breath. Let it out. It was obviously time to regroup.
    Plastering a grim smile on his face, he controlled his irritation as best he could. “You’re absolutely right, Ms. Martin. I was wrong and I am sorry. I assumed—a grave error on my part, I might add—that Alex Martin and Alexander Martin were one and the same. Now,” he continued, enjoying the look of consternation on her face at the sarcastic tone in his voice, “the problem is, I still need a photographer capable of climbing those cliffs”—he pointed with a sweep of his hand toward the sheer wall just east of their camp—“and taking close-up shots of the petroglyphs. There are a number of carvings near the top of the cliff, but because of the configuration of overhanging rocks it would not be practical to rappel down for most of the work. The job will require someone capable of climbing and working in harness for hours at a time.”
    He looked her long form slowly up and down, insulting her even as he explained the job. “And you, Ms. Martin, probably photograph little children in a studio while they sit on their mommies’ laps. Somehow, I just don’t think that qualifies you for this particular job, do you?” Nate grinned, waiting for her reaction.
    It wasn’t quite what he expected.
    With a cool smile on her full lips and a knowing gleam in her sea-blue eyes, Alex dumped her cold coffee on the ground and carefully refilled the cup. She held the pot out to Nate.
    Attempting to mask his sudden confusion, he let her fill the empty mug he’d forgotten he was holding.
    She replaced the pot, then sat on one of the logs near the campfire and took a long, unhurried sip of her coffee. She looked up at Nate and gestured for him to sit down. Unsure of her motives, feeling uncharacteristically awkward and uncertain, Nate took a seat on the log across from hers. He had no idea what to expect.
    “I’m going to ignore your insult,” she offered, smiling sweetly and taking another sip of her coffee, “and just chalk it up to the fact that you are a complete and utter asshole, devoid of the intelligence God gave women.”
    Nate’s indignant protest wilted beneath her unblinking stare.
    “If I may continue?” She was still smiling, and Nate’s blood pressure shot up another ten points.
    “I would like to know why you wanted to hire my father. Was it a particular photograph or series he did?”
    Controlling his temper with difficulty, Nate took a deep breath and decided the least he could do was answer her question.
    Then he could send her away.
    “Actually, there were a couple of things. One was an article in an old issue of National Geographic . The photographs of Anasazi ruins were excellent. But