He watched her with eyes the silver blue of a glacier beneath the sun, framed in the darkness of a winter past.
A woman could get lost in those eyes. Lina felt a shiver go over her at the thought. She tried to believe that it was fear, not desire, cold rather than heat. But she had been curious about Hunter for too long, and he was so close to her now.
“The Chinese worked jade,” Hunter said. “Some pieces took generations to finish. It’s not impossible that the Maya did the same.”
“No,” she said huskily, “it’s not impossible.” But you are, Hunter Johnston. You’re the most impossible thing about this whole situation.
Lina forced herself to look away, to concentrate on the obsidian mask, volcanic glass lovingly worked and polished until it shone like a gold-tinted mirror beneath the harsh flash used to take the photo. Hunter’s like that. The surface isn’t what is important.
“Lina?” he asked.
Belatedly she realized that she was looking at him again, falling into darkness and light.
“The central part of the mask is human,” she said, her voice low. “The eyes are heavy-lidded, half open. The nose is a blunt blade of nobility, the cheekbones high and broad, the mouth a grim slit of judgment. This is a god on the brink of a catastrophic temper tantrum.”
“Not a gentle god.”
“The Maya revered the jaguar, a climax predator. If tenderness was valued, we’ve seen little indication of it in their religious-civic art.”
“Sounds like the Yucatan I know and love,” Hunter said dryly, thinking of his last assignment. Being a courier in a kidnap-ransom scheme wasn’t his favorite job, but it brought a lot of money into the family business. And saved lives. Sometimes. If he was very lucky, very careful.
“Do you know the Yucatan?” Lina asked, surprised.
“Better than most, not as well as you do. What are these things along the edges?” he asked, pointing to the mask. As he touched the photo, it shifted, making it seem alive, breathing, waiting.
“Symbolic feathers or flames or even lightning. It’s difficult to tell against the flash.” As Lina spoke, she typed into her notebook. “These are very vigorous symbols, incised and brought into relief. Delicate and vivid, polished to the same hard gleam as the face itself. See the drill holes that would hold cord or leather, allowing it to be fastened to a man’s head? Amazing, incredible artisans created this.”
Hunter watched her profile, a more feminine, much more elegant echo of the mask.
“Imagine this in torchlight,” Lina said. “It would be inhuman, terrifying, awesome in the original sense of the word. It’s clearly a ceremonial piece, but who wore it? For what purpose? It must have been traded for, but why and when?”
She made an exasperated sound and smacked her palm on the desk.
Hunter waited.
“This is maddening,” she said. “Without context, my questions can’t be answered. I might get a chemical analysis and be able to match the obsidian to the original quarry site, but that’s such a tiny part of this mask’s history. To date it, I would need to know where it was found, in what layer of dirt, with what other objects or signs of habitation. All I have is this photograph.”
Hunter noted the flush of temper darken her high cheekbones. The lady had passion. It was part of what attracted him to her. Then he watched anger fade into something close to puzzlement.
Silence stretched.
“What?” he asked.
She flinched as though she’d forgot he was there. “I’m not sure. I feel like I’ve seen something similar to this, but I can’t remember where or when. The shining…” She smacked the desk again with her palm. “Damn the grave robber who cared more about money than knowledge!”
“Grave robbers are poor. Only the endgame is rich.”
She blew out a hard breath. “I know. I spent most of my childhood running barefoot through villages that depended on my family’s generosity for food, clothing, everything but water. And sometimes even that. I didn’t understand then. I just laughed and played with the village children while Philip and their fathers dug through the jungle, seeking Maya heritage.”
“You can’t eat heritage.”
The air-conditioning kicked on, a cool breath settling over the office.
Suddenly Lina looked defeated. She shook her head. “I know. If my child was hungry, I’d be in the front line of grave diggers, shoveling hard.”
His hand squeezed her shoulder, lingered.
“So would I,” he said. “Tell me more about Maya and masks.”
She looked into his silver-blue eyes and saw shadows. She knew he understood loss at a level as deep, even deeper than hers. She tried to remember why she should be angry with him.
She couldn’t.
“Masks,” she said, gathering herself. “Masks were an integral part of Maya rituals. The nobles/priests wearing them would take on the aspects of the god whose mask they wore, or the god would speak through the mask wearers. Either or both.”
“I don’t think the news coming from that obsidian mask would be good.”
“All masks are fearsome to some degree, because the gods are fearsome. But this one gives me chills.”
Yet I know this mask.
Or will.
A movement at the ground-level window caught her attention. Whatever it was vanished before she could focus. Just like all the other times she’d looked over her shoulder, feeling watched.
“You okay?” Hunter asked.
“Yes,” she said automatically, even as her instincts shouted no.
Hunter’s phone vibrated against his butt. A text had just come in. He fished out the device, hit the button, and read Jase’s message: NEED U. NEW INFO.
“I have to go,” Hunter said, gathering up the photos and stuffing them into their envelope.
“But—” she began.
“For now, you’ll have to work from your notes,” he cut in. “I’ll call as soon as I’m free. Have something good for me.”
The office door closed behind Hunter before she could say anything. The man moved like a cat.
Then she remembered why she was mad at him.
With a muttered word, Lina booted up her big computer and went to work. It wasn’t like she had a lot of choice, after all.
And if she kept telling herself that, she might not have a case of rapid pulse every time he came near her.
CHAPTER SIX
WHEN HUNTER LEFT THE MUSEUM BUILDING, HE DIDN’T notice the rising, oddly dry heat of the day. His long legs moved with deceptively lazy speed as he covered ground to the parking lot where he had left his beat-up Jeep. As he walked, he speed-dialed Jase’s number.
“What’s up?” Hunter asked as soon as Jase answered.
“While you were sniffing around the sexy professor, I reviewed those warehouse tapes until my eyes started to bleed.”
“I was working, not sniffing,” Hunter said. A half-truth.
“Nice work if you can get it. I found something interesting.”
So did I, Hunter thought as he slid into the Jeep with its open windows and canvas cover. Her skin smells like cinnamon.
“One of the nights covered on those security tapes,” Jase said, referring to the digital record that got wiped every three weeks, “the custodian made an extra trip through the warehouse. Other than that, he was as regular in his rounds as a robot.”
“Huh.” Hunter turned the key. The engine started instantly. Only the exterior looked careless. Every working part was better than new. “You at my apartment?”
“Yeah, I don’t want Ali to suspect that anything’s wrong, that I didn’t take the bus as usual to work. Can you pick me up? It’s Ali’s shopping day.”