“Good,” Hunter said. “That’s the kind of thing I need to know. I looked at those photos and I saw a bunch of probably Late Terminal Classic artifacts. The mask was totally unfamiliar, and the fabric was a mystery blob.”
“We don’t know it’s a god bundle.”
“But we do know that unloading it for significant cash on the black market isn’t likely.”
“Yes. Too many wealthy collectors have been stung in the past. If an artifact is too good to believe, they don’t believe it without the kind of provenance that would boggle even an ancient Chinese bureaucracy.”
“What kind of provenance?”
“If the artifact came into the U.S. before the passage of various international antiquities laws, you would have to be able to prove at least three legitimate previous owners. If the artifact was in the hands of the original owner’s family, you would need proof that the object had been collected and cataloged before the antiquities laws were in place, and hadn’t passed out of the first owner’s hands without proper paperwork. That’s the minimum.”
“What if the object entered the marketplace more recently?” Hunter asked.
“Proof of proper export and import papers, signed by any involved governments and stamped with various and explicit official approvals. Again, that’s the minimum. Legitimate collectors and institutions are often more demanding.”
Hunter braced a hand on the desk, half enclosing Lina.
“Tell me about the less demanding ones,” he said.
She tried and failed not to breathe him in, realized at a primal level why many cultures felt breath was the essence of the soul. Breathing in.
Breathing him.
“Buyers and sellers alike get stung in the gray or black market,” she said in a low voice. “It’s the price of doing business on the wrong side of antiquities laws.”
Hunter rubbed the back of his neck. The motion reminded him that his hair was too long. Downright shaggy. “But some people risk it.”
“I’m not one of them. My reputation can’t take another hit, no matter that I never did anything wrong,” Lina said flatly. “I can’t even be seen with the loose type of dealer or collector, much less be associated with any. If a branch of my family didn’t own this museum, I probably wouldn’t have been let in the door, much less hired.”
“What about your mother?” Hunter asked.
Lina stiffened. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing. Just asking.”
Grimly Lina got a grip on herself. “As far as I know, Celia learned her lesson years ago. The charges of dealing with looted Maya antiquities nearly destroyed the Reyes Balam family. But you already know all of this, don’t you? It’s why you’re here.”
Hunter barely managed not to wince. Her voice had gone from the husky warmth that made him think of foot rubs and creamy desserts to the kind of ice that could cut skin. Whatever her family might or might not be into, Lina had embraced the purity of Caesar’s wife.
Professionally it was a disappointment to Hunter. Personally, it made her all the more appealing.
You’re trusting her, he warned himself.
Only until I find a reason not to, he defended himself.
Problem was, he wasn’t certain he wanted to see that kind of reason.
“I’m here because you’re an expert in Maya artifacts,” Hunter said evenly.
Lina measured his stark, angular features, his brilliant, patient eyes, and knew she was outmatched. All he had to do was whisper a few words and she wouldn’t be trusted in academic circles with a handful of twentieth-century potsherds. And her family…
She stuffed down her anger at being trapped and went back to studying photos. Yet her hands wanted to tremble. Everything she was seeing pointed to Kawa’il, to the family estates in Quintana Roo, to the illicit artifact trade.
These must have been looted, she told herself. It’s the only rational explanation. My parents might be foolish, sometimes even childish, but they aren’t stupid.
Feeling more sure of herself, Lina pointed toward the fourth picture. “This is a stone scepter. The cup on the end could have been for corn pollen or blood or some other ritual material. There’s no way of knowing without examining the object itself.”
“Blood again.”
“Blood was central to Maya sacred rituals. Everything depended upon and sprang from blood.” She shifted the photo. “Again, this is ceremonial, finely made. Note that the protruding, carefully worked obsidian flakes run the entire length of the scepter. Whoever gripped this would be cut deeply enough to bleed freely. It’s a sign of a priest’s or king’s willingness to sacrifice his own blood for the god or gods.”
“Beats the foreskin-piercing routine,” he said.
“I’ll have to take your word on that.” A hint of huskiness was back in Lina’s voice, ice melting, white teeth sinking into her full lower lip as she bit back a smile.
Hunter’s body came alert. He leaned over, getting closer to the photo. And Lina. There was a hint of cinnamon in her scent, either from the spilled coffee or just a natural part of her.
He wanted to taste.
“So this scepter goes with the ceremonial theme of the other artifacts,” he said.
The extra depth in his voice was like a stroke over her senses. “Yes.”
The word was breathless. She yanked her mind back from Hunter’s male body so close to her.
He blackmailed me into helping him.
For a friend, she reminded herself. Hunter wasn’t after personal gain.
Part of her wondered if he would really ruin her reputation. Then she remembered the look on his face when he said that Jase had two kids and his wife was expecting a third. To protect the children, Hunter would do what he had to.
She couldn’t really blame him, but she didn’t have to like it.
Just once, I’d like to be the most important thing in someone’s life.
Lina squashed the thought as soon as it came to her. Her childhood was what it was. Her adulthood was her own responsibility.
She cleared her throat and said crisply, “Yes, ceremonial.”
“Late Terminal Classic?”
“From all appearances.”
“What about the Chacmool?” he asked.
He was so close to Lina now that he could see his breath stirring the tendrils of hair that had escaped the severe bun at the nape of her neck. Goose bumps rippled over her skin, telling him just how sensitive she was, how aware of him.
“Ceremonial.” It was more a husky whisper than a word. Then, “Stop it.”
“What?” he asked, his breath against her ear.
She opened her mouth to tell him precisely what he was doing, then realized how easily he could deny everything, making her feel a fool for noticing him so intensely, allowing him to affect her so much.
It could be an accident, she told herself. I’ve often leaned over someone’s shoulder to look at something.
But it hadn’t made her skin feel too tight, her breath too short.
“I have an American’s sense of personal space,” she said. “You must have spent a lot of time in Mexico.”
“Busted.” He moved away just enough that she could no longer feel his breath. “Better?”
She let out a long, almost silent rush of air. “Chacmool figure, including a bowl to catch blood. Ceremonial. New World jade. Jaguar glyphs engraved around the edge of the figure. The glyphs around the lip of the bowl appear to be Late Terminal Classic.”
Hunter barely kept himself from leaning closer. He’d liked the scent of Lina’s skin, the creamy texture, the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her neck.