Beautiful Sacrifice

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