Make No Bones About It ( a Dig Site Mystery--Book 2)

by Ann Charles

  “What do you think, sleeping beauty?” Juan asked, his eyebrows raised in question.

  “What do I think about what?” Quint’s brain was already starting to count sheep, his body more than ready to follow it into dreamland. “This steamy version of Mexico’s paradise or that huge rat that chased us out of the monkey temple earlier?”

  “Suck it up, Parker,” Angélica said, a grin rounding her cheeks. “It’s your first day here. You can’t start complaining about how miserable you are until tomorrow.”

  “What do you think about the screech owl?” Juan clarified. “Was it flying into the helicopter an omen like Pedro and I suspect, or was it a …” he looked at his daughter. “What did you call it?”

  “A fluke.” She tossed her wadded-up napkin at her dad. “You and Wonder Boy there need to get a grip on your superstitions.”

  Pedro pointed his beer at Quint. “He’s the wanderer, not me.”

  “Wonder,” she corrected. “Not wander.”

  “Wonder Boy is a video game hero,” Quint explained. “Sort of like Superman.”

  “That owl made a bad decision,” Angélica told her father. “It chose to flee in the wrong direction when the helicopter scared it out of its tree.” Under the table, Angélica’s hand moved to Quint’s thigh, squeezing it. “That’s all there is to it.”

  Glancing down at her hand, he wondered what she was up to. He stared at her profile as she continued to argue with her father on the subject of Maya curses, admiring her smooth forehead, strong cheekbones, and upturned nose dotted with tiny freckles. Throughout supper, she had kept several inches of space between them, only brushing his arm by accident once or twice. What was with this sudden change? Was it her attempt to sway him to her court? If so, he was going to require more bribery in the form of nakedness or kisses. Preferably both at the same time.

  For now, Quint opted to straddle the fence. “I need more sleep before I can answer that,” he told Juan. Downing the last of his beer, he grabbed his plate and stood. “I’ll see you in the morning, gentlemen.” He nodded good-bye to the three men. To Juan, he added, “I hope you’re easier to share a tent with than Rover was.”

  Juan grinned. “I’ve been told I snore less than that pig.”

  “Javelina,” Angélica corrected her father with a mock glare. “And I believe I told you that while you do snore less, your snoring is twice as loud as Rover’s.”

  “Where is your javelina?” Quint asked. Last he’d heard, Teodoro and María were taking care of him.

  “He’s staying with María’s sister until we decide if it’s safe to bring him here.”

  “I told you, gatita, there’s no room at the inn. It’s either me or your pig at this site.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Dad. Rover eats less than you most days.”

  That earned laughter all around.

  Quint strolled over and dropped his dirty dishes in a bucket filled with soapy water. On his way out of the mess tent, he flagged Angélica, gaining her attention. “I’d like a minute of your time after I shower, Dr. García.”

  “Only a minute?” Pedro guffawed. “You must have really missed her if that’s all it’s going to take.” Pedro’s bark of laughter at his own joke ended with howls of pain as Angélica leaned across the table and doled out physical punishment for his comment.

  Without waiting for Angélica to wrap up her beating, Quint left the tent. First a shower to wash off the travel dust and sweat and then sleep. Somewhere in between, he wanted to ask Angélica a question.

  Back at the tent, he grabbed a fresh T-shirt and boxer briefs, along with the towel Juan had brought him before supper. The walk to the showers was filled with glowing eyeballs and loud hoots and howls from the surrounding jungle. Lucky for him, he was too damned tired to care.

  According to Juan, each crew member was allotted a gallon of water each day for a shower. With the sweltering heat still warming the night air, a rinse-soap-rinse shower was no problem, especially since Quint’s hair was so short.

  As he rinsed and then soaped, he thought about his rotten track record when it came to keeping a woman in his life for longer than a couple of weeks. Being a photojournalist was harder on relationships than if he’d chosen to be a long-haul trucker. At least truckers could call home each night. Disappearing for weeks at a time grew old fast for most women, and after a time or two of his coming and going, the relationship soured. Love ‘em and leave ‘em had been his motto for years, but not due to a desire to remain single. Mostly, it was because when it came to choosing a woman or the career he’d worked so hard to build, the job won.

  He’d thought things might be different this time, though. Angélica was much stronger emotionally than anyone else he’d been involved with over the last two decades. She didn’t need a man in her life, a fact he’d figured would mean she had an independent spirit that his absences wouldn’t buckle. What he hadn’t planned on was that strong independence convincing her to write him off so damned quickly.

  He’d expected her to be pissed, but her attempt to cast him aside in her boss-style way without even letting him try to plead his case had lit a fire in his gut, making him determined to dig in his heels and hold on tighter.

  Her revelation about her trust issues had been an eye-opener. While she’d said it was her she didn’t trust, not him, he’d seen the wariness in her gaze after she’d kissed him. She wasn’t broken, like she’d said, but he hadn’t been kidding when he’d told her that she was scratched and dented. Her ex had really pulled the wool over her eyes for years, and now Quint was going to pay the price for the shithead’s deceptions if he wanted this relationship between them to grow beyond sharing laughs and rolls in the sand.

  And he did.

  Being away from her for weeks had burned into him how much he wanted to try to make this relationship work. One way or another, before he had to leave again, he was going to convince her that she needed to keep trying, too. But it was going to take time, hard work, and a lot of sweat and frustration—like toiling away at this damned dig site she’d chosen as their home for the next however many weeks.

  Quint brushed his teeth before collecting his dirty clothes and leaving the camp shower. He’d have to shave tomorrow morning in the daylight.

  Angélica was waiting for him inside the tent when he returned. Her eyes widened as he shed his pants and T-shirt in front of her without pause.

  “Quint,” she whispered, glancing toward the closed mesh flap. “Dad is going to be here soon.”

  “Trust me, sweetheart. I don’t have anything he hasn’t seen before, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to wear more than skivvies in this sauna.” He stretched, pressing his hands into his lower back, trying to ease a kink he’d acquired while moving rocks earlier with Juan. The tents from INAH were short, with his head nearly brushing the top when he stood up straight, but they made up for their height deficiency with the amount of horizontal space. A third cot was an easy fit opposite the door flap, yet still allowed room for the three of them to move around without stepping on each other’s toes.

  He clasped his hands together behind his back, shoving out his chest as he loosened his shoulders. He had a feeling sleeping on a cot wasn’t going to help relax his muscles, but he was tired enough not to give a rat’s ass tonight. He doubted he’d even need earplugs. He unclasped his hands, letting them hang at his side, and rolled his shoulders.

  A glance in Angélica’s direction made him chuckle. He had a rapt audience.

  “Angélica,” he said, waving one hand in front of her gaze. When she blinked out of her trance, he smiled. “You’re staring.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “I wasn’t st-staring, I was just … uh … thinking about something I saw today.”

  “That’s funny,” he said as he stretched his neck from side to side. “I was just thinking about something I’d like to see tonight. How about you strip down and stretch with me? I hear yoga has a couple of poses that offer remarkable relaxation benefits
.”

  Her lips pursed. “You’re all bare chest and charm tonight, Parker.”

  “You betcha, boss lady. Why don’t you come over here and I’ll give you a hands-on tour of my chest while I woo you into my cot with my lucky charm.”

  A smile lit up her face. She shook her head. “That’s asking for trouble. It’s safer over here.”

  “Safer, but less fun.”

  He lowered himself onto the cot, lying back on a soft pillow that had magically appeared while he showered. He turned his head and sniffed the fabric, breathing in Angélica’s sweet scent mixed with a hint of coconut sunscreen lotion.

  She crossed her arms. “What’s your question?”

  “Do I at least get a kiss good night?”

  “Nobody else does at this site.”

  “Yeah, but nobody else has seen you naked.” He let his eyes travel south over her T-shirt and khakis, remembering every inch of her smooth, soft flesh.

  “My father did when I was a baby.”

  “Naked baby butts don’t count.” He summoned her with his index finger. “Come here before your dad joins the party.”

  After zipping the tent’s canvas flap closed, she obliged, kneeling next to his cot. “I’ll kiss you, Parker, but don’t be taking liberties.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m already fighting the urge to strip down and climb on top of you.”

  He stroked her cheek. “We could hang a ‘Closed’ sign on the tent flap.”

  Her fingernails scratched over his bare chest. “These canvas walls don’t block sound.”

  “Maybe not, but the ruckus going on out there in the jungle will.” He tugged the neckline of her shirt down, peeking inside. “No pink bra tonight?”

  “I gave it to Rover.”

  “That javelina won’t appreciate it as much as I would.” He pulled her closer by her neckline until she was leaning over him. “I missed you like crazy, Angélica. I pined for you every night.”

  “Pined?” She chuckled, low and sexy. “You’re such a writer.”

  “I could fill a book with limericks about your beauty.”

  This time, she laughed outright. “Wooing me with limericks? I’d drink to that.”

  Her eyes lowered to his mouth and she sobered. “Good night, Quint,” she whispered and brushed her lips over his, making his blood pressure rise. He slid his palms along her cheeks and pulled her closer, exploring her mouth slowly, teasing her tongue into tangling with his. When she sat back on her heels, his lips still tingled.

  “There. Is that better?” she asked, her gaze steaming up the tent even more.

  “I think it’s worse.” He glanced at where her fingers were inching over his briefs. “Much worse.” He reached down and caught her hand before she started something he wouldn’t be able to stop.

  “Spoilsport,” she teased, lifting his hand to her lips. “Ask me your real question.” She kissed his knuckles.

  He was too distracted by her glistening lips to mess around with searching for the safest route to his point and got right to it. “Why did you choose to return to the site where your mother was killed?”

  Chapter Four

  Chakmo’ol: Jaguar.

  The jaguar played a key religious role in Maya life. They were considered shamanic creatures. Humans often changed themselves into jaguars during religious rituals.

  Angélica stared at Quint. His question seemed to have knocked her brain off the rails. She’d expected him to ask about the possibility of having sex somewhere soon, or what she had planned for tomorrow’s workload, maybe even the state of her father’s health, but not something to do with her mother.

  Before she could come up with a reply, Juan made a point of clearing his throat on the other side of the tent flap.

  She froze.

  “Is everyone decent?” her father asked loud enough for the whole damned camp to hear.

  Growling in her throat at his lack of discretion, she handed Quint the pants he’d taken off upon entering their tent. “Yes, Dad.”

  She motioned for Quint to hide the results of their fooling around and returned to her side of the tent. There was nothing she could do about her warm cheeks, which her father would undoubtedly notice, dang it. As Juan stepped inside with his cast leading the way, she busied herself shaking out and folding the clothes piled next to her cot.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father look from Quint, who was stretched out on his cot with his pants draped over his nether regions, to her.

  “What are you doing, gatita?” Juan asked, his voice edged with amusement.

  She glanced his way. “What’s it look like I’m doing?” She placed the shirt she’d folded onto the stack with the others.

  “Normally, I’d say folding clothes, but I’m talking to little Miss Pigpen.”

  “We have company,” she explained. “I’m cleaning up.”

  Juan turned to Quint. “Now you’re official company? It appears you’ve made it out of the doghouse.”

  Quint crossed his arms behind his head. “I’m on the rise.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “Dad!” Angélica gasped, her cheeks burned even hotter.

  He grinned. “If you two need some extra time alone to work out the last of your differences, I could head over to the showers for another rinse.”

  Her gaze narrowed to a squint. “You already showered tonight,” she reminded him.

  Her father was part of the pre-supper shower crew. Breaking into pre- and post-supper groups allowed Teodoro the time needed to refill the showers’ water bladders.

  “I can go pester Pedro and Fernando in their tent for an hour.”

  “I’m going to need more than an hour with her, Juan,” Quint said. “You know how hard it is to get her mind off work while she’s on a dig.”

  Juan stroked his chin. “If memory serves, son, you were pretty adept at distracting her from work last time.”

  Spitting and sputtering, Angélica whipped her pillow at Quint for laughing and encouraging her father. Grabbing her towel and clean clothes, she grumbled all the way to the showers about her dad’s lack of a filter.

  By the time she returned to the tent, much calmer after a warm rinsing, both her father and Quint were asleep in their cots, saving her from another round of pink cheeks.

  She sat on her cot and stared at Quint. His bare chest rose and fell rhythmically, his cheeks dark with beard stubble. Having him back in her tent felt right, damn it. She sighed. Why couldn’t she be drawn to someone who stayed in the same country for more than a month at a time? Someone who didn’t hate the humidity and life in the Mexican jungle?

  Running her fingers through her damp hair, she reined in her emotions. It was time to think about something less troubling. She pulled her makeshift desk/crate closer. Opening her mother’s notebook next to her own, she dug in, studying her mom’s scrawls yet again while adding scribbles into her own book.

  An hour later, her father rolled onto his back and started sawing logs. His favorite red “sleeping” socks stuck out the end of the thin sheet he liked to use in spite of the heat. She grabbed the earplugs she kept handy next to her bed and squeezed them into her ears. A glance in Quint’s direction found him still sleeping away. He must be really exhausted from traveling yesterday if her dad’s snores weren’t waking him.

  Why did you choose to return to the site where your mother was killed? His question replayed in her head.

  Who had told him this was the site where her mom had crashed? Her father? Fernando? Pedro? They were the only three who knew. Wait, Teodoro and María knew, but neither of those two were the type to gossip. She’d kept her secret from Esteban and Lorenzo, along with the INAH crew. It was nobody’s business but her father’s and hers. Well, Pedro’s too, since he’d claimed Marianne as his second mother.

  She frowned across at Quint. It certainly wasn’t his business. Nor was it his place to question her choices of dig sites. She didn’t demand a sa
y in where he flew off to next.

  A voice of reason spoke up in her head, reminding her that being in a relationship with someone meant openness and honesty. If she was going to allow Quint to stay in her life, she needed to let him know her thoughts behind her decisions and more.

  She rubbed her hands over her face. But allowing him a visa into her world meant risking so much on a man she barely knew. She’d spent years getting to know her ex-husband before taking her vows, and look how that risk had panned out for her in the end—disastrous, to say the least.

  Turning her attention back to her work, she shook the tension out of her hands and held pencil to paper.

  Instead of summarizing her thoughts on the block of glyphs Esteban had charted that were carved into the ballcourt’s end wall, a memory of her mom a few weeks before she’d died replayed like an old flickering film …

  … “Pik, come here, please,” Marianne called out as Angélica walked past her office doorway.

  Pik? Angélica smiled. Her mother hadn’t called her the Mayan word for “bedbug” in years. It warmed her heart in a way much needed after the beatings it had taken over the last six months.

  According to her father, pik came from “peek-a-boo,” which was where her mother had gotten the idea for Angélica’s nickname. However, Marianne claimed her husband’s memory was as holey as his favorite boxer shorts, explaining that she called Angélica “bedbug” because when she was a little girl she would crawl into her parents’ bed in the middle of the night and wiggle-wiggle-wiggle until dawn.

  Backing up, Angélica stepped into her mom’s home office. The scarred wooden floor in the old ranch house they’d renovated creaked as she crossed to where her mom sat staring at several papers strewn across her desk. With her silver-streaked auburn hair piled on top of her head in a thick bun and horn-rimmed reading glasses balanced on the end of her nose, she looked more like a librarian than the adventurous archaeologist that she was.

  Angélica had been spending the weekend with her parents at their Tucson ranch, enjoying the scenery, taking a break from her search for a job. As soon as her divorce was final, she’d handed in her resignation at the university where her ex-husband and parents taught.