Buried Beneath

by Debbie Baldwin

  She smiled back. “Tell me, Miguel. Am I giving you that hard-on you’re trying to hide, or did the little archaeologist turn you on?”

  He made no secret of adjusting himself. “I think you know.”

  A look of sultry satisfaction crossed her face.”You like to tease me.”

  He shrugged.

  “Tit for tat, Miguel.” She stood upright and slipped the robe off, revealing her perfect nude form. She turned to walk back into her bedroom and tossed over her shoulder, “See you in the morning, lover.”

  Cam masked his relief with an audible growl. Gemini turned again to close the glass-paned french doors and pull the curtains, her face smug upon discovering he was still staring up at her. Without expression, he returned to the house.

  In the relative safety of his first-floor bedroom, Cam changed into jeans and a henley. He had enjoyed a delicious meal and dodged an intimate encounter with Gemini March. Well, he was almost positive she expected him to pound on her door later. And he would. He couldn’t behave in any manner inconsistent with Miguel Ramirez, and Miguel Ramirez would demand entry. To her chamber and her body.

  Cam shook off his trepidation. He had another, much more pleasurable task to attend to first. The night wasn’t over yet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sa Calobra, Mallorca

  December 9

  E

  van followed the now-familiar path through the caves. Anticipation eclipsed her fear. She moved with ease and ducked to avoid a low rock shelf she had passed the day before. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and bees were buzzing in her belly. She didn’t even pretend to lie to herself and claim it was the thought of finding something exciting in the cave they had pinpointed. While that certainly excited her, it was the man she was meeting who fired her blood.

  She huffed. Half the women on the island probably wanted Miguel Ramirez. He was beautiful and sexy and emanated a raw masculinity. And while all of those qualities certainly flipped her switch, it was something else that pulled her. Behind that facade of callous indulgence, there was something else. She saw it in his golden gaze—a battle. A war was waging within this man, some deeply troubling conflict. Whatever it was, she wanted to comfort him, ease his pain. She sighed. Before she gave herself too much credit for her selflessness, she admitted she also wanted to feel him between her legs. To touch her in a way she had been deprived of for so long. He was the only man she had ever met who doused her panic. She didn’t just want Miguel. She needed him.

  She climbed through the final opening into the storage room. A large, calloused hand appeared before her face, and she instinctively took it. Her eyes followed the enticing path from powerful forearm to rounded bicep to broad shoulder and finally to that arrogant, charming face. With his help, she pulled herself to standing.

  “I’d never accuse you of being a gentleman, but thank you,” she said.

  He grunted in response.

  She stared at their clasped hands, her fingers nestled in the crook of his thumb, his long thick one wrapped around her palm. Why did the simplest thing seem to have so much meaning? Before she could study it further, he released her from his grasp.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded, mute.

  Miguel brought the steel cabinet away from the wall, revealing the sealed-off entrance and the marker he had discovered. Evan knelt and extracted the gold links, bagging them and making a note of the location.

  Miguel grabbed a sledgehammer from the row of tools with the ease of a baseball player selecting a bat, and in one, two, three swings, there was a hole resembling the one she had crawled through earlier.

  “As much as I want to watch that little ass, I better go first.” He turned to the opening and began clearing away rocks by hand. Evan watched him work. There was something off about this man. The words out of his mouth were disgusting and offensive, yet his actions were… thoughtful.

  She had dated a man in grad school, well, tried to date anyway. After knee surgery, she had been on crutches; he never once held a door for her or helped her down the stairs. That was a person who supposedly liked her, who wanted more with her. Yet here was this—she used his own descriptor—predator, a man that if he had any feelings toward her, they strayed toward the dislike end of the spectrum, clearing away rocks to ease her passage. Then, once again, he blanketed his kind gesture with harsh words.

  “Let's go. You look good on your knees, but I want to find treasure.”

  Evan ignored the remark and followed him through the opening; she was the one who would be doing the ass-staring.

  Once inside the small chamber, Cam stood and bumped his head on the low ceiling. He could hear her stifled chuckle in the dark. She came up beside him, turned on the flashlight, and scanned the space. There, in the corner, were two large, unremarkable mounds. Evan hurried to them with an excitement that belied their appearance.

  “That doesn’t look like treasure to me,” Cam grumbled.

  “Just wait.” She walked around the formations but didn’t touch them. “These may have been crates centuries ago. As the wood decayed, silt and limestone deposits formed around them.”

  Cam took a step forward, his boot landing in a deep puddle. “This cave takes on water, chica.” His voice echoed in the darkness.

  “We’re near the shore. This cave may have even opened to the bay at one point,” Evan replied.

  He heard rustling and clanking from her corner, and moments later, two battery-operated LED lanterns illuminated the space. Cam watched as she unfurled a set of tools and rubbed her hands together with undisguised glee.

  He couldn’t resist goading her. “I’ll get the hammer.”

  “No!” she shrieked. Then, “No,” in a calmer tone.

  “This time, we do the tap, tap, tap,” she continued. “You’re about to be promoted to junior archaeologist, Miguel.”

  Working together, they removed a good section of the sediment and rock that had formed over their find. Evan switched out her tools and began sifting through the top layer of earth and rocky sand.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Fifteenth-Century packing peanuts. I think whoever filled the crate used sand and rock to protect the contents, or maybe weigh it down,” she replied without diverting her attention.

  Cam watched, fascinated as she continued the next stage in the process. With a tool that resembled a small gardening fork, Evan dug into the mound. Minutes later, she struck gold, or most likely, bronze. A stream of small coins came spilling from the opening. She grabbed a small tray from her kit and quickly collected the items. Cam rushed to help.

  “Dios mio. Treasure, Ratoncita. You found treasure.”

  With great effort, Evan controlled her excitement. “It appears that way, yes. And please stop calling me mouse.”

  “Never. Just like a little mouse, you dug your hole in the dirt and found a treat.”

  “Everything needs to be separated and cataloged. We should have been recording this. Here.” She dug into her bag and removed a GoPro. “Be my cameraman.”

  “With pleasure.” He took the device and peered through the eyehole.

  “Record the dig, Miguel. I don’t want to watch that later and see footage of my ass or my bra strap.”

  “Ah, but the ass and the bra are much more fun to watch.” He pointed the camera to her face.

  “Just focus on the find.” She shook her head, exasperated.

  Cam obliged and began documenting her work. Where had this camaraderie come from? This ease of exchange? He had maintained his Miguel Ramirez legend without fail, and yet she treated him…

  She treated him like Cam.

  Miguel Ramirez had beaten and killed men. He fucked and discarded women. He got high, and he drank to excess. Cam had had many sleepless nights early on coming to terms with the fact that, on paper, Miguel Ramirez and Camilo Canto were not that different. Cam had done most of those things too. Ultimately, he resolved his angst with the knowledge that
what Cam did, he did for the right reasons. He did it to make the world safer. Miguel was a means to an end, a price he was willing to pay.

  Somehow, someway, Evan seemed to see beneath his heretofore impenetrable facade.

  Her sharp intake of breath jarred him from his thoughts, and he looked down to see Evan had revealed the corner of a metal box.

  “What is it?” He peered closer.

  “I’m not sure yet. Hook the camera on my helmet and come help me,” she replied.

  Slowly, Evan brushed away the earth surrounding the box.

  “It's not rusted,” he observed.

  “It's gold,” Evan explained. Gold is one of the least reactive metals. It's not affected by oxygen or even saltwater. That's why treasure hunters are always searching for shipwrecks. Gold can survive on the bottom of the ocean indefinitely.”

  Cam grunted his understanding while Evan extracted the box from the mound. It was indeed a hinged gold box, lighter than she expected and about half the size of a shoebox. Caked with dirt and mud, the detail was difficult to make out, but it was clear the case was filigreed and ornately decorated.

  “Let's take it over there.” Cam gestured with his head to an empty corner. When Evan nodded her assent, he helped her up and guided her to the spot.

  “Clean it off first or open it?” Cam asked.

  “I may be a scientist, but come on.” She elbowed him in the ribs as he sat down beside her.

  She worked her way around the edge of the box with a small tool, dislodging silt and debris. Then she slid the lock mechanism to the side and released the latch. Slowly, slowly she opened the box. When the lid was open about an inch, she stopped, turned her head, and looked at Cam with the excitement of a child.

  “Well?” Cam urged.

  Evan lifted the lid, her eyes cataloging the contents. In the center was a sizable nondescript rock about the size of a baseball. A nest of coins surrounded it, and on one side sat a large necklace. A section of the chain was missing, and the links matched those on the markers they had found. She carefully lifted the item and held it before them. A large medallion in the shape of an animal head, a cougar or a lioness perhaps, hung from the end.

  “Fijate. That's amazing.”

  “It is. It's amazing.” She stared at her find.

  Cam reached into the box and withdrew the big rock. “This must be to weigh it down. These people…”

  “Moors. These items are Moorish, late Fourteenth Century.”

  “Perdón. The Moors must have known the tide washed into this cave when they hid this stuff.” He tossed the rock over his shoulder, and it vanished into the darkness. A plop of water signaled it had rolled into a puddle.

  “Don’t do that. Everything is significant. I have to catalog everything we find,” Evan scolded.

  He shrugged and grasped the medallion in his hand.

  “For a king, yes?” Cam asked.

  “Yes. Or a tribal chief. See here? This indentation?” She placed her hand over his without touching and ran her thumb over the large, shallow indentation in the face. “A jewel would go here.” She drew in a deep breath. “Miguel, this is a significant find.”

  She turned her face to his, and they froze. Inches apart, excitement coursing through their veins. She moved her face closer.

  Cam stalled her with a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  Noises from outside their cave had them both jerking their heads to the storeroom. Cam moved like a cat, and in a second, was halfway out the opening pulling the steel storage cabinet back to conceal the hole, lifting it slightly to avoid the screech. He darted over to the lanterns and extinguished them, then returned to the passthrough and listened intently. He silently bounded back to his seat beside her.

  “Who's there?” she whispered, her breath touching his cheek.

  “The men from the last shift of the mining operation. I’ve seen food and trash in that room. They come in there to eat and, you know, relax. I guess they decided to hang out after their shift,” he explained.

  Moments later, the distinct smell of marijuana wafted through the opening. Evan turned to face him. “Miners are getting high? That can’t be safe.”

  Cam ran a hand through his dark hair. He didn’t want her to know these men weren’t miners. “They’re off duty.”

  “So, what now?” she asked.

  “I don’t want anyone finding you back here.” Cam could only imagine the suspicions raised if the men reported to Atlas—and Gemini—that Miguel Ramirez was skulking around the closed mine with a woman.

  “So we just sit here? In the dark?” she asked in a throaty voice.

  “Tell me more about yourself, little mouse.”

  Three hours later, the adjacent storeroom had turned into party central, music blared and laughter and pot smoke filtered in through the opening. Evan had told Miguel her life story. Well, that had only taken about fifteen minutes. She grew up in California wine country. Her parents had married right out of college and divorced when she was three. Her childhood had been happy but lonely. Had that taken fifteen minutes? Probably closer to fifteen seconds.

  Evan wasn’t one to talk about herself. She was shy, at times painfully so. Maybe it was the darkness, maybe it was the fact that this perplexing man seemed receptive, or maybe they simply needed to pass the time. Whatever the reason, Evan had opened like a blossom in their confinement.

  She hadn’t learned much about Miguel except that he was secretive. He had grown up on the streets of a village near Bogota and spent most of his life there until he was hired by a man in Suriname to work as a handyman. She assumed it was a handyman; the job description of “fixer” was most likely a translation error.

  It was clear he’d led a hard life, different in every way from her idyllic, if isolated, life on the family vineyard. It was also clear he didn’t want to talk about himself. That was fine. She was enjoying just being in his company. Whatever his life outside this cave, in this little cubbyhole, Miguel Ramirez was a kind, attentive, magnetic man. She didn’t want facts to shatter her image of him. So she filled the silence with her own stories.

  “My dad was obsessive about the grapes, tending them, protecting them. A bad harvest could ruin us. I’d tag along, and I’d just dig in the dirt. My dad would joke that I looked like a potato he’d just pulled from the ground.”

  Evan could see Miguel's teeth as he smiled, feel his fingers as he brushed her hair from her face.

  “And the love for digging stuck,” he surmised.

  She held up a finger, indicating that she was getting to the good part. “One day, I was out in the vineyard, and my hand ran across something sharp. I dug it out and showed it to my dad.”

  “What was it?” he asked.

  “A tooth.”

  “That's it?” She could see Miguel touch his own incisor in the dark.

  Evan took his hands in hers and held the palms several inches apart. “A tooth.”

  She continued the story. “My dad knew enough to know we should take it to the natural history museum and have someone examine it. Turned out it was the tooth from a Cenozoic-era amphimachairodus.”

  Her declaration was met with silence.

  “A saber-toothed tiger. Well, not a tiger as we know it, but a saber-toothed cat,” she clarified.

  He didn’t speak, but she could see the whites of his eyes.

  “I know, right? My dad started researching colleges with the best archaeology programs that afternoon.”

  “Your father, he is a good man?” Miguel asked.

  “The best,” Evan beamed. “The divorce was hard on him, and we had a very unconventional life, but he's a great dad.”

  “What do you mean unconventional?”

  “Um, well, I’ve never had turkey for one thing. I mean, I’ve had turkey sandwiches and stuff but never…” She backed up a bit to clarify. “In the U.S., at Thanksgiving and Christmas, people have roast turkey. When I think of those holidays, I picture a table filled with people and a bi
g meal taking up every inch of space.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “I have relatives in Florida. I know of the holiday.”

  “It's such a small thing, a big family meal. I guess we always want what we can’t have.”

  Cam was bursting. She was describing his family's holiday celebrations.

  She continued her musings. “I think of a big touch football game in the yard and sneaking into the kitchen late at night for an extra slice of pie.”

  Cam bit his cheek. He wanted to tell her about the Thanksgiving where his oldest nephew rode his tricycle through the house and hit the leg of the supplemental card table holding all the pies. He wanted to explain the crazy rules of the annual family soccer game—real fútbol, his grandfather would say—and the battle for the coveted trophy, the “Canto Cup.” He wanted to bring her into his mother's kitchen and show her how he would lift the lids of each pot and pan to smell the magic simmering beneath, how his abuela would smack his hand as he snatched a treat.

  But Miguel Ramirez didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, didn’t have a family, didn’t care. So he listened without comment.

  “My dad and I had our own tradition. Thanksgiving tacos and a double feature from the AFI top one hundred films list.” She scratched her cheek with her shoulder. “I love our tradition, but a part of me wonders, you know? I’ve always been a bit of a loner. Never lonely, but alone.” He heard more than saw her pick up a pebble and toss it into a puddle with a plunk. “Do you know the actual definition of an introvert?” She didn’t wait for his response. “It's from the Latin, vertere, to turn and intro, inward. It's a person who derives their energy from being alone, contemplating rather than expressing their thoughts. For good or bad, that's me.”

  Cam didn’t speak for fear of what might spill out. The truth was he might have loved her in that moment. It took everything in him to bridle his desire to share. Every comment she made brought a recollection to his lips. God, when she talked about being alone. He only then realized that was a big part—maybe the most significant part—of the agony of living as Miguel Ramirez. He was never alone. Even when he was by himself, there was always a camera or a recording device to fear, always someone listening. What had she said? Never lonely, but alone? Miguel Ramirez was never alone but always lonely.