Concrete Evidence by Rachel Grant

became his nickname for her.
    She looked unflinchingly at his sunglasses but wished she could see his eyes. “Take my advice as a professional underwater archaeologist and return those artifacts to the shipwreck.”
    “No. But I do give you credit for trying.” He fondled the five-hundred-year-old jaguar. “You knew when you took the job, we planned to sell any artifacts we found.”
    “I’m not stupid. I did my research before signing your damn contract. This Manila galleon sank en route to Acapulco. The ship’s cargo was supposed to be trade goods from the Philippines—ivory, porcelain, mercury, perhaps even gems and gold—not cultural relics from Mexico. Trade goods are all you are permitted to sell.” She pointed to the conservation tubs. “Those Aztec artifacts date back to the time when Spanish conquistadors destroyed Aztec art because they considered it the Devil’s work. They represent a destroyed culture.”
    “And they’re worth a lot of money.”
    From the moment she took the job, she had stood precariously close to an ethical line, one she’d had no intention of crossing. “You’re violating the permit—a permit I got for you.”
    “And quadrupling my take for the summer.” He lifted the jadeite monkey from the tub.
    Sunlight passed through the jade. The sculpture glowed like sea-green fire, a sight both beautiful and disturbing because transparent jadeite was the most valuable of all. “This little fellow will sell for a million alone—and the necklaces are worth twice that.”
    Her hands fisted. “They belong to the people of Mexico.”
    He placed the monkey back in the tub and took a step closer. “You really believe that, don’t you?” He cupped her jaw and ran a thumb over her lips. “How far are you willing to go to convince me?”
    She jerked away from him. “I’m not a whore.”
    “Could have fooled me. You sold your credentials readily enough.”
    “You bought my credentials, yes. Not my ethics. Those you stole.”
    “Either way, your ethics are gone. So what’s wrong with a fuck between partners in crime?”
    “Marco’s your partner. Fuck him.”
    He laughed. “I’ve got a contract with your signature on it. You’re in this up to your beautiful gray eyes, Cream Puff. Seems to me you have two choices: shut up and you’ll get your big paycheck as promised; or turn me in and your reputation as an archaeologist will be destroyed, because I’ll send copies of the contract to your graduate advisor at the University of Hawaii. First you’ll be kicked out of the PhD program; then you’ll be blackballed from the profession.”
    She felt sick. “You used me.” She’d left her summer field project after her mother’s sudden death only to discover her mom had stolen her identity and had run up a massive debt in her name. Then Jake showed up with a devil’s bargain.
    “You chose to work for me.”
    “I was desperate.” Her words sounded hollow, and she could no longer justify her choices, even to herself. When he offered her the job, the money had been too good to be true, but she’d ignored her doubts, and now guilt sat in her belly like a lead weight.
    “You needed money. I needed an underwater archaeologist to get the permit. Win-win.”
    There are two career-ending taboos in archaeology: do not desecrate a grave, and do not buy, steal, or traffic in artifacts. She had been convinced she could maneuver around the taboo by writing about this job for her dissertation—an academic attempt to bridge the chasm that separated treasure hunters from underwater archaeologists. Her goal had been to ensure Jake’s excavators collected archaeological data instead of just plundering the ship for trade goods. If the excavation was conducted ethically, she’d believed she’d be able to keep her reputation and earn the money she desperately needed for school.
    Her fingernails dug into her palms. “You can’t do this. You’re destroying my career!”
    He took her clenched