Always a Thief (3 page)

“You're a hard woman, Morgana,” he murmured.

She wished she was. She had been trying rather fiercely to see him only as a wounded body needing her help, and as long as he'd remained in the bed she had more or less succeeded. But he was on his feet now—however unsteadily—and it was impossible for her to look at him wearing only a towel and a bandage and not see him as utterly male and heart-catchingly sexy.

He's a thief
.

She remembered too well how that hard body felt against hers and how his beguiling mouth had seduced hers until she hadn't cared who or what he was. She remembered his murmured words, when he'd told her that he thought she was going to break his heart.

He's just a damned thief
.

She also remembered the mocking gift of a concubine ring.

It was that last memory that steadied her. Calmly, she said, “Look, if you really have to shave, there's an electric razor around here somewhere. I'll get it for you. But you have to go back to bed.”

After an instant, he nodded slightly and took a step toward her. He would have fallen if she hadn't quickly slid an arm around his waist and put her shoulder under his good one.

“Dammit, you tried to do too much,” she muttered as he leaned on her heavily.

“I think you're right.” He sounded definitely weakened. “If you could help me to the bed . . .”

Halfway across the room, Morgan got the distinct feeling that he wasn't quite as frail as he seemed, but she didn't try to call his bluff. What else could she expect, after all? she asked herself somewhat wryly as she helped him those last few steps. His humorous, mischievous, and careless nature had been obvious from the first time she'd met him, and she doubted very much if he had a sincere bone in his body; he was perfectly capable of pretending weakness simply because he enjoyed leaning on her.

She batted his amazingly limp but wonderfully accurate hand away from her right breast and more or less dumped him on the bed.

Quinn grimaced as his shoulder was jolted, but he was also laughing softly. “All right, but you can't blame me for trying,” he said guilelessly.

Hands on her hips, Morgan glared down at him. Damn the man, it was so
hard
to stay mad at him. “Next time you get out of that bed, you'd better make sure you can get back under your own steam. I meant what I said about calling Max.”

Quinn eased himself farther up on the bed, then glanced down at the towel still wrapped around him. “I suppose you wouldn't want to help me—”

“No. Like you said, there are some things a man should do for himself. I'll go find the razor.” He was laughing at her again when she left the room, but Morgan didn't yell at him. She didn't even turn around to look at him, because he would have seen her smiling completely against her will.

Even if he
was
on the side of the angels this time, she told herself, he was still a thief and a scoundrel. Charming, but still a scoundrel. She needed to remember that.

She really, really needed to remember that.

When she returned to the bedroom a few minutes later, he was propped up on the pillows, the covers drawn up to his waist, sipping the coffee she'd brought him. The towel was crumpled up on the floor by the bed.

She retrieved it and returned it to the bathroom. Silently. She unwound the cord from the electric razor, plugged it into an outlet by the nightstand, and set the razor within easy reach for him. Silently. Then she gave him his pills and waited until he swallowed them.

He eyed her somewhat warily, then said, “You aren't mad at me, are you, Morgana?”

It cost her, but she managed to remain at least outwardly unmoved by his wistfulness. “No, but you're walking a fine edge,” she warned him mildly.

He was silent for a moment, then set his coffee cup on the nightstand and nodded gravely. For once, his green eyes were perfectly serious. “I know—I can't help pushing. And . . . I hate having to depend on anyone else. For anything.”

Morgan could feel her resolve weakening. As dangerous to her composure as he was in his playful, amusing mode, this—apparent—painful honesty was devastating. She had the sudden conviction that unless she was very, very careful, Quinn would steal far more from her than she could afford to lose.

From somewhere, she summoned an award-winning portrayal of calm reason. “Why don't we make an agreement. I'll do my best not to threaten your independence in any way, and you shelve Don Juan for the duration. Okay?”

Smiling, he nodded. “Okay.”

“Good. Now, I'm going to do something about lunch while you shave. And afterward, if you don't feel like resting, there are a host of alternatives, beginning with reading or television and ending with a card game.”

“You play cards?” His eyes gleamed at her. “Poker?”

“Any kind except strip,” she said gently.

“Oh, shoot,” he murmured, not Don Juan now but the mischievous boy who was nearly as seductive.

She shook her head at him and turned toward the door, but halted there when he spoke softly.

“Morgana? Thank you.”

Again she found her resolve threatened, and again she managed to shore it up. “Oh, you can pay me back easily, Alex. Just return the necklace you stole from me.”

He laughed at her as she left the room, completely unrepentant and utterly shameless.

Inspector Keane Tyler of the San Francisco Police Department scowled down at the virtually nude body of Jane Doe (#3 for this month) and said to no one in particular, “This is not my favorite way to spend a Saturday afternoon.”

“Don't imagine it's hers either.” Inspector Gillian Newman, new to San Francisco but clearly not to the job, spoke with the slightly wry detachment common to cops who saw too much of the darker side of life's streets. “Preliminary estimate says she's been dead awhile, but when's difficult to pin down.”

“Why?”

“Doc says she's spent some time in a freezer.”

Keane's scowl disappeared and his eyebrows lifted. “That's an unusual wrinkle. So somebody wants to mess with our heads.”

“Looks like. Could be somebody she knew, trying to make the time of death as vague as possible because he—or she—can't establish an alibi.”

“Any evidence the killer knew her?”

“Not so far.”

“Was she raped?”

“Doc says no.”

“Stripped to her panties but not raped. Maybe because her clothes could have given us an I.D.—or at least a place to start looking for an I.D.”

“Or maybe the killer is a boob man. Gets his rocks off looking or copping a feel, and took the clothes as a trophy.”

“Equally as likely,” Keane admitted. “At least until we have some solid evidence either way.”

“It's clear he didn't want her identified. The doc says her fingers were burned with a blowtorch.”

“That'll do it,” Keane said grimly. “Maybe forensics can get something resembling a print, but it'll take time if it's even possible at all.”

“In the meantime, back at the office they're checking her description against the missing-persons file,” Gillian reported briskly. “Nothing so far. We're doing the usual door-to-door, but so far nobody saw a thing. Not surprising, considering how remote this place is. Area's being searched, but I think we both know this is just where the body was dumped. Nothing else happened here.”

“Great,” Keane muttered. “So unless she turns up in our files as missing or we get wildly lucky and somebody recognizes a photo, we don't have a hope in hell of getting an I.D.”

“Well, there is one thing that might point us in a specific direction. Or at least point us where the killer wants us to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“During the preliminary exam, the doc found something. In her panties. It's a strip of paper torn from one of those guides you pick up when you visit a national landmark—or a museum. You know, information, a map. I sort of doubt it got in her underwear accidentally.”

Keane began to feel queasy for the first time. “Ah, don't tell me. Please don't tell me.”

“Sorry. It's the Museum of Historical Art.”

CHAPTER

THREE

“W
hat I don't understand,” Storm Tremaine
drawled somewhat absently as she typed commands into the computer, “is why you're still snapping at Jared. He's just doing his job.”

“What I don't understand is why you have to work on a Saturday. Max told you to take weekends off.” Resting a hip on the corner of her desk and wearing her little blond cat on his shoulder, Wolfe Nickerson, security expert and representative of Lloyd's of London, was waiting for his lady to finish the work she insisted had to be completed today.

“I just wanted to fix this glitch before Monday. Now tell me why you're still pissed at Jared.”

Jared had left the room only moments before, and though a security problem had been ironed out successfully, neither man had been happy with the other.

“He nearly got you killed,” Wolfe muttered, reaching up to absently scratch Bear under his chin. “Besides that, I don't like being lied to.”

Eyeing him shrewdly, Storm said, “You haven't been snapping at Max—or me. Neither of us was especially truthful there for a while. Give Jared a break, will you, please?”

“I
am
giving him a break. I'm still speaking to him.”

Storm laughed softly, shaking her head. If she had learned anything since meeting him, she had learned that Wolfe's stubbornness equaled her own. “Well, just try to remember that he
is
on our side, after all. He's not the enemy.”

“All right.”

She sat back in her chair as the computer digested her commands, and smiled up at him. “Besides, there are better ways to focus your energy. Do you realize you haven't thrown me to the floor and had your way with me even once today?”

He frowned. “Wasn't that you this morning? Among all the boxes in the living room?”

“Yes, but that was before breakfast.”

He leaned across the desk, meeting her halfway as she straightened in her chair, and kissed her. “And wasn't that you I had lunch with today?” he murmured.

“Yes, but that was in a bed.”

Wolfe glanced aside at the minuscule floor space of the computer room, then eyed her rather cluttered desk. “Well, there's no room in here.”

Storm sighed mournfully. “I knew it. Engaged just a few weeks, and already you're getting bored with me.”

“If I get any more bored with you, they're going to have to put me in traction.”

She laughed. “Complaining?”

“Hell, no.” He smiled, and his eyes were like the glowing blue at the base of a flame. “In fact, I'm a bit anxious to get back to that new house of ours and have another go at christening the bed.”

They had found and rented a terrific house with an enclosed garden, where Bear could sun himself and chase bugs, and had moved their things there days ago. But with their working hours—and tendency to forget practical matters whenever they were alone—they were still in the process of settling in.

Though they hadn't yet decided where “home” would be in the future, the
Mysteries Past
exhibit would demand that both of them remain in San Francisco for at least the coming months.

“We need to finish unpacking,” she pointed out mildly.

“A minute ago you were hot for my body,” he said in a wounded tone.

“I still am, but when it comes to love among the boxes—once is enough.” Storm grinned at him and began typing in the commands that would get her out of the computer system for the day. “By the way—even though neither of you has said much about it, it's pretty obvious you and Jared have known each other a long time. Not so surprising, I suppose, given your jobs. Him with Interpol and you with Lloyd's.”

“Our paths have crossed in the last ten years,” Wolfe admitted.

“So you've learned to respect each other's authority.”

Her voice had been placid, but Wolfe realized she wasn't yet prepared to drop the subject.

“Yes,” he said, “we respect each other's authority—and ability to do our jobs. That hasn't changed. But Jared crossed a line, Storm. He might not have hung you out like bait on a hook, but he didn't give you information you had every right to know, information that would at least have put you on guard. You deserved better. You know it, I know it, and he knows it.”

“I'm an Interpol agent. Risk comes with the job.”

“You're a technical specialist for Interpol, not a field agent. It was your own sense and savvy that kept you alive, not any training from Interpol. And Jared had no right to put you in that position without so much as a warning to watch your back.”

“What's done is done.”

Wolfe drew a breath and released it slowly. “Look, I know he's your boss. I respect that. You want to defend him, I understand; your loyalty is one of the reasons I love you. But if you expect me to forgive him anytime soon for unnecessarily endangering your life, forget it.”

“It's not going to do me any good to argue, huh?”

“No. Not about this.”

Whatever response Storm might have made became unimportant when the subject of their discussion rapped on the door and pushed it open without waiting for a response.

“We've got trouble,” Jared said.

It was early Saturday evening when Morgan's phone rang, and she picked it up hastily since Quinn was sleeping in the next room. “Hello?”

“How is he?” Max asked.

“Getting restless. I had to threaten to tie him to the bed, but he finally agreed to at least try to sleep. He's already been up a couple of times, Max. The doc was right—he does heal fast.”

“Probably a necessity for a man in his line of work.”

Morgan hesitated, then said, “You don't sound very disapproving of his line of work.”

“It isn't my place to judge. Besides, do you honestly think my approval or disapproval would change anything?”

“No. No, it wouldn't. I guess I'm just surprised at how calmly you're taking all this. And how helpful you've been to Quinn.”

“Did you expect me to say no when you called?”

Morgan had to laugh. “To be honest, it never crossed my mind that you might. All I was thinking was that you could get a doctor here quietly without the police having to know. But it would probably have been better for both of us if you—or I—had called the police that night.”

“Better for the exhibit, you mean?”

“Yeah. Of course that's what I meant. Better for the exhibit.” Morgan cleared her throat. “It would be a dandy way to get at your collection, we both know that. Pretend to be after another thief, pretend to be helping the good guys, and—hey, presto—you're on the inside, where all the goodies are. A Trojan horse.”

“Do you think that's what Alex is doing?”

“I don't know. And neither do you.”

Max sighed. “So far, he's done nothing to threaten the collection. He's at least nominally under Interpol's control, here to work on the right side of the law. I have to believe that. Because the thief he's trying to help Interpol put behind bars is far, far worse than Quinn has ever been.”

“I forgot to ask about that the other night. Who is this thief you're risking your collection to trap?”

“Well, unlike Quinn, this one hasn't caught the fancy of the press or public, so there's been almost no publicity about his activities. You probably haven't heard of him. At Interpol, his code name is Nightshade.”

Briefly distracted by the name, she said, “Isn't that another name for some plants—like belladonna?”

“Pure poison. And he—or she, I suppose—is definitely that. A far more violent and dangerous personality than Quinn, that much everyone is certain of. There have been eight murders committed during Nightshade's robberies in the past six years, all of them because someone got in his way.”

“You're right, I haven't heard of him. Does he work in Europe, or—”

“All over, but the majority of the robberies were committed here in the States. Every law-enforcement agency in the world has tried to identify him, and no one has even come up with a name. No living witnesses, no fingerprints or other forensic evidence conveniently left behind, and the computers can't even find a pattern in the robberies, except that he favors gems and tends toward the more old-fashioned scaling-the-wall-and-breaking-a-window sort of burglaries.”

“Low-tech rather than high-tech.”

“As far as Interpol can determine, yeah. It's one reason we picked an older museum in which to display the collection. Any thief worth his salt is going to know we're installing better electronic security, but he or she could also be at least reasonably certain that in this huge old building there are bound to be a few chinks in the defenses.”

Morgan thought about that for a moment, then asked curiously, “If there's no pattern, then how do you know all the robberies were committed by the same person?”

Max's sigh was a breath of sound. “Because the bastard always leaves a calling card. Which you don't know about, by the way, because Interpol and other police agencies keep it quiet in order to I.D. his crimes. He always leaves a dead rose. On the body if he kills someone in the commission of the robbery, and in place of whatever gem he took if there was no murder.”

She shivered. “That's a morbid touch.”

“No kidding. You should hear some of the theories advanced by police, FBI, and Interpol behavioral experts. The general consensus is that, aside from his love of gems and his tendency to kill anyone who gets in his way, Nightshade probably has a few more kinks in his nature.”

“Sounds like. And since he's been so elusive, you guys decided to stack the deck in your favor. It's likely that a collection as priceless as yours going on public display for the first time in more than thirty years would lure Nightshade here to San Francisco. And if you know he's here and what he's after, you can set a trap to catch him.”

“That's the idea.”

“Won't he suspect a trap?”

“If he's as smart as everyone agrees he is, he will. But greed tends to undermine common sense, or at least that's the hope in this case. That plus the edge we hope we have: Quinn. Setting a thief to catch a thief. The bait
has
to be something big, something very tempting to someone like Nightshade, to encourage him to perhaps act more recklessly than is normal for him.”

“I'd say the Bannister collection is probably making him drool,” Morgan said.

“Alex and Jared expect so. It's the only shot they've had at getting their hands on Nightshade, Morgan. In eight years, he hasn't put a foot wrong, and the odds are against him making a serious enough mistake in the future to let the police catch him. And even if he does, God knows how many people will have to die first. So . . . luring him to a trap designed just for him is worth all the risks we're taking.”

“Even the risk that the true danger to the collection is Quinn?”

“Even that.”

“Okay, if we assume Quinn really is doing what he says he's doing, then what's his motive for putting his own life on the line? Is it like Jared said, just a way to stay out of prison himself?”

“That's not my story, Morgan. You'll have to ask Alex about it.”

“And of course he'll tell me the truth.”

“You never know.”

“Yeah. Well, maybe I'll ask him.”

“In the meantime,” Max said, “aside from checking on Alex, I also called to warn you.”

“Oh, Christ, what now?”

“I got a call earlier from Keane Tyler. The body of a murdered woman was found a few miles from the museum. They haven't gotten an I.D. yet, but apparently there's some evidence she's connected to the museum.”

“Connected how?”

“We don't know. Whatever the evidence is, the police intend to keep it quiet.”

“Even from you?”

“Even from me.” Unemotionally, Max added, “Ken Dugan and I were called in to take a look at the body. Neither of us knows her.” Dugan was the head curator of the Museum of Historical Art.

Morgan swallowed. “Maybe I should—”

“Not yet. Keane and his people are talking to museum employees, but I've told him you won't be available until Monday or Tuesday.”

“And he's okay with that?”

“Let's say I called in a favor. He's okay with it. But he will want to speak to you when you get in. Maybe show you a photo of the woman.”

“Max, does this have anything to do with the exhibit?”

“I don't know.”

“They still haven't found out who murdered that poor Ace employee a few weeks ago—”

“We don't know there's a connection between the two murders. As far as the police have been able to determine, this woman is not and never has been an Ace employee.” Ace Security was the company ostensibly handling the installation of the new security system in the museum; Storm was posing as one of their security specialists.

“But she's somehow connected to the museum?”

“That's what Keane says. And because of the exhibit, the police are investigating the possibilities of a connection very thoroughly. In any case, until we know more, it's fairly useless to speculate.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

“I just wanted to let you know what was going on and warn you to expect the police activity when you go back to the museum.”

“Should I tell Alex about this?”

“You can, or Jared will when Alex is back on his feet. I'd wait a couple of days, though. There's nothing he could do about it now anyway. That's assuming there is a connection with the museum.”

“I don't really believe in coincidence, Max.”

“No. No, neither do I. Take care, Morgan.”

“I will. You too.”

In the next room, Quinn listened to two soft clicks and then the dial tone.

“Shit,” he muttered half under his breath.

He put the bedroom phone back on its base and stared down at his left hand as he flexed it slowly. His shoulder throbbed a protest, and he grimaced. But he didn't stop the slow, deliberate movements.

He had to get back on his feet.

Time was running out.

She moved through the darkness as though it were a part of her, slipping between the shadows of the buildings with nothing more than a whisper of sound. Even with the heavier-than-usual pack she carried, she was able to be silent. A distant siren caused her to freeze momentarily, but it faded even farther away and she continued on.