Always a Thief (5 page)

CHAPTER

FOUR

“A
ny luck?” Keane asked Gillian as they met up
near the museum's lobby.

“Not so you'd notice.” She sighed, pushing an errant strand of brown hair back off her face. “I just talked to the last of the cleaning crew, and none of them recognizes our Jane Doe.”

“And I just talked to the last guard on the list. Same deal. Doesn't know her, never noticed her here.”

“It's Wednesday,” Gillian pointed out. “We've talked to every soul who's worked for or in the museum during the last six months. Nada. Unless our next step is to start tracking and questioning visitors, I'd say we've hit a dead end.”

He scowled. “No luck searching the basement?”

“Have you
been
in the basement?” she asked politely. “Our people can't effectively search down there. A trained archaeologist or historian might spot something out of place—given a few years and a little luck. Seriously, it's like the bargain basement from hell.”

“But they looked around down there?”

“Oh, yeah. Checked windows and doors, peered around with flashlights, scared themselves silly turning corners to find Bronze Age warriors staring back at them. One of our rookies nearly shot a marble Greek woman holding an urn.”

“Shit.”

“Uh-huh. Getting the creeps aside, it's sort of hard to search a place like that, especially when you don't know what you're looking for. And after Pete was lost for nearly half an hour, somebody suggested we leave trails of bread crumbs.”

“So we have no connection between Jane Doe and this museum except for the scrap of paper deliberately left on the body.”

“Looks that way.”

Keane scowled again. “I don't like being pointed in a specific direction. I like it even less when it begins to look like somebody might be leading me around by the nose.”

“And in the opposite direction from where you really should be looking?”

“Exactly.”

Gillian eyed him, then smiled wryly. “So we keep poking around in the museum, huh?”

“What other choice do we have? Goddammit.”

It was the following Friday evening when Morgan came out of her kitchen to find a visitor had arrived. Via the window.

Oddly enough, she wasn't at all surprised to see him standing there, much as he had the night he'd been wounded. Except that he wasn't wounded now, or masked. And his lean, handsome face was, she thought, uncharacteristically strained.

“Good evening,” she said politely. “I really do have to do something about that lock, don't I?”

“It might be a good idea.”

“On the other hand, I could just hang garlic in the window.”

“That only works on vampires, I hear.”

“Let's see . . . Vampires appear only at night, they move so fast you'd think they could fly, they're creatures of legend and myth, they can cling to the side of a building like a bat . . . I'm sure I can think of something that doesn't apply to you, but so far—”

“They sleep in coffins and drink the blood of the living.”

Morgan raised her eyebrows silently.

“Oh, come on,” he said.

Noting that he at least wasn't standing so stiffly now, Morgan shrugged and said, “Okay, points for that. But I may hang a cross in the window anyway, just—you should pardon the expression—for the hell of it.”

He waited until she crossed the room to stand before him, and when he spoke it was quickly. “I never really thanked you for taking care of me, Morgana.”

“You thanked me. And you sent flowers. Points for that, too, by the way. Is that why you're here, to thank me more?”

“I thought I would.”

“You're welcome.”

“You went out on a limb for me. I know that.”

“My pleasure.”

“I'm serious, Morgana. You could have called the police. Should have. And I'm . . . grateful that you didn't do that.”

It was a bit amusing to watch the usually unflappable Quinn grope for words, but Morgan didn't allow herself to smile. “Noted. I appreciate your gratitude.”

Quinn eyed her with faint exasperation. “You don't make it easy for me,” he told her.

She did smile then. “Oh, I see—you want me to make it
easy
for you. Why should I?”

He cleared his throat. “Do both of us know what we're talking about?”

“Yes. We're talking about the fact that I more or less offered myself to you Monday night—and you bolted so fast you practically left your boots behind.”

A little smile curved his mouth. “The image that conjures, Morgana, is hardly flattering. To either of us.”

“I agree. Is that why you really came back here? Because you had second thoughts?”

Quinn hesitated, then shook his head. “No, you were obviously not in your right mind at the time.”

“I wasn't?” She put her hands on her hips and stared up at him. “Are you trying to save me from myself, Alex?”

“Something like that,” he murmured.

“Then why did you come back here?”

“To thank you, that's all. I just . . . didn't like leaving that way. Without a word.”

“I didn't care for it much myself. Especially the walking-away-when-I-offered-you-my-bodypart. That's sort of hard on a woman's ego.”

“You only said maybe you'd changed your mind about strip poker.”

“We both know exactly what I meant.”

He cleared his throat again. “If it helps, I really—really—wanted to stay.”

“Then why didn't you?”

“It would be a mistake, Morgana. Never doubt that.”

“Because you're Quinn?” They hadn't talked about this when he'd been recovering here, and she had a peculiar idea that was really why he'd come back—because he wanted her to fully understand who and what he was.

“Isn't that reason enough? Name any major city in the Western world, and the cops there want me behind bars at the very least. And there are a couple of places in the Far East as well. That won't change, no matter how this turns out. I'm too effective to go public, and Interpol knows it. They've got me by the—short hairs.” He laughed, honest amusement in the sound. “I can't complain. I had a hell of a dance, and now I have to pay the band.”

“Extend the metaphor.” She smiled faintly. “The music hasn't stopped, the tune's just changed. You enjoy the dance, Alex. And Interpol knows that. So they changed the music for you.”

“And made sure I'd dance for them?” He laughed again. “Probably.” His voice and face became abruptly expressionless. “The point is that . . . I'm never going to be respectable, Morgana. I don't want to be. You're right; I
enjoy
this dance. I don't feel a bit of regret about my past.”

“But they caught you,” she murmured.

He nodded. “They caught me. They could have locked me up; instead, they gave me a choice. And I chose. I'll keep my bargain with them. I'll dance to their tune. As you said—only the music's changed; the dance is just as much fun.”

“You won't be able to steal for yourself anymore,” she noted, watching him with an expression of mild interest.

He shrugged carelessly. “The proceeds of my past will see me through even a long future in style, sweet.”

In a thoughtful tone, she said, “I would have expected them to demand you return those proceeds.”

“They tried.” He smiled sardonically. “I told them I'd forget how to dance.”

“You are a complete villain, aren't you?”

Quinn eyed her a bit warily. “I don't know why on earth it's so,” he commented, “but I have the most insane urge to insist that I am, in fact, just that.”

“And selfish and egotistical and reckless. Without morals, scruples, compassion, or shame. Lawless, heartless, wicked, and rebellious. How am I doing?”

“Just fine,” he answered with a suggestion of gritted teeth.

She nodded seriously. “Let's see . . . you're a thief of world renown, there's no doubt of that. You've quite cheerfully broken a number of the laws of God and man. Without, according to you, one iota of remorse. And you're on the right side of the law now only because it was infinitely preferable to spending the remainder of your life in a prison cell.”

“All true,” he said grimly.

“Do you also kick puppies and steal candy from children?”

Quinn drew a deep breath. “Only on odd Thursdays.”

She smiled a little. “You know . . . I'd have a much easier time believing all these rotten things about you if you didn't try so hard to make me believe them.”

With a glint of despair in his vivid eyes, he said, “Morgan, get it through your head—I'm not a nice person.”

“I never said you were.”

Quinn blinked but recovered quickly. “I get it. You're a danger junkie, that's why you brazenly invited me to be your lover.”

“A danger junkie. Well, maybe. I would never have guessed I'd turn into one, mind you, but anything's possible. Meet a world-infamous cat burglar in a dark museum one night and all kinds of doors are suddenly before you.” Morgan's tone remained thoughtful. “It's a new path. A less-traveled path. All the best journeys in life are the unexpected ones. So why not?”

“Why are you talking like a fortune cookie?”

Morgan hadn't enjoyed herself so much in years, and it took everything she had to keep from laughing out loud. Instead, she said gravely, “All kinds of doors. I'll say this for you, Alex. They're interesting doors. Very interesting doors. And the one thing I know for sure is that I really do want to find out what's behind those doors.”

“Tigers,” he warned.

“Somehow I doubt that. But not handsome princes either. You're not that magnanimous. Adventure, I'd say. Maybe danger. Changes, for sure. I think my life is ready for changes.”

“Morgan—”

“I'm a big girl, Alex, all grown up and everything. I think I can make decisions about my life. And who to let into it. I think that's what being a grown-up is all about.”

“Morgan, I'm a
thief
. I break the law. I do bad things. Remember? I am not the sort of man you should let into your life.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Alex, you can't expect me to believe you're an evil ogre when you won't even let yourself be decently seduced. Any genuine villain would have been in my bed like a shot. Especially a boob man. Which we both know you are.”

Quinn bowed his head and muttered a string of soft but heartfelt oaths.

Perfectly aware that he was trying hard not to laugh and trying equally hard to be serious about this, Morgan said gravely, “Look, I'm not an idiot. Yes, you've broken the law, frequently and with a certain amount of panache. Being a law-abiding person myself, I find that hard to understand, much less excuse. I can't even console myself by believing that some tragedy led you into a life of crime in the best melodramatic tradition. You enjoyed your past, and you're enjoying this dangerous shell game now.

“I've told myself all that. I've been very rational about the situation. And if I were looking for
a happily-ever-after ending, this conversation wouldn't be taking place. Because I know damned well any woman who gets involved with you is asking for trouble. She's also asking for heartache—not because you're an evil man, but because you aren't.”

Quinn raised his head and stared at her.

Her amusement gone, Morgan smiled a bit ruefully. “I've tried. I have tried. But I can't seem to do much about this. You'd be damnably easy to love, Alex. Rogues always are, and you're certainly that. But I'm not fool enough to believe I could catch the wind in my hands, so you don't have to worry about me clinging. I don't want golden rings or bedroom promises. Just . . . an adventure. And I won't make it difficult for you. I won't even ask you to say good-bye when it's over.”

“Dammit, would you stop—”

“Being noble?” she interrupted, her dry voice cutting through his rough one. “Isn't that what you've been doing?”

After a moment, he said, “I don't want to hurt you.”

“I know. And you certainly get nine out of ten for effort.”

The light comment didn't alter his grim expression. “Ten out of ten, because it stops here.” Each word was bitten off sharply with the sound of finality. “If you want to play in the danger zone, pick some other rogue to show you how.”

Morgan gazed at the spot where he'd stood long after he was gone. Then, gradually, she began smiling. Things were, she decided cheerfully, definitely looking up.

It was nearly midnight as Jared stood restlessly at the window of his hotel room. His suit jacket and tie had long since been discarded, but he still wore his big automatic in its accustomed shoulder holster, and he needed only to pull on a light jacket if he had to leave in a hurry. Which is what he more or less expected.

It was an unusually clear night for the moment, affording an excellent view of the colorful city lights, but he knew fog was forecast and that it would probably be of the pea-soup variety. Not that the view interested him anyway; his work demanded all the caution of walking a knife's edge, and he had taught himself long ago to focus his concentration. Too often, keeping his mind on business had been a simple matter of life or death.

When the phone finally rang, he turned instantly from the window and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“I hear things are a little tense between you and Wolfe.”

Jared relaxed, but only slightly. “And have you also heard that Morgan talks too much?”

“Yes, I have heard that—but how do you know it was Morgan? It might have been Storm.”

“I know Storm. She'll talk to Wolfe about me, but she wouldn't talk to you, Max—not about undercurrents.”

Max chuckled. “No, you trained her too well. As a matter of fact, it was Morgan who mentioned it. She said things had been very strained lately.”

“Yeah, well—give her two points for observation; it didn't take ESP to see it.”

“You want me to talk to him?”

“No, I don't think so.” Jared was glancing at his watch as he spoke. “Between his preoccupation with Storm and his hostility toward me, he hasn't had a lot of time to think about what we're doing, and I'd just as soon keep it that way as long as possible. The last thing I want right now is a lot of questions, especially from Wolfe.”