Always a Thief (6 page)

Max was silent for a moment, then sighed. “All right, I'll keep out of it. For now.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. Have you told Alex about the ballistics report?”

“Not yet. We're supposed to meet tonight.”

“How do you think he'll take it?”

“The certain knowledge that Nightshade is in San Francisco and is the one who put a bullet in him? I think he'll do something reckless.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. But the possibilities are making me very nervous. Max, we've still got a few days before the collection is in place and the exhibit ready to open to the public. It's not too late to stop this.”

“That isn't an option.”

“You're a hardheaded bastard, you know that?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Look, relax, will you?” Amusement crept into Max's deep voice. “As tense as you are, anybody'd think there was something dangerous going on.”

Jared made a rude noise and cradled the receiver without force. His somewhat rueful amusement didn't last long, however. He checked his watch and remained by the phone for some minutes, but when it finally rang it pulled him away from the window for a second time.

And, this time, the conversation was much briefer.

“Yeah?”

“You sound impatient. Am I late?”

Jared checked his watch again. “Yes. I was about to go looking for you.”

“You wouldn't have found me.”

“Don't bet on it.”

A soft laugh. “One of these days, we'll put that to the test, you and I.”

“If we live long enough, you're on. Now, do we need to meet tonight?”

“I think so. . . .”

The cold fog drifting over the bay began to obscure the distant, hulking outline of Alcatraz, and Quinn was glad. Though it was no longer a place where dangerous criminals were held, the defunct prison and its lonely island continued to be a stark, visible reminder of the price demanded of those who chose to be lawless.

Quinn didn't need the reminder.

Still, as he turned the collar of his jacket up and dug his hands into the pockets, he watched the rocky island until the mist enveloped it and rendered it invisible. It was an eerie sight, the fog creeping over the water toward him while, behind Quinn, the moonlight gleamed down on the city. At least for now, some time after midnight. In another hour, Quinn thought, he probably wouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his face.

He was beginning to really like this city.

“Why the hell are we meeting here?”

Quinn had been aware of the presence before he heard or saw anything, so the low voice didn't startle him. “I thought it was rather apt,” he murmured in response. “Before the fog rolled in, Alcatraz was shining like a beacon in the moonlight.”

Jared sighed. “Are you getting edgy? You, Alex?” His voice held a very slight note of mockery.

Quinn turned his back on the archaic, mist-enshrouded prison and looked at his companion. “No, but I'll be glad when this is over. I'd forgotten how long the nights get.”

“Your choice,” Jared reminded him.

“Yeah, I know.”

Jared had keen eyes, and the moon was still visible hanging low over the city, so he was able to see the lean face of his brother clearly. “Is your shoulder bothering you?” he asked a bit roughly.

Quinn shrugged, the movement easy and showing no sign of the damage a bullet had caused barely more than a week previously. “No. You know I'm a quick healer.”

“Even for a quick healer, that was a nasty wound. You probably should have stayed at Morgan's longer than a few days.”

“No,” Quinn said. “I shouldn't have done that.”

After a moment, Jared said, “So, Max was right.”

“About what?”

“Don't be deliberately dense, Alex.”

Quinn resisted the impulse to ask if he could be accidentally dense. “Max is very perceptive—but he isn't always right. As for Morgan, let's just say that I have enough common sense for both of us.”

“And no time for romance?”

“And no time for romance.” Quinn wondered, not for the first time, if becoming such an accomplished liar had been a good thing or a bad one. It might have kept his skin intact a bit longer, he thought, but sooner or later it was all going to catch up with him—and a great many people would no doubt be furious at him.

Jared seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“We've been amazingly lucky so far,” he said. “But you really can't afford to get in any deeper with Morgan.”

“I know that.”

“She knows too much already.”

Quinn drew a deep breath but kept his voice light. “Pardon me for not thinking too clearly when I was bleeding. I'll try to do better next time.”

“I'm not blaming you for that.”

“Too kind.”

Jared swore under his breath. “Look, all I'm saying is that we're running out of time. You really
don't
have the leisure—or the right—to pull any woman into a situation like this, especially when you're dealing with someone as deadly as Nightshade.”

Calmer now, Quinn said quietly, “Yes. You're right, I know that. And I am trying.”

Deciding that it was time to change the subject, Jared said, “Well, we do have other things to think about. The police have their preliminary reports on the Jane Doe, and the ballistics report on the bullet the doc dug out of your shoulder came in.”

“And?”

“Current thinking is that the Jane Doe isn't one of Nightshade's victims. She was stabbed, for one thing. For another, he never bothers to try and delay identification of his victims. Given that and where she was found, it seems unlikely that Nightshade killed her.”

“Not his style. And that so-called clue left on the body sounds even less like him.”

Jared said, “I just found out about that myself. How did you find out?”

“I often know things I'm not supposed to know. How do you think I was able to keep one jump ahead of the police for so many years?” Quinn shook his head. “Don't worry—there's no leak in the police department here. Or in Interpol, for that matter.”

Deciding not to ask, Jared merely said, “Still no I.D. on that body, by the way. No match in the missing-persons database. The forensics specialists are trying to get a viable fingerprint, but so far no luck. Nobody's recognized her photo within blocks of the area where she was found. The only thing the police are certain of is that her killer is pointing them toward the museum. Whether as a distraction or a taunt, not even the police shrinks are willing to guess.”

“What's your guess?”

“It's obvious and meant to look obvious. It also points at the museum, but not specifically at the
Mysteries Past
exhibit.” Jared paused, then shook his head. “We don't know a thief killed her, so pointing the police toward the museum could be something as simple—and as sick—as a joke. Her death could have absolutely nothing to do with the museum or the exhibit. But the police have to follow the lead, so . . . That's a hell of a big building. Impossible for the police to search completely.”

“And they're wasting a lot of time trying.”

“Maybe. They've questioned virtually everyone connected to the museum, showed them a photo of the Jane Doe. So far, nobody admits to having seen her, in the museum or outside it. The police are beginning to think her killer was just trying to throw them off the scent, that she has nothing at all to do with the museum.”

Quinn considered that for a moment in silence, then said, “Without more to go on, I'm not surprised the police don't know where to fit that particular puzzle piece.”

“You think she fits somewhere, that she's part of someone's plans for the museum or the exhibit?”

“Oh, yes,” Quinn replied matter-of-factly. “In a situation like this, there are no coincidences.”

“Then we've got another player.”

“It's very likely.”

“Great. That's just great.”

Quinn studied his brother, then said, “Are you going to give me the results of the ballistics report?”

“Do I have to?”

“No. Nightshade shot me.”

Jared sighed. “The bullet matched those taken from his previous victims. The question is, did he know who he was shooting.”

“He couldn't have
known
anything. He probably suspected another thief, maybe trying to I.D. him or trying to get rid of some of the competition.”

“Even if he didn't connect you with the museum, he has to suspect a trap.”

“Probably. I would.” Without waiting for a response to that, Quinn added, “The collection is being set up in the museum now, so there are armed guards everywhere around the clock; no thief in his right mind would try to go after it until the exhibit opens to the public.”

“Can we assume Nightshade is in his right mind?”

“We can assume he's not stupid. I don't believe he'd try for the collection now with all the security so visible. He'll wait, until the museum has to accommodate the public, has to reduce the number of guards and rely on electronic security. That's when it's most vulnerable.

“We have the by-invitation-only private showing next Friday, and then the exhibit opens to the public on Saturday. I think we both agree that the sooner we lure Nightshade into the trap, the better. If we let him, he could well wait for the next two months and make his move when we've relaxed our guard.”

“I'd rather not have to haunt the museum for the next two months,” Jared said politely. “The sooner we wrap this up, the happier I'll be.”

“Yes, I imagine you're pretty fed up with having to be my watchdog.”

“It isn't my favorite job, I admit.”

Curiously, Quinn asked, “Because you don't like being a watchdog, or because it's me?”

Jared drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Let's not go there, okay?”

Quinn hadn't kept himself alive and at large for ten years without learning when it was safer to back off. So he backed off. “Right. Look, I don't see that I can learn anything more by using the methods I've been using so far. With the collection out of the vaults, the stakes have just shot sky-high.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I can no longer afford to be cautious.”

“You're saying you've been acting cautiously all this time?”

“Of course.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Quinn could have said that he had, in fact, fooled his brother, but instead said, “Oh, I'm always careful.”

That solemn statement was so wide of the mark that Jared could only shake his head. “Sure you are.”

“I am. And I plan to be very, very careful during the next step of my plan.”

“Which is?” Jared inquired somewhat warily.

“Well, hunting by night hasn't earned me much except a bullet. I think it's time I tried a more direct approach.”

Jared sighed. “I've got a feeling I won't like this.”

“No, probably not.” Quinn's even, white teeth showed in a sudden grin. “But I will.”

CHAPTER

FIVE

“M
ay I have this dance?”

Morgan West would have known the voice anywhere, even here in a Sea Cliff mansion in the middle of an elegant, black-tie party. Rather numbly, she looked up to meet the laughing green eyes of the most famous—and infamous—cat burglar in the world.

Quinn.

He was dressed for the party, a handsome heartbreaker in his stark black dinner jacket. His fair hair gleamed as he bowed very slightly with exquisite grace before her, and Morgan knew without doubt that at least half the female eyes in the crowded ballroom were fixed on him.

The other half just hadn't seen him yet.

“Oh, Christ,” she murmured.

Quinn lifted her drink from her hand and set it on a nearby table. “As I believe I told you once before, Morgana—not nearly,” he said nonchalantly.

As he led her out onto the dance floor, Morgan told herself she certainly didn't want to make a scene. That was why she wasn't resisting him, of course. And it was also why she fixed a pleasantly noncommittal smile on her face despite the fact that her heart was going like a trip-hammer.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a low, fierce voice.

“I'm dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room,” he replied, suiting action to words as he drew her into his arms and began moving to the music, which was slow and dreamy.

Morgan refused to be flattered, and she kept her arms too stiff to allow him to pull her as close as he obviously wanted to. She was wearing a nearly backless black evening gown, and the sudden remembrance of just how much of her bare skin was showing made her feel self-conscious for the first time.

Not that she wanted
him
to know that, of course.

“Would you please shed your Don Juan suit and get serious?” she requested.

He chuckled softly, dancing with grace and without effort. “That was the bald truth, sweet.”

“Yeah, right.” Morgan sighed and couldn't help glancing around somewhat nervously, even though she kept the polite smile pasted to her lips and made sure her voice was low enough to escape being overheard. “Look, there are a dozen private guards watching over Leo Cassady's collection, and at least one cop here as a guest. Surely you aren't thinking—”

“You're the one who isn't thinking, Morgana.” His voice was low as well, but casual and unconcerned. “I prefer the secrecy of darkness and the anonymity of a mask, remember? Besides that, it would be rude in the extreme; I would never think of relieving our host of his valuables. No, I am simply here as a guest—an invited guest. Alexander Brandon at your service, ma'am. My friends call me Alex.”

As she danced automatically and gazed up at him, Morgan reminded herself of several things. First,
Quinn
was only a nickname, a pseudonym for a faceless thief that had been coined years before. Alexander was certainly his real first name—she believed that much since he'd been practically on his deathbed when he'd admitted it—but since he and Jared Chavalier were brothers, the name of Brandon was undoubtedly no more than a cover for whatever he was up to.

Second, if Quinn was here in Leo Cassady's home by invitation, someone must have vouched for him. Max, perhaps? He was really the only one who could have, she thought. Maxim Bannister was probably the only man Leo would trust enough to admit a stranger to his home.

And, third, Morgan reminded herself of just
how tangled this entire situation had become. The
Mysteries Past
exhibit had opened to the public today, Saturday, and it had been a rousing success. But the priceless collection was bait for a trap to catch a very dangerous thief, and Quinn was supposedly helping.

Supposedly.

“You dance divinely, Morgana,” Quinn said with his usual beguiling charm, smiling down at her. “I knew you would. But if you'd only relax just a bit—” His hand exerted a slight pressure at her waist in an attempt to draw her closer.

“No,” she said, resisting successfully without losing the rhythm of the dance.

His smile twisted a bit, though his wicked green eyes were alight with amusement. “So reluctant to trust me? I only want to obey the spirit of this dance and hold you closer.”

Morgan refused to be seduced. It was almost impossible, but she refused. “Never mind the spirit. You're holding me close enough.”

Those roguish eyes dropped to briefly examine the low-cut neckline of her black evening gown, and he said wistfully, “Not nearly close enough to suit me.”

For her entire adult life—and most of her teens—Morgan had fought almost constantly against the tendency of people, especially men, to assume that her generous bust was undoubtedly matched by an I.Q. in the low two digits, and so she tended to bristle whenever any man called attention to her measurements either by word or by look.

Any man except Quinn, that is. He had the peculiar knack of saying things that were utterly outrageous and yet made her want to giggle, and she always felt that his interest was as sincerely admiring of nature's generous beauty as it was—almost comically—lustful.

She even heard herself muttering, “See, I knew you were a boob man.”

“I certainly am now,” he responded, equally blunt and a little amused.

“Well, you'll just have to suffer,” she told him in the most severe tone she could manage.

He sighed. “I've been suffering since the night we met, Morgana.”

“Tough,” she said.

“You're a hard woman. I've said that before, haven't I?”

He'd been wearing a towel and a bandage at the time. Morgan shoved the memory away. “Look, I just want to know what you're doing here. And
don't
say dancing with me.”

“All right, I won't,” he said affably. “What I'm doing here is attending a party to celebrate the opening of the
Mysteries Past
exhibit.”

Morgan gritted her teeth but kept smiling. “I'm in no mood to fence with you. Did Max get you into the house?”

“I've been on the guest list for this party since the beginning, sweet.”

Forgetting to keep smiling, she frowned up at him. “What? You couldn't have been. Leo's always planned to throw a party the night of the
Mysteries Past
opening, and he sent out invitations more than a month ago—in fact, more than two months ago. How could you possibly—”

Quinn shook his head slightly, then guided her away from the center of the room. Not many of the guests seemed to take note of them, but Morgan caught a glimpse of Max Bannister watching from the other side of the room, his gray eyes unreadable.

Now that she knew Quinn was—supposedly, anyway—helping Interpol catch another thief, Morgan didn't feel quite so troubled about her previous encounters with the cat burglar, and after having nursed him back to health when he'd been shot, she could hardly look on him as a stranger. But she didn't trust him.

Yeah, you're willing to take him into your bed, but you don't trust him. That's smart.

That's just smart as hell.

He led her from the crowded ballroom without giving her a chance to protest, finding his way easily down a short hallway and out onto a slightly chilly, deserted terrace. Leo hadn't opened the French doors of the ballroom, probably because it had been raining when the party began; the flagstone terrace was still wet, and a heavy fog was creeping in over the garden. Still, if a guest
did
happen to wander out, the party's host was prepared: There were Japanese-type lanterns hung to provide light for the terrace and garden, along with scattered tables and chairs—very wet at the moment.

Everything gleamed from the rain, and the incoming fog made the garden an eerie sight. It was very quiet on the terrace, unnaturally so, with the thick mist providing its usual muffling effect; both the music from the ballroom and the sounds of the ocean could only just be heard.

Morgan assumed that Quinn wanted to talk to her without the greater chance of being overheard inside, so she made no effort to protest or to ask him why he'd brought her out here.

Still holding one of her hands, Quinn half sat on the stone balustrade edging the terrace and laughed softly as if some private joke amused him greatly. “Tell me something, Morgana. Have you ever stopped to think that I might be . . . more than Quinn?”

“What do you mean?”

His wide, powerful shoulders lifted in a shrug, and those vivid eyes remained on her face. “Well, Quinn is a creature of the night. His name's a pseudonym, a nickname—”

“An alias,” she supplied helpfully.

He let out a low laugh. “All right, an alias. My point is that he moves in the shadows, his face masked to the world—most of the world, anyway—and few know very much about him. But it isn't always night, Morgana. Masks tend to look a bit peculiar in the daylight, and Quinn would hardly have a passport or driver's license—to say nothing of a dinner jacket. So who do you think I am when I'm not Quinn?”

Oddly enough, that question hadn't even occurred to Morgan. “You're . . . Alex,” she answered a bit helplessly.

“Yes, but who is Alex?”

“How could I know that?”

“How could you, indeed. After all, Alex Brandon only arrived here yesterday. From England. I'm a collector.”

The sheer audacity of him had the usual effect on Morgan; she didn't know whether to laugh or hit him with something. So Alexander Brandon was supposed to be a collector? “Tell me you're kidding,” she begged.

He laughed again, the sound still soft. “Afraid not. My daytime persona, you see, is quite well established. Alexander Brandon has a rather nice house in London, which was left to him by his father, as well as apartments in Paris and New York. He has a dual citizenship—British and American—and, in fact, attended college here in the States. He came into a trust fund at twenty-one and manages a number of investments, also inherited, so he doesn't really have to work unless he wants to. And he seldom wants to. However, he travels quite a bit. And he collects artworks—particularly gems.”

Morgan had the feeling her mouth was hanging open.

With a smothered sound that might have been another laugh, Quinn went on carelessly. “His family name is quite well respected. So well, in fact, that you might find it on most any list of socially and financially powerful families—on either side of the Atlantic. And Leo Cassady sent him an invitation to this party more than two months ago—which he accepted.”

“Of all the gall,” Morgan said wonderingly.

Knowing she wasn't talking about Leo, Quinn sighed mournfully. “Yes, I know. I'm beyond redemption.”

Frowning at him, she said, “Is that how Max knows you? From this blameless other life you created for yourself, I mean? And Wolfe?”

“We have encountered one another a few times over the years. Though neither of them knew I was Quinn until fairly recently,” Quinn murmured.

“That must have been a shock for them,” she said.

“You could say that, yes.”

Morgan was still frowning. “So . . . now you're openly here in San Francisco, as Alexander Brandon, scion of a noble family and well known as a collector of rare and precious gems.”

“Exactly.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I have a suite at the Imperial.”

It was one of the newer and more luxurious hotels to grace Nob Hill, a fact that shouldn't have surprised Morgan. If Quinn was playing the part of a rich collector, then he'd naturally stay at the best hotel in town. But she couldn't help wondering . . .

“Is Interpol paying the bills?” she asked bluntly.

“No. I am.”

“You are? Wait a minute, now. You're spending your own money—quite probably ill-gotten gains—to maintain this cover of yours so that you can help Interpol catch a thief so they won't put you in prison?”

Quinn tugged at her hand slightly so that she took a step closer to him; she was standing almost between his knees. “You put things so colorfully—but, yes, that's the gist of it. I don't know why that should surprise you, Morgana.”

“Well, it does.” She brooded over the question, hardly aware of their closeness. “It's an awfully elaborate situation for someone who's supposedly just trying to keep his ass out of prison. Unless . . . Has this other thief done something to you? You personally?”

Quinn's voice was dry. “Aside from putting a bullet in me, you mean?”

Morgan had a flash of memory—Quinn lying in her bed unconscious, that awful wound high on his chest—and something inside her tightened in remembered pain. With an effort, she managed to push the memory away. It reminded her, though, that here was another question she should have asked—and
hadn't
—simply because she'd been so preoccupied with the vexing reality of Quinn's effect on her.

“So he is the one who shot you? Is that why you're doing this? Because he shot you?”

Quinn was holding her hand against his thigh and looked down at it for a moment before he met her eyes. In the soft glow of the lanterns, the light diffused by the mist curling around them, he looked unusually serious. “That would be reason enough for most people.”

“What else?”

“Does there have to be another reason?”

Morgan nodded. “For you? Yes, I think so. You've tried your best to convince me you're out for nobody except Quinn—but some of what I'm seeing doesn't add up. If you're as selfish and self-involved as you say, why not just go through the motions to satisfy Interpol? Why put yourself—and your own money—on the line if you don't have to?”

“Who says I don't have to? Interpol can be a harsh taskmaster, sweet.”

“Maybe so, but I have a feeling you have better motives than just saving your own skin.”

“Don't paint me with noble colors, Morgana,” he said softly. “In the first storm, they'll wash off. And you'll be disappointed at what's underneath.”

It held echoes of something he'd tried to tell her before, a warning not to get involved with him on an intimate level, and though Morgan appreciated the spirit of the warning, she was not a woman prepared to allow others to make up her mind for her. She had come to certain conclusions about Quinn's character, and those conclusions would be confirmed—or disproved—by his own actions and behavior.