Dreamwalker (3 page)

“Nothing was detected. Nobody reported anything suspicious. It’ll take time to isolate when it was stolen, much less how it was done.”

The blond agent beside Suder spoke up. “You didn’t see anything?” He frowned at Damon, his close-set gray eyes narrowed, radiating suspicion and hostility.

Territorial one-fuckmanship Damon didn’t have time or patience for. He did wonder what the man’s insecurity said about his nightmares, as a matter of professional curiosity.

“Nothing.” Damon didn’t bother informing them he’d sensed her presence earlier. The fewer who knew about his abilities, the better. Besides, the knowledge wouldn’t do them any good. He couldn’t tell them if she’d been inside or outside the museum at the time—only that she’d been nearby. He could make an informed guess, but helping them catch his master thief at this point was contraindicated.

The ensuing conference failed to bring anything new to light. When it turned to plans for investigation, Damon took that as his cue to bow out. He’d seen the results of previous heists. There would be nothing to tie her to this job—she was that good— which meant there was nothing more for him here. In the weeks since he’d taken over this unusual assignment, he’d learned that much.

He took his leave, picking up a flyer that caught his eye on the way out. To catch his master thief, he’d have to go on the offensive. To do that he’d need suitable bait.

The silence of the nearly deserted museum descended around Damon, a pleasant balm after the contentious discussions and unbridled emotions he’d just left. It was broken all too soon by the rapid slap of leather soles on hard granite.

Suder had abandoned the hostile blond agent, catching up with Damon to scowl at him across his shoulder. “You’re leaving, just like that?”

Damon fanned himself with the glossy leaflet; the museum was much warmer than outside, but he hadn’t wanted to take his leather jacket off and flash his pistol. “Not my job.”

“You’re the one who knew someone was going for the Monet tonight,” Suder whispered in heated tones as they passed the front desk. “You telling me you won’t help?”

“Recovering the painting isn’t my concern.” Acquiring his extremely competent thief was. He lengthened his stride, eager to get back to his hotel room and dive into his thief’s dreams.

“You’ve got to give me something to work with, Venizélos.” Suder’s face and ears were turning red. He worried at his tie as though it was choking him, probably thinking about how this fiasco would look on his record.

Damon weighed the possibility that giving the FBI special agent a lead might bollix his own mission to acquire his master thief against the probability Damon would need his help in the future. As he saw it, the odds were against Suder’s efforts interfering with his own. It also wouldn’t hurt for the other man to owe him a favor; that was the way the system worked.

“Venizélos . . .” A strangled growl that sounded more like a plea than a threat.

Taking pity on the man, Damon shared the short list of heists executed during the opening nights of high-profile exhibits, confident that Suder wouldn’t learn anything from them— except that Damon’s master thief covered all her bases. He liked that in a woman, especially one he’d have to work with.

Despite his admiration for the flawless execution of the heist, Damon loathed reporting a setback, no matter how temporary. He had to force himself to make his next call once he was back in his hotel room.

As soon as the phone was answered on the other end, he reported the bad news: “She got away.”

“She?” the deputy director of operations countered immediately. Past midnight in his time zone and the Old Man sounded like he’d just had a fresh pot of coffee.

“Our mysterious master thief,” Damon gritted out.

“Is a woman?”

He paced to the picture window to stare down at the deserted, lamp-lit streets. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth. “No doubt about it. Waltzed into the museum, took what she wanted, and left without a trace.”

“A woman, huh? That’s more than we had before. Hell, boy, quit growling. That’s progress.”

Damon rolled his eyes at his superior’s response. The Old Man had been his uncle’s protégé at the agency and had known Damon most of his life. He made it a point to try to get Damon to “lighten up.” If discovering his master thief’s gender was progress, it’d take him a year to acquire her—a year they didn’t have. Once that tactical nuke surfaced, they’d have to move fast to get it out of terrorist hands.

“We need to set a trap.” Damon flipped open the glossy flyer from the museum and studied it with narrowed eyes. “I’ve got an idea.” And this time, he’d be ready for her.

Rory left the twenty-four-hour Kinko’s with a bounce in her step, assured that the cane with its hidden canvas was on the van that had just left. The painting should be in the hands of her client soon after her father received the package. Another commission accomplished without much of a problem. She headed back to her hotel, more than ready for a few hours of sleep. With the canvas out of her hands, she could now devote time to planning how she’d spend her vacation. Too bad she couldn’t go hook up with the Adonis of the park; the fact he was a Fed made it too risky. As much as she enjoyed a challenge, seeking him out would be tempting the Fates.

She mourned the stillborn affair, wishing she’d had the benefit of carnal knowledge of her Adonis before she’d learned he was off-limits. Fondling that exceptional erection had whetted her appetite for more, had spawned explicit daydreams that almost distracted her from her commission. Despite the risk he posed, she couldn’t forget the sketch she’d made of him naked. She’d bet he looked even better in the flesh.

Back at her room at the Residence Inn, Rory peeled the magnetic Do Not Disturb sign off the door and checked her keychain for a green light—no one lurking inside—before entering.

Her laptop lay on the desk where she’d placed it earlier that evening before she’d left for the museum. Her suitcase was propped open, revealing a messy spill of clothes. She cultivated the image deliberately, since the apparent naïveté made her appear less suspicious. Besides, any determined thief would be able to break the paltry locks of her suitcase and the room safe; more than anyone else, she should know. Why invite additional damage?

A quick glance told her everything was as it should be. Or else whoever had searched her things was even more paranoid than she was—and a lot more skilled. She didn’t think she could duplicate the careless drape of the red blouse on top of everything. Since she didn’t think anyone else could, she was probably fine.

Rory untied the dark shawl that had served as a skirt for her trip to Kinko’s and dropped it in her suitcase. Rolling down the legs of her pantsuit, she undressed quickly, making sure to invert her jacket so that the red side was hidden once more, before she hung it in the closet.

She fell into bed, considering vacation spots. Maybe the Riviera or Australia’s Gold Coast? Someplace where the sun was shining and she could sate the hunger that Adonis had awakened in her. She snuggled into her pillows, rubbing her tingling nipples against the crisp cotton.

It was definitely past time for some nookie. She’d spent so much time planning the execution of this commission that she’d let fun and games fall by the wayside; evidently her body believed enough was enough and was making its requirements known. She closed her eyes, ignoring her clamoring libido, too drowsy to consider soothing it.

Her sensual craving followed her into sleep, taking form in restless dreams.

Turning over in her bed, Rory moaned, welcoming the sweet comfort. The pleasure built slowly, pulling her deeper into sleep. With a happy sigh, she surrendered to the dream, abandoning herself to its hedonistic delights.

The scalding force of her release shocked Rory awake. Her womb spasmed in the violent aftermath of wicked pleasure, her legs quivering, her thighs wet with cream. Breathless, she lay for long moments, swathed by rumpled sheets and shuddering from her release, not knowing what to make of it. She hadn’t responded that strongly to a wet dream in a long time.

And dreaming of a dildo? How weird was that? Even weirder was a niggling sense of déjà vu, a feeling that she’d seen that dildo before.

Rory groaned at the sunlight leaking past the heavy drapes, her heart pounding in her ears, her core fluttering once again. Her folds ached, hypersensitive from constant arousal. The dream had reclaimed her every time she’d gone back to sleep after another shocked awakening from more bone-melting orgasms. She hadn’t had two straight hours of sleep all night as a result. Now, the haze of musk and need surrounding her was almost overpowering, every breath she took, every gasp and gulp, a potent reminder of the night’s strange fascination.

To think she’d fixated on an object. After all her carnal plans for her vacation, she’d have expected to dream of a lover, perhaps even of that Adonis, being tall, dark, and hung—not a dildo of magical powers!

That sense of familiarity returned, pricking her dazed euphoria. Where could she have seen that dildo? It hadn’t been part of the Oriental art exhibit—she was certain of that—but there was something distinctly Oriental about it.

Rory closed her eyes to better envision the dildo from her dreams, flexing her hands as she tried to remember how holding it had felt. Cool and smooth despite the ridges . . . solid jade and covered with elaborate carvings! Chinese work, perhaps.

Sunlight reflected off something on the nightstand, drawing her eye to the flyers she’d collected at the museum.

Freeing herself from her cocoon of blankets, Rory flipped through the glossy papers quickly. Her memory of the exhibit was impeccable; what had been on show were articles from daily life: clothes, weapons, and whatnot. Beautiful and worthy of display in themselves but nothing truly unusual.