“The question of the hour.”
“We're missing something.”
“Yeah, I got that feeling.”
“You haven't told Wolfe about Keane's call last night, have you?”
“Keane was planning to call him first thing this morning. Probably has by now.”
“Why didn't one of you call last night?”
Jared shrugged. “Didn't see any reason to disturb you two with another seemingly useless puzzle piece.”
“I appreciate that.” Storm smiled. “Wolfe also appreciates it.”
“Wolfe wouldn't appreciate it if I handed him winning lottery numbers.”
“Actually, I would,” Wolfe said as he came into the room. “Nothing personal, you understand, but money is money.” He closed the door behind him.
“Right,” Jared murmured.
“Find anything?” Storm asked her fiancé.
“Nah. Keane called. I guess Jared filled you in?”
“Just now. And there's more.”
Jared told Wolfe about Morgan's ordeal the night before, and the news immediately brought a scowl to Wolfe's face.
“I don't like this,” he announced.
“Morgan's all right. This time, anyway.” Jared frowned. “But something Alex said last night has been bugging me. It didn't hit me until hours later. He said that maybe Nightshade had gotten suspicious of him and was watching him.”
The three of them looked at one another for a moment, then Wolfe said slowly, “Which means not only that Alex knows who Nightshade is, but that Nightshade may well know that Alex Brandon and Quinn are one and the same.”
“Anybody else just feel the bottom drop out of their stomach?” Storm asked.
Completely in sync for once, both Wolfe and Jared raised a hand.
The room was bright when Morgan finally opened her eyes, and for a moment or so she lay there on her stomach in the middle of the bed, her body warm beneath the covers, just blinking drowsily. She felt wonderful. Different, though. So relaxed and content she wanted to purr like a cat sprawled in the sunlight. Every inch of her skin seemed heated in a strange new way, and she had the odd notion that she could feel her heart beating throughout her entire body.
She didn't want to move, reluctant to do anything that might change the blissful sense of fulfillment she felt. But she wasn't a woman who could be still for long unless she was sleeping, and the drowsiness left her. Gradually, she focused on the clock on her nightstand. Twelve. Twelve noon.
Frowning, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, staring at the clock. Noon? She hadn't slept this late in years, why on earth would she— Then she remembered.
It all came back to her in a rush, and she twisted quickly to look around her bedroom, ignoring a few twinges from muscles protesting the sudden movement. The room was empty except for her. But . . . those clothes on the storage chest at the foot of her bed; weren't they his? Black sweater and pants, folded neatly . . . Yes, she thought they were his.
Morgan pushed herself upright and only then heard quiet music from the other side of the apartment. She didn't hear a sign of Quinn, but she was certain he was still here. She could feel his nearness, as usual. After a moment, she slid to the edge of the bed, another twinge in her ankle reminding her of last night's injury. It didn't look too bad, she decided, just a bit puffy and wearing spectacular colors; when she stood up cautiously, it held her weight with only slight pain.
When she went into the bathroom, she realized Quinn had recently taken a shower; the air was still damp, and so was a towel he had draped over the shower-curtain rod. She thought he'd probably used the electric razor she had provided for him when he'd stayed here before.
She took her own shower, letting the hot water clear her mind even as it soothed her sore body. She'd noticed a few more (faint) bruises that had resulted from her struggle on the fire escape, and between that and her unusually active night, she was definitely a little stiff.
The hot water certainly helped, so she lingered there, washing her hair and smiling to herself when she remembered his fingers tangled in it. When she finally got out of the tub and wrapped her hair in a towel, she felt much better. She rummaged in the vanity cabinets underneath the sink and found a bottle of body lotion in the scent of the perfume she usually wore, and rubbed some of that into her skin. She knew it was the rubbing rather than the lotion that made her muscles feel looser and less strained—but soft, scented skin was an added benefit that any woman with a lover could easily appreciate.
Morgan wrapped a towel around herself and unwrapped her hair to begin drying it, and as her blow-dryer roared she thought about that. A lover. Was that what Quinn would be? She didn't know, she really didn't. The timing of all this, considering the circumstances, was hardly the best, and even if it had been, Quinn was not what anyone would choose to call predictable.
Or conventional. Given who and what he was, it was entirely possible that this interlude with her was no more than that—a respite in the middle of a tense situation to let him unwind and seek a purely sexual release of stress.
That
was a depressing possibility, she decided, but one she had to consider at least logical and perhaps likely. He was, after all, an unusually handsome and charming man somewhere in his thirties—and though the mysterious Quinn might not have wished to risk possible exposure of his identity with a sex life, his daytime persona of Alex had undoubtedly enjoyed the company of eager females over the years. The evidence of that was clear; he'd been a skilled and sensitive lover, and that required both experience and a thorough knowledge of a woman's body and what would please her.
Morgan was hardly shocked by these realizations. In fact, she wasn't particularly surprised by them. She was a rational woman, and she'd had weeks since meeting Quinn to consider the matter. She had, in fact, thought about him and what involvement with him might mean to the point that she was reasonably sure she had considered every possibility.
Not that it helped, really. It might have been possible in the last weeks to detach her emotions enough to contemplate the possible consequences of taking a very famous and very enigmatic cat burglar into her bed, but once it had happened, her detachment was gone. Only emotions were left, and all those told her was what she
felt
.
She loved him. Beyond reason or rationality, beyond common sense or consequences, she loved him.
And that was what she had to endure, no matter what the future brought.
By the time her hair was dry, Morgan had more or less decided to play this new turn in their relationship by ear. What other choice did she have? Her life was clearly defined and spread out before him; there were no mysteries, no hidden facts, no false names—no lies. Who and what she was were obvious to him. Who and what
he
was, on the other hand, were still somewhat nebulous. The only thing she knew for certain was that what he was doing was dangerous.
So, at least until Quinn's trap for Nightshade was sprung, her instincts told her to accept whatever he offered and be as patient as she could. Once that was over and he could tell her the truth, then perhaps there would be a discussion about some kind of future for them. Or perhaps not.
Perhaps Quinn would return to Europe and the life he enjoyed and knew so well. Without her.
There was, in any case, absolutely nothing she could do to either make him love her or make him stay with her. She had a better chance of catching lightning in a bottle than she had of capturing him and, besides that, the last thing she would have chosen would be to see him trapped. Whatever he did in the end had to be his own decision, without pressure from her.
She returned to the bedroom, still thoughtful, and briefly debated before pulling a gold silk robe from her closet. It was one of those garments a single woman might buy for herself but then not wear simply because it was designed for a man to look at, something rich and elegant that caressed the body in a touch of pure sensuality.
Well, she acknowledged silently, there was pressure . . . and then there was
pressure.
After all, no woman worth the name would just stand by and let the man she loved make up his mind about things without at least reminding him of a few advantages a sensible and rational woman could provide. That was certainly fair.
Even Quinn would probably agree.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
W
ithout vanity, Morgan knew she looked good
in
the deceptively simple robe. The color suited her, and the shimmering material clung to her body in all the right places. She couldn't help smiling a little as she tied the belt at her waist, remembering last night's sweatshirt and pants—and the fuzzy slippers. Talk about from the ridiculous to the sublime!
Barefoot, she padded out into the living room. Empty, with music videos playing quietly on the television. She continued on to the kitchen and there found Quinn, his back to her, busy preparing what looked like an appetizing brunch of pancakes with fruit. Since he'd helped in the kitchen while recovering from his wound, Morgan wasn't surprised by his skill. And he was wearing jeans and a white shirt, some of his own clothes that had been left behind here weeks ago.
She knew very well that his still being here today was a good sign; she had half expected him to leave before she awakened. But Morgan refused to let herself attach too much importance to that.
One step at a time, that's the way to go
.
“Hi,” she greeted him casually.
He looked over his shoulder at her, mouth opening to say something that never got said. Instead, he stared at her for a moment, brilliant green eyes scanning her from bare toes to gleaming hair, then turned a dial on the griddle, set the spatula on the counter beside it, and came to her.
Somewhat breathlessly a few moments later, she said, “I always forget how big you are until I'm standing close to you. Why is that?”
“I have no idea.” He nuzzled the side of her neck, inhaling slowly. “You smell wonderful.”
Her arms up around his neck—and her feet off the floor since he'd lifted her—Morgan murmured something wordless in response and wondered vaguely how his body could feel so hard and yet so pleasur-able against hers. He had both his arms tightly wrapped around her so that she was certain there wasn't a square inch of her front not pressed to his, and since her silk robe was whisper-thin, it felt like only the slight barrier of his clothing separated them.
Then he lifted his head suddenly and frowned, and Morgan felt herself being lowered back to her feet.
“I was enjoying myself,” she protested.
He smiled slightly, but the frown remained in his eyes. One hand gently brushed her hair back away from her neck. “Sweetheart, did I do this?”
She didn't feel pain when he touched her very lightly just below her ear, but she knew he was looking at a faint bruise because she'd seen it in the mirror. “No, I think our friend on the fire escape did it. If he hadn't been wearing gloves, you could probably get his thumbprint off me. It was when he was holding that cloth over my face.”
Quinn nodded slightly, an expression she couldn't read flaring in his eyes. He lowered his head and kissed her, still as hungry as before but brief. “I heard the shower, so I thought you'd be ready for breakfast.”
Morgan smiled at him. “I'm starving. But you turned the griddle up instead of down, and the pancakes are burning.”
Swearing rather creatively, he released her and hastily went back to the counter to pry smoldering pancakes off the griddle. Morgan turned on the exhaust fan over the stove, hoping to avoid having the smoke detector outside her bedroom door go off, then opened the kitchen window for good measure. A cool breeze wafted in obediently, and the smoke dissipated before it could do any harm.
“I'm glad I made extra batter,” he commented ruefully as he dumped blackened pancakes into the trash can. “I must have known you'd come in here looking like Helen of Troy when she launched all those ships.”
“You sweet-talker, you,” Morgan said.
Stirring his batter, Quinn sent her a smile. “Tell me something, Morgana. Do you believe anything I say?”
“'Bout half,” she conceded mildly as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “I'd consider myself in serious need of therapy if I believed more than that.”
He chuckled, but then sent her another glance, this one more sober. “Regrets?”
Remembering what he'd said about what could happen if they became lovers without trust, she shook her head and smiled at him. “No, no regrets. I knew what I was doing.”
For a moment he concentrated on his cooking, expertly flipping the golden pancakes. Then, softly, he said, “We were both reckless.”
Having realized this discussion would take place, Morgan was ready for it and responded calmly. “If you mean birth control, it's all right. My doctor put me on the pill a couple of years ago for an irregular cycle.”
He looked at her, very direct. “You don't have to worry about anything else.”
“Neither do you.” Leaning back against the counter, she conjured a rather regretful smile. “It's become a dangerous world, hasn't it? Even in the bedroom.”
Quinn leaned over and kissed her, gently this time. “It always was, sweetheart. The only difference is that now the dangers aren't so obvious—and too often tend to be potentially fatal.”
“Yeah. Sometimes it's the pits being a grown-up,” Morgan observed. But then, being a naturally optimistic woman, her absent attention fixed on him as he turned the pancakes onto two plates, and her gaze wandered over his broad shoulders, down his back to his lean waist, and then to his narrow hips and long legs. He looked awfully good in jeans, she reflected. Only half aware of making the sound, she sighed. “Then again . . . sometimes it's not bad at all.”
Her thoughts must have been obvious from her voice, because he smiled without looking at her and murmured, “You're a wicked woman, Morgana.”
Somewhat dryly, she said, “No, just human.” Then she refilled their coffee cups and helped him transfer the food to her small kitchen table.
It wasn't until later, when they were finished with the meal and had cleaned up the kitchen, that Morgan somewhat cautiously turned their casual conversation in a more serious direction. “Alex . . . you aren't going to tell me who Nightshade is?”
He had followed her into the living room, and when she asked the question he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “We've talked about this, Morgana. If you came face-to- face with a man you knew was Nightshade, could you trust yourself not to react to that knowledge?”
“I suppose not.” She looked up at him steadily. “But I would like to know how badly I screwed things up by climbing that fire escape last night.”
He hesitated only an instant. “Hardly at all—
if
I can persuade Nightshade that you were going up there to visit Alex Brandon, with no idea I'm also Quinn.”
“Why would I think I could find Alex on a rooftop somewhere around midnight?”
“Help me think of a reason, will you? The last thing I want is for Nightshade to start wondering if you know I'm Quinn. Because, once he does that, he might also wonder why a woman of well-known honesty and integrity such as yourself would be keeping quiet about that.”
“And smell a trap?”
“I would, in his place.”
Morgan bit her bottom lip for a moment, then eased back away from him and went to sit down—in the chair rather than on the couch. She had trouble thinking clearly when he touched her, and she wanted to think about this.
Quinn sat down at the end of the couch nearest her chair, watching her gravely.
“Alex . . .
he
knows you're Quinn. I mean, he knows that Alex Brandon is Quinn.” There was a faint question in her voice, even though she was sure she was right about this.
“He knows.”
“Then I don't understand. He knows you're Quinn, and you know he's Nightshade—and you're both wanted by the police in several countries. You're both eyeing
Mysteries Past
because the Bannister collection is something any thief would want—and each of you knows about the other's interest in it. How does that add up to a trap?”
Quinn hesitated, then sighed. “Actually, it's more like a sting. I knew that Nightshade would be at least a little reluctant to go after the Bannister collection on his own, no matter how badly he wants it.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, he isn't technically adept. At least not at the level required to breach a cutting-edge security system.”
Morgan was beginning to feel a little queasy. “Which you knew going in.”
“Yes.”
“Alex, are you telling me that you—that Nightshade needs a partner in order to go after the Bannister collection? And that you're it?”
“Yes.”
Morgan put her elbows on her knees and covered her face with both hands.
Quinn cleared his throat. “Needless to say, the others don't know about that part. Not even Jared.”
“Oh, needless to say,”she mumbled through her fingers. She dropped her hands and stared at him. “Because if they
did
know, they'd kill you.”
“That was why I didn't tell them.”
“Jesus, Alex.”
“Morgana, it'll work. It's already working. It's well known that state-of-the-art electronic security systems are favorites of mine. My specialty, as it were. Nightshade might be able to get inside the museum—but not inside the exhibit. Not without me and the knowledge and skills I can provide. I've spent quite a bit of time and considerable effort convincing him of that fact.”
Morgan tried to keep her mind on the logistics of the situation and off her anxiety. “Okay. But why couldn't Quinn go after the collection alone? I mean, why would Quinn need Nightshade?”
“Several reasons,” he answered willingly enough. “As you pointed out yourself, the States are . . . unfamiliar ground to Quinn. Even a thief who apparently acts alone has to have contacts: inside sources or informants with reliable information, trustworthy people to provide supplies and equipment, some quick and safe means of transportation once the job is done. All my contacts are in Europe—and I'd have a hell of a time transporting the collection back there. But I came here anyway because, as you say, the Bannister collection is irresistible.
“So . . . when I stumble across another thief while casing the museum, I make it a point to follow him until I know who he is. He's naturally upset that I was able to find him, but I make it clear I don't particularly care who he is and that I have no intention of either exposing him or horning in on his territory. No, I'm going to go back to Europe—but I want very badly to take one piece of the Bannister collection with me.”
“The Bolling?” she guessed.
Quinn smiled slightly. “Are you kidding? That bloody thing's got a curse on it. Every time it's been stolen in its long and colorful history, it's brought disaster to the thief.”
Startled, she said, “I didn't know that was the curse.”
“Oh, yes, and it's well documented. The diamond came into the hands of the Bannisters somewhere around 1500—legitimately. A gentleman named Edward Bannister found the uncut and unpolished stone lying in a streambed in India. Just lying right out in the open.”
“Talk about luck,” Morgan said, perfectly aware that Quinn was deliberately trying to distract her. What she wasn't certain of was whether she was going to let him get away with it.
“Yeah. Anyway, he had the stone polished—not faceted—and gave it as a betrothal present to his bride. The first attempt to steal it actually occurred during their honeymoon, and the would-be thief broke his neck trying to escape out a window. Rumor has it that Edward stood over the body wearing nothing but a sheet grabbed in haste from the connubial bed and promptly declared to all present that the diamond was obviously fated to belong to his family and would henceforth be considered an amulet. Then he christened the stone the Bolling diamond.”
“Why Bolling?”
Quinn smiled. “Well, Edward couldn't call it the Bannister diamond, because he already had one with that moniker. So he had to think of something else. And it seems he possessed a somewhat ironic sense of humor. The thief who broke his neck trying to steal the stone went by the name of Thomas Bolling.”
“And the stone he couldn't steal would forever wear his name. That is ironic. And it's a strange kind of fame.”
“Thomas Bolling would probably be pleased; from all accounts, he was both stupid and somewhat depraved and likely would have passed through history unknown if not for his encounter with that pretty yellow diamond.”
Morgan eyed Quinn. “Are you
sure
you aren't making this up? It spins very readily off your silver tongue.”
“I swear. Ask Max.”
“Mmm. Okay, so then what happened?”
“Well, by uttering what he most likely thought would be a warning that would ward off superstitious thieves at least, old Edward appears to have laid a solid foundation for the curse. Maybe fate was listening. Or maybe there simply followed a very long string of amazingly unlucky thieves. In any case, the Bolling diamond began to build quite a reputation. In those days, the stone probably weighed at least a hundred carats and likely more, so it was quite a target. And later on, when it was faceted and eventually set into the pendant, it was so breathtaking that few could resist the lure of it.
“During the next four hundred years, there were dozens of attempts to steal it, some of them remarkably ingenious. But nobody could successfully get it away from the Bannister family. Without exception, all the thieves died—most in decidedly painful ways. A few were caught and died in prison, but all of them died because of that stone.”
Morgan shivered a little. She had never been a superstitious woman, but the story definitely unnerved her. No doubt because she was in love with a jewel thief. She cleared her throat and said a bit fiercely, “You stay away from that thing.”
He smiled and moved suddenly, sliding off the couch and onto his knees in front of her chair. Before she could do anything, his hands were on her knees, easing them apart. She caught her breath as warm fingers stroked her outer thighs, then slid upward very slowly, under the silk of her robe, until they could cup her bottom and pull her toward him.
“I'm not going to steal the Bolling, Morgana,” he murmured, his eyes heavy-lidded and intense. He kissed the side of her neck, then her throat when her head fell back against the chair cushion. His lips trailed slowly down along the V of silky flesh exposed by the robe's lapels, and his voice grew hoarse. “It's the Talisman emerald I'm after.”