Morgan slid her fingers into his thick pale-gold hair and tugged gently, frowning at him a bit dazedly when he looked at her. He was distracting her, dammit. “You're
after
?”
“I mean—it's the Talisman emerald that Nightshade
thinks
I'm after. Can we talk about this later?” He caught her lower lip delicately between his teeth, nibbling, then he was kissing her with unhidden hunger.
He got one hand between them long enough to tug at the belt of her robe, and she felt the garment open up as if it had been designed to slip over heated flesh. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, and the feeling of his clothing against her naked skin maddened her.
She wanted him now, right now, that primitive need overwhelming everything else with a suddenness that was dimly terrifying. She didn't realize her hands were tugging at his shirt until she had to lean back a bit to cope with his buttons, and then the tautness of his face and the blazing need in his eyes told her that he was as impatient for her as she was for him.
Quinn helped her to get his shirt off and tossed it aside. He unfastened his jeans and pushed them and his shorts down only as far as necessary, and Morgan heard herself cry out in an incoherent sound of pleasure when she felt him inside her.
When the peak came, it was as swift and sharp as the ascent had been. Quinn wrapped his arms around her and held her tight against him, both of them shuddering under the force of the waves of ecstasy that tore through them—and left them with barely the strength to remain upright.
Morgan kept her face buried in the curve of his neck, breathing in the heady male scent of him while her pounding heart slowly returned to its normal steady beat. She didn't want to move or open her eyes. All she wanted to do was hold him like this while he held her and luxuriate in the sensations.
It gradually occurred to her, however, that their positions, while amazingly erotic, were hardly comfortable now that passion was temporarily spent. In fact, being Morgan, she was suddenly tempted to giggle. A chair in her living room, for heaven's sake, and in the middle of the day. Even with the carpet, his knees were probably giving him hell, and she'd never felt so astonished at herself in her entire life.
He lifted his head suddenly and looked at her, smiling but with fierce eyes. “If you laugh, I swear I'll strangle you,” he told her in a voice that was still husky.
Either she had given herself away somehow, she thought, or else the connection between them was growing stronger.
She cleared her throat and tried to stop smiling. “I'm sorry, but I can't help it. I'm not amused because this is funny, I'm just sort of . . . startled. What happened? I mean, one minute we were having a perfectly rational conversation, and the next minute we were . . .”
“Yes, we were. We certainly were.” He kissed her, then eased away and pulled his jeans up, zipping them but not bothering to fasten the snap. “Let's do it again.”
“Wait a minute.” Trying to think clearly because something was bothering her, she tapped the middle of his chest with her index finger in a useless bid to get his full attention. “What you told me about your—your sting. You're over here just to catch Nightshade, that's the plan, right?”
“Mmmm,” he agreed, nuzzling her neck.
“Then—” She gasped when he gently bit her earlobe, and she felt her eyes starting to cross. “Then why did you take that dagger the night we met?”
“Camouflage,” he murmured, but not as if the subject interested him much. “You would have wondered if I hadn't taken anything that night.”
“Oh. Umm . . . Alex? I know I asked you before, but . . . did you steal the Carstairs diamonds?”
“No.” He stopped exploring her neck long enough to swing her up into his arms. He kissed her and started toward the bedroom, adding cheerfully, “I just borrowed them.”
“Why can't she be identified?”
Both Wolfe and Jared looked at Storm, and the latter said, “You mean Jane Doe?” They were still in the computer room and still brainstorming the situation.
“Yeah. Why can't she be identified?”
“No fingerprints, for one thing,” Jared began, then stopped and nodded slowly as he realized Storm's meaning. “Why doesn't the
killer
want her identified.”
“It's an important question, isn't it? A piece of the puzzle. He makes damned sure she can't be identified yet leaves signposts all over the place pointing to the museum.”
“So,” Wolfe said, “either her identity would lead us far from the museum, or else it would get us a hell of a lot closer to seeing a big piece of the puzzle. Another assumption, but a reasonable one.”
“The police are working on an I.D.,” Jared noted.
“But are they working on the right thing?” Wolfe frowned at the Interpol agent. “The killer went to the extreme of using a blowtorch to obliterate her prints. That says to me that he knew or had good reason to believe the prints were on file somewhere.”
“Criminal, police, or military,” Storm said. “All are routinely printed. Some states' DMVs are beginning to print drivers, but it's not universal yet. There are other groups with databases, but those are primaries. Covers a lot of territory.”
“But it does narrow the field,” Jared noted. “Gives the police somewhere to look. If they can ever get a usable print to run against the databases.”
“The military tends to be possessive of its information,” Wolfe noted. “Max might have to pull a few strings. That's assuming the police forensics people
can
produce a usable print.”
Storm said, “It could be just another signpost, you know. Another way to make us look for something that isn't there. I mean, he's already gone to so much trouble—just planting that knife in the basement the way he did, for instance—that maybe using a blowtorch to destroy his victim's prints is just one more bit of sleight of hand. No pun intended.”
“We're spending too much time second-guessing ourselves, that's the trouble,” Jared said.
“You've been a cop a long time,” Wolfe said, staring at him. “What do your instincts say?”
Promptly, Jared replied, “That knowing who Jane Doe is will give us a very big piece of the puzzle.”
“Then I say that's the assumption we follow,” Wolfe said rather surprisingly. “What does Alex think?”
“About Jane Doe? He hasn't said much. He's very focused on Nightshade. Maybe too focused.”
“Reel him in,” Wolfe suggested bluntly.
“It's not that simple.”
“Maybe it should be.”
Wary that the tentative peace between the two men could end abruptly over this, Storm intervened to say calmly, “Alex is certainly in the best position to track another thief, so until we're absolutely certain Jane Doe or her murder is connected to the museum, it's probably best not to split his focus.”
“Morgan already has,” Jared muttered.
“Best not to split it a third way, then.” Storm smiled. “Can't fight human nature, guys, we all know that. Maybe it is a lousy time for those two to find each other, but we're not really in control of these things.” She was smiling at Wolfe. “Are we?”
His face softened. “No. No, we're not.”
Whatever Jared might have said to that was lost when a timid knock on the door interrupted them. Chloe Webster stuck her head in without waiting for a response.
“Storm— Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were alone.”
“It's all right, Chloe. What's up?”
“Inspector Tyler just called Mr. Dugan to tell him the forensics team wants to take another look at the basement. Possible points of entry, I think he said. I thought you should know.”
Storm nodded. “Okay, Chloe. Thanks.”
The new assistant curator sort of ducked her head and hastily withdrew, closing the door softly.
“Am I being paranoid,” Jared said, “or was that a pretty flimsy excuse to see what was going on in here?”
“You're being paranoid,” Wolfe said, then grimaced and looked inquiringly at Storm.
“She's poking her nose into corners, but that's natural,” Storm said. “Trying to learn the place. I haven't seen anything to send up red flags. The background check was clean, you both know that.”
Jared sighed. “Yet another tangent, probably. I'm getting suspicious of everyone. Christ, I wish Nightshade would make his move and get it over with.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Storm warned soberly.
It was late afternoon before Morgan could summon the energy to resume their earlier conversation, and when she did her voice was wondering. “Borrowed them. You borrowed the Carstairs diamonds. You're a lunatic, you know that?”
He chuckled softly.
Persisting, she said, “You took an awful chance to steal that necklace. You could have been caught by San Francisco police officers who don't give a damn about your deal with Interpol. Or you could have been killed.”
“I needed it, Morgana. Nightshade required
a . . . good-faith gesture.”
“You stole it for him?”
“I
borrowed
it so he'd think I stole it for him. The Carstairs family will get it back, don't worry.”
“If you say so.” Pushing herself up onto her elbow beside him, Morgan gazed at his relaxed face and said in bemusement, “It's nearly four in the afternoon, and we're in bed.”
He opened one bright eye, then closed it, tightened his arm around her, and sighed pleasurably. “My idea of how to spend an ideal afternoon.”
She reached out and began toying with the dark- gold hair on his chest. “Yes, but I haven't even talked to anybody at the museum. And when I
do
talk to them, what do I say? I've taken a whole day off without any explanation at all, very rare for me, and it wasn't because I ran into Nightshade on a fire escape last night.”
Quinn opened his eyes. They were still bright and very steady on her face. He was smiling slightly. “Do you care if they know we're lovers?”
She shook her head impatiently. “No, of course not. But will this—our being lovers—cause any problems for you? With Nightshade, I mean.”
After a moment, Quinn said, “Not if I can convince him that I seduced you to get information about the exhibit.”
Very conscious of the intent, searching look in his eyes, Morgan smiled. “Is that why you haven't asked me any specifics about the exhibit? So I could be sure you
weren't
after information?”
He reached up and brushed a strand of her glossy black hair away from her face, his fingers lingering to stroke her cheek. “Maybe. It isn't something I do, Morgana. I want you to understand that.”
Perhaps oddly, she believed him. For all his charm and his undoubted sexual experience, he wasn't the kind of man who would seduce a woman merely for the sake of gaining information from her. Not because it was a dishonorable thing to do, she thought shrewdly, but because it was the more predictable thing—and Quinn would always choose to be contradictory.
“Sweetheart?”
Realizing she'd been silent for too long, she said, “I understand—and I believe you. I just hope Nightshade doesn't realize that trying to get information out of me in any way would have been useless; I don't understand the security system.”
“He knows what your area of responsibility is, just as anyone familiar with museums would know, but I think I can convince him that you did provide me with a very important bit of information. That is—if you agree.”
“I'm listening.”
Quinn frowned a little. “Let me think it through first. Why don't we get dressed and check in at the museum? I know you won't be happy until you make sure the roof didn't cave in today because you weren't there.”
“Very funny.” But she was smiling. “Sounds like a plan.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
T
hey walked about a block away from Morgan's
apartment to get Quinn's car, which was where he'd parked it the night before, a distance short enough that it didn't strain Morgan's still-sore ankle. He never parked near the museum when he was being Quinn, he explained to her, so as to avoid having his car noticed.
“That was why you had to carry me all the way last night,” she observed.
“Well, it was one of the reasons.”
Morgan didn't probe, and she tried to keep their conversation casual. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had been slowly assembling the bits and pieces of information she had gathered over the last weeks. Discarding some things and reexamining others in the light of more-recent understanding, she was trying to put together a puzzle when she wasn't entirely certain what the finished picture was supposed to look like.
It was a slow and rather frustrating process, but one she had to endure for two reasons: because Quinn was unwilling to tell her all of the truth—at least for now—and because she was too curious to wait to be told. She had an excellent mind, and even if she hadn't been worried about the man she loved, she would doubtless still have been pondering the situation.
But most of the puzzle pieces were still floating about in her mind when they reached the museum, and Morgan put the matter to one side for the moment. With less than an hour before closing, there were far more people coming out of the museum than going in; it looked as if a respectable crowd had visited today.
“I need to check the security and computer rooms,” she told Quinn when they were standing in the lobby. “Just in case.”
He nodded, then caught her hand and carried it briefly to his lips in a very loverlike caress. “I'll wander around a bit.”
Morgan hesitated, but then smiled at him and made her way toward the hallway of offices, wondering what, in particular, he wanted to examine in the museum. She didn't believe for an instant that he'd be as casual as he indicated, of course. It wasn't that she was
suspicious
of him exactly, it was just that she'd developed a healthy respect for his innately devious nature. She had the distinct feeling that he'd never walk a straight line if he could find a curve or an angle.
She checked the security room first, talking briefly with two incurious guards who reported a peaceful day undisturbed by anything except the usual number of children momentarily lost from their parents and a couple of lovers' spats. Morgan had been bemused years ago to discover that a surprising number of lovers chose to work out their differences in museums—possibly believing the huge, echoing rooms and corridors were much more private than they really were.
Given her own knowledge of the security surrounding such valuable things, Morgan was always aware of the watching eyes of video cameras, patrolling guards, and other members of the public, and so museums were not what she considered either romantic or private.
With that thought still in her mind, she went on down the hallway to the computer room, finding Storm frowning at her computer as she typed briskly.
“Hi,” Morgan said, deliberately casual as she leaned in the doorway. “What's up?”
The petite blonde finished typing and hit the enter key, then leaned back in her chair and looked at her friend with solemn interest. “We'll get to that in a minute. What's up with you?”
Since she wasn't easily embarrassed, Morgan didn't blush under that shrewd scrutiny. “Well,” she offered, still casual, “I'm better than I was yesterday.”
“Mmm. Even after being chloroformed?”
“That wasn't the high point of the evening.”
“I should hope not. Alex?”
Morgan felt herself smiling. “Does it show?”
“Only all over you.” Storm smiled in return. “Sort of disconcerting, isn't it?”
“I'll say. And with all this other stuff . . . Well, let's just say I'm taking things as they come.”
“Probably best.” Then Storm looked more serious. “Jared said they thought it was Nightshade who grabbed you.”
“Yeah. Just my luck, huh? Listen, has Max checked in today? I feel guilty as hell about missing work.”
“As a matter of fact he's here. Out in the museum somewhere.”
“I'll try to find him. Um . . . where's Bear?” She didn't see the little cat anywhere.
“With Wolfe—who is also somewhere out in the museum.” The computer beeped just then, commanding Storm's attention, and she sat up to deal with the electronic summons. “He's getting a bit nervous. Wolfe, I mean.”
That surprised Morgan, since she had seldom seen the security expert rattled by anything. “About the trap?” she asked.
Storm keyed in a brief command, then looked back at her friend with a smile. “No. About a church wedding in Louisiana. He was all for us finding a preacher and just doing it, but we can't. After six sons, my mama started saving her pennies for my wedding the day I was born, and I just can't spoil that for her. So, even as we speak, plans are being made back home. And Wolfe's feeling a bit daunted about meeting my family and walking down the aisle.”
She didn't sound particularly worried, Morgan thought in amusement. But then—there was no reason she should be. However nervous he might be about the ordeal awaiting him in Louisiana, it was abundantly clear that Wolfe was so deeply in love with Storm it would have taken a great deal more than a gauntlet of relatives to drive him away from her. It would, Morgan thought, take something absolute. Like the end of the world.
Somewhat dryly, Morgan said, “His job and reputation on the line, and he's worried about a little rice and orange blossom.”
“Men are odd, aren't they?”
“Ain't that the truth? Listen, is there anything else I should know about, workwise?”
Storm reported the latest findings and their own speculations on Jane Doe, finishing with, “Keane's forensics team was down in the basement for a while, trying to determine points of entry, but they're gone now. Didn't find anything conclusive. We've beefed up security cameras and alarms on all exterior doors. And windows.”
“Sounds good.” Morgan frowned. “Does Keane believe they're any closer to identifying Jane Doe?”
“I don't think so, but he did say they were pretty much focusing all their efforts on getting a viable fingerprint from the body.”
“Is that even possible with burned fingers?”
“The experts believe they have a shot at it. Let's hope they know what they're talking about.” Storm grimaced. “It's actually easier to look for a missing person than it is to I.D. a body when it's dumped somewhere other than a crime scene and the description doesn't match up with any listed missing person. Makes sense when you think about it.”
“Yeah. Got to have a place to start.”
“That's what Keane says. And he's frustrated as hell about it. Anyway, that's it for now. You're up to speed.”
“Thanks.” Morgan lifted a hand in farewell and went on down the hall. She stopped at her office, discovering that her clipboard wasn't on her desk where she'd left it, then continued to the curator's office at the end of the hall. She found Chloe Webster there at Ken's desk, frowning down at paperwork. The frown vanished when she looked up to see Morgan in the doorway.
“Hey, are you all right? I heard you got mugged last night.”
Which was, Morgan decided, a safer version of what had happened than the truth. “I'm fine. Actually, it all seems like something out of a nightmare now, as if it never happened.”
“You could have been killed.”
Quinn had said the same thing, Morgan remembered. “I don't know—it happened so fast I didn't have time to be scared. Anyway, it's over now.” She glanced around at Ken's cluttered office. “Have you seen my clipboard? It wasn't on my desk, so I figured—”
Chloe moved a stack of papers to one side. “Is this it?”
“Yeah, thanks. Ken must have needed it. I really should have come in today.”
“I heard Mr. Bannister say an unscheduled day off never hurt anybody. Besides, as far as I can tell, there haven't been any problems.”
“You were frowning when I came in,” Morgan observed.
Chloe shook her head dismissively. “Oh, I was just talking to Stuart Atkins—at the Collier Museum?—and he told me that several of the museums in the area have been having problems with their security systems. Alarms going off for no reason, things like that. But everything here seems fine.”
“Famous last words,” Morgan said.
“I know, that's why I'll tell Mr. Dugan and Mr. Bannister about the call. Just in case.”
Morgan nodded, agreeing that would be best. She continued on to her own office to return the clipboard to her desk and check all the status logs. Then she went in search of Quinn.
“I don't like it,” Max said.
“I didn't expect you would.” Quinn sighed and eyed the other man rather cautiously. “Look, we both know Morgan's impulsive; I'd made her mad and she came to pour wrath all over me. She was smart enough to figure out where I was watching, and furious enough to come storming up the fire escape.”
“I know that, Alex.” Max shifted his broad shoulders just a bit in a rare movement that gave away his tension. “What I don't know—and what you've been evasive about—is what Nightshade was doing on that fire escape. If it
was
him, of course.”
The two men were standing in a gallery near the
Mysteries Past
exhibit, out in the open so that no one could approach unseen, and both kept their voices low.
Quinn hadn't exactly looked forward to this interview, but he'd known it would take place sooner rather than later; Max was far too intelligent to have missed the significance of what had happened last night.
As casually as possible, Quinn said, “Didn't Jared explain?”
“No. He said you were too upset to talk about it last night when he came to relieve you. I got the feeling he had a few questions of his own.”
Quinn only just stopped himself from wincing. He thought Jared had more than a few questions by now, having had time to consider what Quinn remembered himself saying:
Maybe he got suspicious of me and showed up tonight looking for me.
. . .
It was the only time in his entire career that Quinn could recall having been so disturbed—by Morgan's close call—that he spoke without thinking. And by now Jared had quite probably reached the conclusion that Nightshade's identity was definitely no longer a mystery to Quinn.
Pushing that aside to be dealt with later, Quinn cleared his throat and spoke in a convincingly frank tone. “Well, it isn't so complicated, Max. Nightshade, if it was him, of course, was probably casing the museum—though I don't know how I could have missed it—and he must have seen me on the roof. I can't know what he meant to do, naturally, but it's obvious Morgan got in his way and so he put her to sleep for a little while. I heard something and came down before he could do anything else—and he left. That's all.”
Max never took his eyes off the other man's face. “Uh-huh. Tell me, Alex: Do
you
carry chloroform around at night?”
“I've been known to,” Quinn admitted candidly. “It's an efficient and nonlethal way of dealing with unexpected problems.”
“Does Nightshade carry it?”
“He did last night.”
After a long moment, Max said, “Is Morgan in danger?”
Quinn answered that with genuine sincerity. “I'll do everything in my power to make certain she's not.”
Max frowned slightly. “You didn't answer my question.”
“I answered it the only way I could. Max, there are a few things I didn't exactly plan on in all this, and Morgan's one of them. It seems to be . . . more than usually difficult to predict what she might do at any given moment, so I can't be sure she won't charge up another damned fire escape. But I won't let anything happen to her.”
“Are you so in control of the situation that you can promise that?”
“Max—” Quinn broke off, then sighed. “Look, after tonight, I'll
know
how in control of the situation I am, and until then I can't give you an answer. You'll just have to trust me to know what I'm doing.”
“All right,” Max responded slowly. “I'll wait—until tomorrow.”
“That's all I ask.” With any luck, he'd think of something plausible by then. Either that or else figure out a way to avoid Max until this was finished. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find Morgan.”
“Tell her I said hello.” Max waited until the other man turned away, then added, “Alex? Did you steal the Carstairs necklace?”
Quinn wasn't imprudent enough to conjure a hurt expression or even to sound offended, but he did manage an utterly sincere answer. “No, Max, I didn't steal it.”
Max didn't say another word; he merely nodded and watched the younger man walk out of the gallery. A moment later, he didn't react with surprise when Wolfe entered from the opposite end and joined him. Wearing his black leather jacket and a faint scowl, Wolfe didn't look much like a crack security expert—and even less so with a little blond cat riding on his shoulder.
But Max was familiar with the appearance (even to the cat, since Wolfe was often accompanied by Bear these days). Still gazing after Quinn, he said meditatively, “I'm beginning to think Alex is lying to me.”
“Now you know how it feels,” Wolfe told him, unsurprised and not without a certain amount of satisfaction.
“I never lied to you. I merely withheld portions of the truth.”
“Yeah, sure.” Somewhat morosely, Wolfe added, “Maybe Alex is doing the same thing. We both know he only lies about something when he's sure he's going to eventually come clean. If he's lying now, I'll bet it's because he's in deeper than he's told us.”
“I'd take that bet,” Max agreed. Then he sighed. “And we may have another problem. Mother called. She's in Australia—but she's heading this way.”
Wolfe's face brightened, but that instant reaction was quickly altered by a scowl. “The timing isn't exactly the best, Max. Couldn't you stop her?”
“Stop Mother?” Max asked in polite disbelief.
“Sorry, I forgot myself.” Wolfe shook his head. “Well, maybe it'll be over by the time she gets here.”