Morgan had spent far too many of her evening hours recently standing watch outside various museums and jewelry stores; by Friday night, she was determined to stop wasting her time.
He’d been right, damn him. When he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found, period. Whatever extra sense or awareness had led her to him that once had remained maddeningly silent ever since.
She’d missed her chance to put his ass behind bars, and it served her right.
It did no good to console herself with the knowledge that Quinn was the most infamous cat burglar in the world, for God’s sake, and most of the police forces in existence had been after him for at least ten years. There was just no way her amateur efforts were going to locate him—even if she
could
feel when he was near.
When he let her feel it.
Dammit.
At any rate, since she had no other plans for the evening and was feeling too restless to sit at home and read or watch television, Morgan decided around eight that night to go to the museum and pick up some paperwork she could deal with over the weekend. It wasn’t unusual for her to go to the museum after hours, and one of the guards let her in as soon as he saw her from inside the lobby.
“Hi, Steve,” she said cheerfully as she came in. “Anything happening today?”
The middle-aged guard shook his head. “Nah, not much. Mr. Dugan was here until after closing. Oh—and Mr. Bannister’s back in the city. He dropped by a few minutes ago to take a look at the
Mysteries Past
wing. Had somebody with him. A cop, I think.”
Morgan frowned at him. “A cop? Are you sure?”
“Well, he was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster, that much I’m sure of. I guess he could have been some kind of bodyguard for Mr. Bannister, but he didn’t act that way. Hold on a second.” The guard went to the desk in one corner of the lobby, spoke briefly with a second guard seated there, and studied the logbook. Then he returned to Morgan. “Mr. Bannister signed them in—himself and a guest, unnamed. They’re still here, according to Brian. Upstairs at the exhibit, most likely. I’ll sign you in, Morgan.”
She nodded her thanks a bit absently and, rather than moving toward the hallway of offices on the first floor, chose instead to head for the stairs and the West wing of the second floor. She was surprised that Max was back from his honeymoon at least a week earlier than expected but, even more, she was curious to see who he had brought to inspect the exhibit wing.
She was casually dressed in jeans and a sweater, her long hair in a ponytail, and her Reeboks made no sound on the marble floor as Morgan moved swiftly up the stairs. She didn’t have to worry about using her key card to deactivate corridor alarms or other security devices, since those in this wing were currently inactive; nothing of value was in place yet, so there was nothing to protect.
Morgan wasn’t sneaky about it, but as she began making her way through the wing she found herself walking with lighter steps and being cautious. After all, she told herself, since Max had brought this man here after hours and hadn’t recorded his name in the security logbook, perhaps no one was meant to know—officially, anyway—about his presence.
Of course, that didn’t in any way deter Morgan. She was nothing if not curious.
Moving as silently as a whisper, she paused finally in the shadow of a darkened display case quite a bit larger than she was, where she had a perfect view of the two men. They were standing some yards away, in the main room of the exhibit, where other display cases were lighted as if for inspection. But neither man was looking at the cases.
In fact, Max was leaning back against one of them carelessly, and the other man was drumming his long fingers against glass that would, when the collection was in place, bristle at this hour with touch-sensitive alarms.
The two men were a striking pair. Both wore dark raincoats, and there was a curious similarity in them that had little to do with physical appearance and much more to do with stance and a kind of inner toughness that was visible in both.
The man who was a stranger to Morgan was probably in his mid-thirties, slightly over six feet tall and built athletically, with gleaming sable hair and odd, pale eyes that looked even at a distance sharp enough to cut; he was handsome in a strikingly elegant way, almost aristocratic and curiously foreign.
Max was a bit older, two or three inches taller, broader through the shoulders and visibly more powerful in terms of physical strength; his black hair, steel-gray eyes, and rugged good looks would have tagged him as an American in any city of the world.
Morgan didn’t move and hardly breathed, watching them intently and listening as they talked; she only wished she’d been privy to the beginning of the conversation.
“Second thoughts?” the stranger asked Max, his voice unaccented in the way that was common to people who had lived all over the world.
“You know better than that, Jared. I gave my word, and I mean to keep it. The collection will be displayed here, as planned.” As usual, Max’s voice was low and calm, and unexpectedly soft for a man who looked as if he’d been hewn from granite.
“No matter what?” Jared’s handsome face held a somewhat wry expression as he looked at the other man.
“Nothing’s changed. Your people at Interpol have tried for years, like police all over the world, but nobody’s even gotten close. You have to have bait for a trap, and the only bait with any chance of catching him is the Bannister collection.”
Jared sighed. “That sounds so simple, dammit. Why am I having nightmares?”
“Because you’re a sensitive soul?” Max murmured.
Jared said something rude, then sighed again. “Look, I’m sorry I called you back early, but we have a number of problems. The biggest one looming right in front of us is your security expert.”
Max cleared his throat. “Well, it’s not as if we didn’t expect as much.”
“That doesn’t alter the fact that he’s going to raise hell and breathe fire when he finds out what we’re planning to do. Tell me something. Did we ever have a plan for that eventuality?”
Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, Max said ruefully, “As I recall, we decided to jump off that bridge when we came to it.”
“That’s how I remembered it. Damn.”
“Well, we can always—” Max broke off abruptly, turning his head to look toward the doorway. Morgan froze, but she had the weird feeling he saw her.
“What?” Jared asked, tensing visibly.
Max looked back at him, calm as always. “Nothing. But maybe we’d better finish this discussion somewhere else.”
Morgan didn’t wait to hear any more. Moving as swiftly and silently as she could, she slipped away and hurried down the stairs to the first-floor lobby. She went to her office and picked up the papers she’d wanted, hoping that if Max came down before she got out he’d see her homework and not ask questions.
But he wasn’t in the lobby when she signed out at the desk or when Steve reappeared to see her out of the museum. Morgan thought she was probably as casual and cheerful with the guard as always, but since her thoughts were in a whirl she couldn’t be sure of anything.
She got into her small car and immediately pulled away from the curb in front of the museum, but she drove only a couple of blocks before she pulled over and turned off the engine. She was halfway home, only two blocks from her apartment building, but she had no interest in going home.
Her first coherent thought was, characteristically, a spurt of annoyance at Max. He might have told her, she fumed silently.
Because there was only one thing Morgan could think of to explain the conversation she had just overheard. Max was working with a man from Interpol, allowing his priceless collection to be bait for a trap set to catch Quinn.
Morgan didn’t know quite how she felt about that, and the not knowing unnerved her. She should have been cheering, she told herself grimly. One less thief in the world was, after all, a thing to cheer for. And even though Quinn’s reputation described him as two parts ghost and one part shadow, Morgan had felt the reality of him; he was a man, and any man could be caught if the trap was good enough.
After a few moments, she started her car again and pulled away from the curb. But she didn’t go to her apartment. Instead, she went across town to the museum that was next on her mental list of places Quinn might find inviting. She cussed at herself for doing it, but even her own scornful words failed to have much effect on her. Sighing, she stopped for coffee in a paper cup and parked on a street with a view of the rear of the museum, locked her car doors, and settled down to wait.
Sipping her coffee and watching the big building that was shrouded by an incoming fog, Morgan slumped down in her seat and brooded about Quinn. Would the trap being set by Max and the man from Interpol catch Quinn? Could it? Quinn had built a reputation for being daring, nerveless—and utterly scornful of so-called security. In fact, he seemed to delight in flaunting his seeming wizardry in slipping undetected through the electronic mazes of state-of-the-art technology.
Keane Tyler had said as much, that Quinn was undoubtedly brilliant and undoubtedly looked for challenges that required him to test his own limits. But even he
had
limits, that was the point. Would he reach them this time?
Would the security system Storm was busy creating pose any more of a problem for Quinn than all those he had so effortlessly flaunted? There was probably at least a fifty-fifty chance that Quinn could beat Storm’s system just as he had beaten so many other crackerjack security experts. Unless . . .
If a
trap
was being set, then there had to be a deliberate weakness somewhere, a hole—or, at least, a soft spot—where a thief could see it and believe it was there by accident. He would have to be guided into place, lured into a position where he could be caught.
Trapped, like an animal in a cage.
Morgan chewed on her bottom lip as she stared at the museum, trying—and failing—to sense him.
“Where are you?” she murmured. “Dammit, Quinn . . . where the hell are you?”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
T
he room-service waiter had just left when Storm
came into the living room. Though Wolfe wanted to keep things casual, he couldn’t resist touching her. So when she reached him, he did, one hand at her waist and the other surrounding most of her face as he pushed her chin up gently and kissed her.
Storm responded instantly and sweetly, and when he at last raised his head she smiled up at him with unshadowed pleasure. “You do that very well,” she murmured. “But I suppose you know that. With all your experience, I mean.”
Since he was beginning to anticipate her singular honesty, the comment didn’t unnerve him—but he could feel a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Has it occurred to you that it could have absolutely nothing to do with experience, and everything to do with a certain . . . chemical reaction between two people?”
Still smiling, Storm moved away from him toward the dining table where the waiter had placed their food. “Chemical reaction?”
He thought that, despite her smile, his question bothered her, but he wasn’t sure. Still, Wolfe wished he could have taken back the words. He had only intended to steer the conversation away from any discussion about his past sexual experience, but he hadn’t meant to sound so dispassionate about it. Before he could try to clarify what he’d meant, Storm spoke again.
“Is that a common thing? Chemical reactions?” She sat down at the table and began unfolding her napkin, looking across at him with simple curiosity. “I mean, if you watch TV or go to the movies you see some pretty intense passion that rarely lasts for long. Do the chemicals lose their potency, or what?”
“Why ask me?” He went to his own place at the table and sat down.
“I thought you’d know if anybody would.”
He looked for signs of sarcasm or mockery in her expressive face and honest eyes and found none. Her seriousness disturbed him, because he was torn between the urge to assure her that she was—that
they
were—special and the wariness he still felt about committing himself.
Finally, he said, “I believe you once pointed out to me that I must be satisfied with brief, surface relationships—given my track record. So I’m probably the wrong person to ask about lasting passions.” He didn’t like that response any more than he had his earlier one, but he was finding it impossible to talk to her about this.
Storm nodded gravely. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but I suppose you’re right.” With a slight shrug, she abandoned the subject. “Listen, I’ve always wanted to see a ball game in San Francisco, and the Giants are home this weekend. How does that sound for tomorrow night?”
Wolfe agreed that it sounded like fun, relieved by the change of subject, and during the next few minutes he found himself engaged in a spirited debate with Storm about the pennant chances of various baseball teams. It didn’t really surprise him that she was as knowledgeable about the sport as she seemed to be about everything else that interested her, especially when she ruefully pointed out that as one of only two females in a family containing seven males, learning to appreciate sports had been a simple matter of self-preservation.
By the time their meal was finished, Wolfe discovered that she was not only a baseball fan but also enjoyed football and hockey, despised basketball and boxing, was bored by tennis except as a player, and became unashamedly sentimental and patriotic during Olympic competition.
She had strong and definite views about politics and world affairs but was nonetheless able to discuss both without losing her temper, and it didn’t appear to disturb her in the slightest whenever Wolfe disagreed with her.
By the time room service had cleared away the clutter left from their meal and they were sitting together on the couch, he realized without much surprise that he didn’t feel his usual restless urge to retreat after sex. He didn’t want to return to his own place. He wanted to remain here with her.
Even though it wasn’t a surprise, it was still a disconcerting realization.
If she was aware of the effect she had on him, Storm didn’t show it, and she was so relaxed and comfortable with him that it seemed obvious she considered this new stage in their relationship what she had professed she could “handle”—a casual affair that would last no more than a few weeks.
But, true to her word, she didn’t bring up their relationship in any way. It was clear that, as far as she was concerned, Wolfe had tacitly accepted her terms when he had taken the step to meet her halfway, and that was all the assurance she needed.
“You’ve gone all quiet.”
Wolfe turned his head and looked at her. She was on her knees beside him on the couch, turned toward him. She had been petting Bear, but the little cat had gotten down off the couch and gone to curl up on a chair by the window—which sort of relieved Wolfe; he didn’t think that cat liked him very much.
“Have I?” He smiled at her. “I’m sorry.”
Storm shook her head slightly. “No reason to be sorry. But if there’s something you want to talk about . . . ?”
He hesitated, but finally shook his head. His feelings were too new and too unfamiliar for him to be ready to examine them closely. “No, not really.” He gestured slightly toward the coffee table, where Storm’s notes, diagrams, and other paperwork were piled high. “You brought a lot of work home.”
Gravely, Storm said, “Well, having bragged I could get the new system written and on line in ten days or less, I’ve had to work pretty hard. It’s my own fault, though.”
Wolfe didn’t disagree with that, but he did frown. “I won’t hold you to that estimate. If you can get the system on line anytime in the next two or three weeks we’ll still be ahead of our original schedule.”
“Good, then I’ll take the weekend off,” she said promptly. “If I get a better offer, that is.”
“What would you consider a better offer?” he murmured, slowly drawing her toward him.
Just before her lips met his, Storm whispered, “Whatever you’ve got in mind.”
It was long after midnight when the lamplit room became peaceful again and Storm fell asleep in his arms. As before, Wolfe thought he might have dozed, but not for long. He found himself awake, listening to her breathing and feeling it warm against his skin. Careful not to wake her, he stroked her wonderful hair, her back, shaped the curve of her hip as she lay against him.
He couldn’t resist touching her, and he’d more or less stopped trying. He had also stopped trying to convince himself that his obsession with her was something that would burn white-hot for only a while before dying down to ashes. The truth was, this slight, drawling, green-eyed woman with her erotic mouth and fearless temper had touched something in him that had never been touched before. He hadn’t meant to let her get under his skin, but she’d gotten there somehow.
Under his skin.
Storm stirred when she felt the bed move and the warmth of his body leave her. She opened one eye, saw the sun shining through the drapes, and immediately closed it again. “Oh, God, it’s the crack of dawn,” she murmured.
Wolfe bent back over the bed and kissed her cheek, then her mouth when she turned her head toward him. “It’s not that early,” he told her. “Almost eight. I’m going to take a shower.”
She turned over onto her stomach and half buried her face in the pillow, then let out a muffled groan. “I need more sleep.” She heard him chuckle and kept her eyes closed until she heard the shower begin running.
It was difficult for her to think so early in the morning, and there was a large part of her that simply wanted to enjoy what she had found with Wolfe, but, as always, her sense of responsibility nagged at her. She raised herself up on her elbows and looked toward the bathroom door, where steam wafted out from his shower, and her sigh was a bit ragged.
After a moment she pulled herself to the edge of the bed and sat up. She reached for the phone, called a familiar number and, when he answered, said, “Don’t call here again; he’d notice another wrong number. I’ll have to keep in touch with you.”
A bit grimly, he said, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Storm let out the ghost of a laugh. “I’ve been asking myself that for days. But . . . it’s a little late to turn back now.”
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again his cool voice held a note of genuine concern. “What are you going to do when he finds out the truth? I know him, Storm, and I can tell you that, to him, a betrayal of trust is worse than anything else could be. He won’t forgive easily. Maybe not at all. I can run that risk. Can you?”
She continued to gaze blindly toward the bathroom door. “Like I said . . . it’s a little late to turn back. You said once that I didn’t have a choice. I still don’t.” She drew a quick breath. “I’ll probably be with him most of the day, and maybe tomorrow too, so it’s best if I call you from the museum on Monday.”
“Take care,” he said quietly.
Storm cradled the receiver and sat there on the edge of the bed for a moment. It had taken all her resolution not to tell Wolfe that she loved him; only the knowledge that she couldn’t tell him that when so much else was lies had kept her silent.
The worst lie was the one he would see when he finally discovered the truth. He would realize that part of her job had been to distract him, to keep his attention away from the installation of the new computer program and his suspicions away from Ace Security for as long as possible. He would see that very clearly. And he would very likely believe that her determined pursuit of him had been a means to that end.
Storm didn’t know if he would ever believe her when she denied that, but she didn’t have very much hope. If he knew her well enough . . . perhaps. If he cared about her enough to forgive the betrayal of trust . . . perhaps. If he understood her reasons . . . perhaps.
Storm rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. She could see him moving behind the frosted-glass shower door. She paused for only a moment, enjoying watching him, then slipped into the stall with him.
“Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“I’ll wash your back if you’ll wash mine,”she offered.
“Deal,” Wolfe said, and pulled her into his arms.
After spending most of Friday night parked outside one museum and two jewelry stores, Morgan was feeling more than a little discouraged. She hadn’t felt Quinn and she certainly didn’t see him. She worked only a few hours on Saturday, then went home and took a nap.
By nine o’clock Saturday night she was back on watch, this time parked on a street where two jewelry stores occupied space across from each other.
By ten o’clock, she caught herself drumming her fingers against the steering wheel and realized she was listening intently.
Listening? Or feeling?
Morgan hesitated, then started her car and began driving. She didn’t consciously choose a direction, yet at the same time she felt no hesitation in taking specific roads and turns until she found herself parked about half a block from the rear side of one of the smaller museums in the city. A museum not even on her watch list.
Baffled, she asked herself why Quinn would even bother with a museum containing artifacts that, however valuable, were too large for a single man to roll out with a wheelbarrow, far less tuck into a pouch attached to his belt.
That thought had barely occurred to her when Morgan stiffened, her eyes fixed on a service door of the museum. She couldn’t see clearly because of the wispy fog, but it looked like at least three men coming out—and they were carrying a fourth between them.
Quinn.
All the men were wearing dark clothing, and she was too far away to be able to spot any identifying feature. But she knew it was him, just as she knew he had been in her museum more than once watching her. She knew it.
Felt it.
Frozen, she watched a dark van pull up near the men. They tossed the apparently unconscious Quinn into the back of the van, making Morgan wince because of the rough way they treated that limp body.
God, he couldn’t be dead?
She pushed that thought away instantly, refusing to consider the possibility. He wasn’t dead. She wouldn’t be able to feel him if he was dead.
Would she?
No, of course not. In fact, she could probably only feel him now because he was unconscious and so unable to shut her out—or whatever he’d been doing to make sure she couldn’t show up inconveniently wherever he meant to burgle.
So he wasn’t dead. But he was obviously out cold. And what she should do, she thought as she watched the three other men get into the van, was call somebody. That was what she should do.
“911,” she muttered to herself. “That’s who I ought to call. Or Max. I could call Max, and tell him to get his Interpol agent out here and rescue—I mean
catch
—Quinn.” She automatically put her car in gear as the van pulled away from the museum, and murmured somewhat helplessly, “Why am I not doing that?”
An hour later, Morgan felt the question more intensely. What on earth was she
doing
? She was being an idiot, that’s what she was doing. Cautiously, her knowledge purely a matter of cops-and-robbers on television, she was following a van containing three probable bad guys and an internationally famous cat burglar who was either unconscious or dead.
She didn’t know where they were going except for the vague notion that it was south, and she was swearing at herself in a monotone for a host of sins beginning with stupidity.
Tailing the van was relatively easy at first; the streets were busy even this late, Morgan had no trouble keeping a car or two between her and the van, and she wasn’t stopped once by an inconvenient traffic light. But then traffic thinned, the fog thickened, and she had to get closer than she liked to the van or risk losing it.
It was less than twenty minutes later that it pulled over to the curb, and Morgan barely had the presence of mind to continue on past the van for a full block before turning into a side street. Until then, she’d paid very little attention to her surroundings, and when she did look she reached immediately for her cell phone to call 911.