Once a Thief

by Kay Hooper

  In a judicious tone, Quinn said, “Morgana, that has to be the most reckless thing I have ever heard of in my life.”

  “Coming from you,” she said, “that is praise of a high order. Can you move your—there, like that. Just another second now, and I think—got it!”

  Quinn sat up on the cot, and though she couldn’t see him she knew he was rubbing his wrists. “Thank you, sweet.”

  “Are your ankles—”

  “I’ll get those,” he said.

  She sat back on her heels, wishing there was just a bit more light so she could see his face. It would be too bad, she thought, if she went through all this and was denied a glimpse of his naked face. She felt she’d earned that much.

  “Quinn . . . the man who threatened to kill you, the one with the vicious voice—that was Ed, wasn’t it? One of that gang of thieves who were robbing the museum the night we met?”

  Untying his ankles, Quinn said, “You have a good ear.”

  “Then you ran into them again? Don’t tell me you wound up burgling the same place a second time?”

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it? And unfortunate—this time, they caught me.”

  A bit dryly, Morgan said, “If you guys keep bumping into each other like this, people will begin to talk.” She was about to ask him what had interested him in that particular museum when he distracted her.

  He chuckled softly. “Morgana, I’ve missed you.”

  With an effort, she ignored that. “You stole my one good piece of jewelry, you lousy thief. You and I have a score to settle. That is, if we ever get out of here.”

  The cot creaked as he moved, and she felt the brush of his legs as he swung them to the floor. “I have no intention of waiting here for the charming Ed to return. If I did, I’ve a feeling my next bit of publicity would be an obituary.”

  Morgan winced. “You could have gone all night without saying that. What’s the plan?”

  “To get out,” Quinn replied succinctly.

  “There’s a padlock on the door—and it’s the one door in this whole miserable building built to do its job. We’re on the eighth floor. How do you propose to get out?”

  “There are windows, aren’t there?” He got to his feet a bit gingerly and caught his breath, muttering, “Dammit.”

  Morgan heard the note of pain in his voice and quickly got up herself. She reached out carefully, relieved when she touched his arm. “Are you all right?”

  He let out a low laugh. “That, sweet, is a loaded question. Let’s just say I’m functional, and leave it at that.”

  She let go of his arm, sensing rather than hearing it when he moved past her toward the faint chinks of light representing the windows. “The windows must be barred,” she offered.

  Quinn didn’t answer for a moment, but then she heard a low, groaning creak and a satisfied sound from him. “Ah—just as I hoped. This room is designed more to keep things out than in. The metal grating over the windows swings in.”

  Morgan tried to remember what she’d seen of the building. Precious little, because of the fog. “But most of the windows are boarded up on the outside.”

  “Yeah.” There was a loud thud, then another, and Quinn’s powerful kick sent one of the boards flying.

  The amount of light that came streaming into the room would have been pitiful under other circumstances, but to Morgan it was a veritable ray of sunshine. She blinked, moving toward it, and didn’t realize until he kicked another board loose that she could see him now.

  He was fair, which surprised her a bit, his hair thick and a pale color that was either gold or silver. He was also a little younger than she would have guessed, possibly in his early thirties. And his face, his naked face, was visible to her for the first time. Even in the pallid, wispy light it was a good face. A strong face, with plenty of character. It was the face she had touched. Lean and unusually handsome, with high cheekbones, a patrician nose, and those vivid green eyes set under flying brows.

  It was a face Morgan knew she would never forget, no matter what happened.

  It was also somewhat the worse for wear, boasting what was going to be a beautiful shiner around his right eye and another bruise high on his left cheekbone. Since she knew he’d been unconscious during part of tonight, she thought he probably had quite a headache from having been knocked out. It said something about his nature, she thought, that he could maintain his sense of humor under such conditions.

  Unconscious of her scrutiny, Quinn leaned through the opening he’d made and said, “We’re in luck. There’s a kind of catwalk out here. If it wraps the building, we should find a fire escape or at least an open window to get us into an unlocked room.”

  The description filled Morgan with foreboding. When he drew back enough for her to see past him, her fears were realized. A “kind” of catwalk indeed; it looked more like one of those rickety things window washers used, except that it was affixed to the side of the building as if intended to be permanent.

  Then again, it could just as easily have been intended to be somebody’s insane idea of artwork.

  “I think not,” she said politely. “If you want to try it, go ahead. And, if you make it, call the police and ask them to come get me, would you?”

  Quinn shook his head slightly and looked at her with a serious expression. “Morgana, we have no way of knowing how much time we have here. Despite what he said, Ed could have tossed a lighted match downstairs, or left one of his bullies to do it later. The place could be wired for the sole purpose of getting rid of some nasty little problem—like a witness. We can’t waste any time. We have to go. Now.”

  She wasn’t happy, but her common sense told her Quinn was right. The sooner they got out of here the better off they were bound to be. Squashing her fears and keeping her eyes fixed on his face, she said, “All right, but if you get me killed I’ll haunt you forever.”

  He smiled, and if his voice held charm it was nothing compared to that crooked, beguiling smile. “Good girl. Just follow behind me—not too close, we need to distribute the weight as much as possible—and keep your back against the building.”

  Morgan waited while he climbed through the window and eased his weight onto the catwalk. Then, looking at him and not at anything else, she followed.

  For about twenty feet, all went well. Afterward, Morgan was never able to decide if what happened was due to the age of the building, earthquake damage, or some sick joke perpetrated by Ed or someone like him.

  All she knew was that their catwalk just sort of disintegrated in midair with an unthreatening little whoosh sound.

  If she hadn’t been obeying Quinn’s instructions to walk close to the building, Morgan never would have been able to catch herself. As it was, she was barely able to balance herself well enough to keep from toppling off the treacherously narrow ledge that was all that was left of their catwalk.

  As for Quinn, he’d been moving a little farther out, and the sudden drop of the catwalk almost got him. If he hadn’t had exceptionally powerful hands with which to grip the ledge, he never would have been able to save himself.

  He caught his balance with the agility of a cat and used the muscles of his arms and shoulders to pull himself up. He felt his way by touch alone, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Morgan. She was pressed back against the wall, her slender body rigid and her head tilted slightly so that she was looking up rather than down.

  “All right?” he called softly.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” Her voice was unnaturally calm.

  Quinn frowned slightly but, satisfied that she was in no immediate danger—the section of ledge on which she was standing looked fairly solid, at least for the moment—he turned his attention to their predicament. The catwalk had taken bits of the building with it when it collapsed, depriving them of most of the pitiful ledge on which they were standing.

  The ledge had given way cleanly on the other side of Morgan, which made it impossible for them to retreat to their prison even if they wanted to; on this
side of her, and between their positions, at least two gaping cracks were mute evidence of instability. Climbing up to the roof would be useless; he knew from the style of what he had seen of the building that the roof would be steeply pitched and covered with slippery, fog-wet tiles. And though he possessed the skill and ability to rappel down, there was nothing to which a rope could be securely fastened—even if he had one.

  “Don’t move,” he told her.

  “Don’t worry.”

  He had to smile a little at her tart response, but his sense of danger urged him to move swiftly. Testing each foothold cautiously, he eased ahead toward the corner of the building. At least twice, the ledge beneath him crumbled, and he knew even before he reached it that the corner was badly cracked and unlikely to be able to hold his weight. He paused, still some feet from the corner, and considered rapidly.

  “I’m going to climb up to the next ledge,” he said finally. “All the windows on this floor are boarded up, but there may be one uncovered above us.”

  “Great,” she said faintly.

  Despite his assured statement, Quinn wasn’t looking forward to what he had to do. There was no way to anchor himself and precious little to hold on to since there was no catwalk, crumbling or otherwise, for the floor above. Aside from which the building was cursed with jutting bits of stonework guaranteed to do nothing except get in his way. By reaching up, he could grasp the ledge above them, but it was smooth and slippery, offering no purchase for his grip.

  It was a long way to the ground.

  Quinn closed his mind to that and concentrated on necessity. He managed to turn his body, balancing sideways on the narrow ledge with his feet wide apart to more evenly distribute his weight. He reached up with both hands and carefully explored the ledge, hoping for a tiny projection that would give him a better grip. He had to take a step back toward Morgan before he found what he sought, and the ledge crumbled beneath his foot just as his fingers closed over the sharp projection.

  It held. Hardly breathing, Quinn boosted himself up by using the strength of one arm, his soft-soled boots scrabbling for a foothold against the side of the building, until he could get the other arm over the ledge. Moments later, he was lying full-length against the building on a ledge less than a foot wide.

  “Quinn?”

  “Hmmm?” Still holding to his tiny projection, he rested his forehead on his arm and wondered idly how he got into situations like this one. His head was throbbing from the earlier blow, several parts of his face hurt, his wrists were raw, and he had the suspicion that at least two ribs were cracked.

  Not one of his better days.

  “Are you all right?” Morgan’s voice was beginning to show signs of strain.

  “Peachy.” He lifted his head and then sat up carefully, looking around. Ah. Just as he’d hoped—an uncovered window. And it was directly above Morgan’s position. “Let me get set,” he said, “and I’ll pull you up.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t want to be a bother,” she said conversationally, “but I feel I should mention I have this thing about heights.”

  Feeling relatively secure on his perch, Quinn leaned out a bit so that he could look down at her. “Now’s a fine time to tell me.”

  “I was hoping it wouldn’t come up,” she murmured.

  “Lousy pun.”

  She made an odd sound that might have been a laugh on the edge of breaking. “Unintentional, I promise you. Look—why don’t you get yourself down and then send for the fire department. They have nice ladders.”

  Quinn didn’t bother to remind her that they couldn’t afford the time. Instead, he slid along the ledge until he was directly above her. He had the window open in seconds, though it took considerable muscle to force the ancient sash upward. He moved as quickly as he could, virtually certain that Morgan’s calm was tenuous; she had a great deal of courage, he thought, but phobias could turn even the stoutest hearts to jelly.

  The room he found himself in was empty of anything he might have used to help her. He braced himself as well as he was able, then leaned out the window and across the ledge, stretching one hand down to her.

  “Give me your hand, Morgana.”

  “Sorry. I can’t move.”

  “You won’t lose your balance. Just reach directly above your head with one hand.”

  “No. I’ll fall.”

  Quinn’s voice remained calm and certain. “Sweetheart, I won’t let you fall. I promise. You know I keep my promises.”

  She was still for a moment, then slowly reached upward with her right hand until her fingers closed convulsively around his wrist. He locked his fingers around her far more delicate wrist, making sure he had a good grip.

  “All right. I’ve got you. Now, I want you to turn around until you’re facing the wall. You’ll be able to climb more easily if you can use your feet.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can. Just—”

  “What am I doing here?” she said in a voice of total bewilderment. “I’m on the side of a building. This is absurd. I don’t do things like this.”

  “Of course not. Turn around and face the building, like a good girl.”

  Irritably, she said, “I’m not a child.”

  “Then stop acting like one,” he told her sharply. He could feel her stiffen, and a jolt of relief went through him when she began to turn around. He had infinite patience as well as genuine sympathy for her feelings and would have hung out the window for hours if necessary—but from this position he could see a crack in the ledge between her feet, and it was widening.

  She began to unbalance as she turned, but he was ready for that possibility. It wasn’t the first time he’d lifted her weight, and since she was a small woman he had no trouble supporting her, even though his ribs gave him merry hell. And, unfortunately, Morgan’s anatomy made it somewhat painful for her to be dragged over the edge of the ledge and through the window.

  Several breathless moments later, she was standing inside the dim room with him, half consciously rubbing the parts of her that had been abused.

  “Shall I kiss it and make it better?” Quinn asked, entirely his insouciant self again.

  Morgan shrugged off his supporting arm and took a pointed step away from him. “No, you shall not.” Her retort was more automatic than annoyed, and she followed it by saying sincerely, “But thanks for not leaving me out there to roost.”

  “It was the least I could do, since you saved my hide earlier. And now I think we should vacate this firetrap before our friends come back.”

  “You won’t get an argument. Lead on, Macduff.” She followed him in silence as he moved through the dark hall of the ninth floor toward the stairwell. Her panic out on the ledge had been the frozen kind, and with relatively solid flooring underneath her now, even the ghostly echoes of fear were gone. In any case, she was wrestling with other ghosts now.

  Loyalty, for one.

  Quinn had, in all probability, saved her life. Perhaps, as he’d said, he had felt that he owed her that, but the fact remained that she probably would have died without him. (Never mind that she wouldn’t have been here in the first place if she hadn’t gone haring after him.) The ledge beneath her had been crumbling, she knew. He had saved her from certain death; she had merely untied him—something he probably could have done himself, given time.

  She owed him. But she owed Max Bannister her loyalty.

  “You’re very quiet,” Quinn noted as he opened the door of the stairwell and began descending with the cautious speed of a man who knows the building’s unsafe.

  Morgan wrestled the ghosts for two more flights downward, then sighed. Holding her voice steady, she said, “Stay away from Bannister’s collection, Quinn.”

  He was silent himself for another flight, then stopped on a shadowy landing and turned to look at her. “Is there any reason aside from the obvious one why I should?”

  “Yes. Because it’s a trap.” She drew a deep breath and gazed up a
t him. “There’s an Interpol agent working with Max. They want to catch you.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  * * *

  Quinn looked down at her, expressionless. “I see. The collection is bait.”

  She nodded. “The only bait virtually guaranteed to draw a world-famous thief across an ocean and a continent.” It was difficult to read his face, still an unfamiliar one to her, but she thought his handsome features held a curious sort of admiration.

  “Why warn me, Morgana?”

  “I pay my debts,” she answered stiffly.

  “Even if the price is loyalty?”

  His soft voice was like salt rubbed in a wound, and she lifted her chin higher as she stared up at him. “I’ll make peace with my conscience in my own way,” she said. “And peace with Max. Maybe he’ll forgive me. Maybe he won’t. But I owed you something. Now we’re even.”

  “Not quite,” he said, and pulled her into his arms.

  In the back of Morgan’s mind was the realization that this was no sneaky distraction from a thief who wanted to steal some bauble she wore; this was something else.

  It was also insane, and she knew it. She knew it when a strange, feverish tremor rippled through her body, when her arms went around his waist, when her mouth opened eagerly beneath his.

  She knew it when she realized he had stolen more from her than a simple ruby necklace.

  It was dumb, and reckless, and hopelessly irrational—and Morgan didn’t fight it because she couldn’t.

  He lifted his head at last, and his voice was a bit husky when he said, “We have to get out of here.”

  She nodded silently and didn’t protest when he stepped back, but she felt grateful when he reached for her hand and held it the rest of the way down the stairwell. She didn’t want to think at all, because she was coping with the shock of realizing that she was falling for a thief.

  Quinn didn’t waste any time getting them out of the building, moving swiftly but cautiously. As soon as they were outside, he said, “Where’s your car?”

  Morgan gestured silently and walked beside him down the block to the side street where she’d parked. He released her hand and waited while she unlocked and opened the driver’s side door. Then, softly, he said, “Get out of here, Morgana.”