by Kay Hooper
Max had directly referred to Quinn by name only once, and then it had been his real name—Alex. She tried to think about that, but she was just too tired, falling asleep almost instantly.
Storm Tremaine, tiny and blond, with fierce eyes and a lazy Southern drawl, didn't look anything at all like a cop—or even a technical specialist. But she happened to be both—an agent with Interpol, specializing in computers and security.
In any case, Jared Chavalier, senior Interpol agent and her boss on this assignment, had known her too long not to know that she was small only in physical stature, not ability or self-confidence.
“So Max is talking to Wolfe, huh?” She glanced at the computer screen on her desk from time to time as the security system she had designed and installed was currently running its diagnostic program. But otherwise she kept her gaze on Jared, who was moving rather restlessly around the very small room.
“Yeah.”
“And since you know Wolfe is still furious at you, you're hiding back here with me.”
“I am not hiding.”
“Right. You just love pacing about six square feet of floor space. Where I come from, that's what we call going nowhere in a hurry.”
Jared turned to stare at her, but after meeting her amused gaze, he finally sat down in her visitor's chair with a sigh. “I've been expecting him to pull the plug ever since you were attacked and he found out about the trap. After what happened last night . . . God knows what he'll do.”
“Whatever Max wants him to do.”
Jared knew that Wolfe was completely in love with Storm and she with him, and he also knew there were—now—no secrets between them, so he said bluntly, “He knew about Quinn before this, didn't he?”
“Yeah, but not because I told him.”
Jared lifted an eyebrow, but Storm shook her head with a smile. “I gather he got in touch right after he found out about the trap, but he didn't say how. Just that he and Quinn had a little . . . meeting.”
“And Quinn told him the truth?”
“Wolfe thinks he did.”
“What do you think?”
“I think . . . Quinn is the sort of man who always has an ace or two up his sleeve. Maybe even a rabbit. And never tells anybody the whole truth.”
Jared grimaced. “That's what I'm afraid of.”
“But you do believe he's working with you rather than against you this time?”
“Christ, I don't know. Before all this started, I would have said Max was the last man on earth who'd have to worry about Quinn stealing anything from him. Now . . . I just don't know.”
“This trap . . .” Storm pursed her lips, then went on slowly. “Interpol doesn't know about the bait, do they?”
“Interpol isn't in the habit of using priceless private collections of gems and artworks to bait traps.”
“Umm. That's what I thought. But they do know that Quinn is working with you to catch this thief they're calling Nightshade, an arrangement they approve because Nightshade is by all accounts way more vicious and deadly than Quinn is. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And because when he finally did get caught, Quinn was quietly given a choice between rotting in prison for the rest of his life or putting his skills to good use playing on Interpol's team. So you're supposed to be holding the leash.”
“Supposed to be,” Jared said grimly, “is a good description. He claimed to need more freedom in order to do his job, so I let the leash play out and gave him what he wanted. God knows if I could even reel him in now.”
“Mixing your metaphors,” Storm murmured, then went on before Jared could do more than glare at her. “His working with Interpol is recent, right?”
“Right. Other than some . . . intelligence he's provided, this is the first active case he's been on. First time out on a leash, so to speak.”
“So you can't really know if this is going to work on any level. But you said he gave you his word he wouldn't try to escape you—or Interpol.”
“He did.”
“You also said his word was worth something, that he never breaks a promise.”
“That's what I keep telling myself.”
“You think he'd run if he got the chance?”
“Not before we catch Nightshade. It's personal for him.”
“How—”
“Don't ask; I don't know the details. I only know that Quinn wants Nightshade. Badly.”
“Umm. Well, in the meantime, I can see how Interpol might be a bit upset with you if they find out exactly what's going on over on this side of the pond. And I imagine Lloyd's of London wouldn't be very pleased if they knew about the trap either, since they insure the collection. And Wolfe is definitely risking his job with them. I guess I'm most surprised at Max being willing to take the risk. It took his family five centuries to build the collection, and every piece is irreplaceable.”
“Don't remind me. I think it's a lunatic idea and I have from the beginning.”
“Then it wasn't your idea. Why did you agree to it?”
“Max agreed. Once he did, there was nothing I could do about it except go along.”
Storm couldn't help but smile. “Sounds like you've got a pit bull at the other end of that leash. It was Quinn's idea, wasn't it? His plan?”
Jared nodded, and hesitated for an instant before saying, “If it had been anybody but Nightshade, I never would have even allowed Quinn to approach Max. But to stop a thief and murderer like Nightshade, almost any risk can be justified.”
“Even your brother's life?”
Jared's face tightened slightly, but he replied in a steady voice. “He's been risking his life for ten years or more. The only thing that's changed is the reason why.”
“Has he ever been shot before?”
“No. He says not. Injured a few times and beaten up more than once, but never shot.”
“So that's changed. And one more thing has changed, Jared.”
He waited, silent.
“This time, Quinn's on a leash. Something a man accustomed to total freedom might well find to be a problem. A deadly problem.”
“Yes,” Jared said. “I know.”
“The doctor said you have to take the pills. They'll help prevent infection.”
“Not with milk,” Quinn said firmly, frowning up at her. “I hate milk, Morgana.”
She sighed, faced with the first real mutiny from her patient after slightly more than twenty-four hours of tranquillity. He had slept most of that time, waking only briefly every few hours and accepting without protest the broth she had spooned into him. He had watched her steadily, his green eyes quiet, thanked her gravely for any service she performed for him, and was otherwise a model patient. Until now, anyway.
Given his personality as she knew it, she hadn't expected the placidity to last, of course, but she had hoped for at least a couple of days before he began to get restless.
“All right, no milk,” she said agreeably. “But you have to take the pills. How about juice?”
“How about coffee?”
“The last thing you need is caffeine.”
“Coffee,” he repeated, softly but stubbornly.
Morgan debated silently, then decided it wasn't worth a fight. It was more important that he take the pills—no matter what he washed them down with. Besides, she was almost sure she had a can of decaffeinated. “All right, coffee. It'll be a few minutes, though; I have to make some.”
He nodded, those absurdly long lashes veiling his eyes so she couldn't tell if he was gloating over her capitulation. She retreated from the bedroom with the unwanted milk, vaguely suspicious although she didn't know why.
Fifteen minutes later, she returned to the bedroom to find the covers thrown back and the bed empty and realized she must have read his intentions subconsciously if not consciously. His minor rebellion was escalating. The bathroom door was closed, and there was water running in the sink.
She set the cup of coffee on the nightstand, went to the door,
and knocked courteously. “Alex, what are you doing in there?”
“It's not polite to ask that, Morgana,” he reproved in a muffled but amused voice.
She leaned her forehead against the door and sighed. “You're not supposed to be out of bed. The doctor said—”
“I know what the doctor said, but I'll be damned if I ever let myself get that helpless. There are some things a man prefers to do for himself. Do you have a razor?”
“You aren't going to shave.”
“Oh, yes, I am.”
Morgan took a step back and glared at the door. “All right. I'll just wait out here until you get dizzy and fall on your ass. When I hear the thud, I'll call Max and ask him to come over here and drag your carcass back to bed.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the water stopped running in the sink and the door opened. He stood there a bit unsteadily, a towel wrapped around his lean waist, his green eyes very bright, and that crooked, beguiling smile curving his lips. He had slid his left arm from the sling meant to ease the weight on that shoulder and braced his good shoulder against the doorjamb.
Judging by the dampness of his tousled hair, he had washed up a bit, doing the best he could when he could hardly stand and couldn't get his bandaged shoulder wet. As for the towel—he probably hadn't felt steady enough to get into any of the clothing Max had sent over, even though the stuff was neatly folded in plain view on the storage chest at the foot of Morgan's bed.
When Max had stripped him, he had removed everything; Morgan knew that because she had washed the pants and shorts and thrown the ruined sweater in the trash.
“You're a hard woman, Morgana,” he murmured.
She wished she was. She had been trying rather fiercely to see him only as a wounded body needing her help, and as long as he'd remained in the bed she had more or less succeeded. But he was on his feet now—however unsteadily—and it was impossible for her to look at him wearing only a towel and a bandage and not see him as utterly male and heart-catchingly sexy.
He's a thief.
She remembered too well how that hard body felt against hers and how his beguiling mouth had seduced hers until she hadn't cared who or what he was. She remembered his murmured words, when he'd told her that he thought she was going to break his heart.
He's just a damned thief.
She also remembered the mocking gift of a concubine ring.
It was that last memory that steadied her. Calmly, she said, “Look, if you really have to shave, there's an electric razor around here somewhere. I'll get it for you. But you have to go back to bed.”
After an instant, he nodded slightly and took a step toward her. He would have fallen if she hadn't quickly slid an arm around his waist and put her shoulder under his good one.
“Dammit, you tried to do too much,” she muttered as he leaned on her heavily.
“I think you're right.” He sounded definitely weakened. “If you could help me to the bed . . .”
Halfway across the room, Morgan got the distinct feeling that he wasn't quite as frail as he seemed, but she didn't try to call his bluff. What else could she expect, after all? she asked herself somewhat wryly as she helped him those last few steps. His humorous, mischievous, and careless nature had been obvious from the first time she'd met him, and she doubted very much if he had a sincere bone in his body; he was perfectly capable of pretending weakness simply because he enjoyed leaning on her.
She batted his amazingly limp but wonderfully accurate hand away from her right breast and more or less dumped him on the bed.
Quinn grimaced as his shoulder was jolted, but he was also laughing softly. “All right, but you can't blame me for trying,” he said guilelessly.
Hands on her hips, Morgan glared down at him. Damn the man, it was so hard to stay mad at him. “Next time you get out of that bed, you'd better make sure you can get back under your own steam. I meant what I said about calling Max.”
Quinn eased himself farther up on the bed, then glanced down at the towel still wrapped around him. “I suppose you wouldn't want to help me—”
“No. Like you said, there are some things a man should do for himself. I'll go find the razor.” He was laughing at her again when she left the room, but Morgan didn't yell at him. She didn't even turn around to look at him, because he would have seen her smiling completely against her will.
Even if he was on the side of the angels this time, she told herself, he was still a thief and a scoundrel. Charming, but still a scoundrel. She needed to remember that.
She really, really needed to remember that.
When she returned to the bedroom a few minutes later, he was propped up on the pillows, the covers drawn up to his waist, sipping the coffee she'd brought him. The towel was crumpled up on the floor by the bed.
She retrieved it and returned it to the bathroom. Silently. She unwound the cord from the electric razor, plugged it into an outlet by the nightstand, and set the razor within easy reach for him. Silently. Then she gave him his pills and waited until he swallowed them.
He eyed her somewhat warily, then said, “You aren't mad at me, are you, Morgana?”
It cost her, but she managed to remain at least outwardly unmoved by his wistfulness. “No, but you're walking a fine edge,” she warned him mildly.
He was silent for a moment, then set his coffee cup on the nightstand and nodded gravely. For once, his green eyes were perfectly serious. “I know—I can't help pushing. And . . . I hate having to depend on anyone else. For anything.”
Morgan could feel her resolve weakening. As dangerous to her composure as he was in his playful, amusing mode, this—apparent—painful honesty was devastating. She had the sudden conviction that unless she was very, very careful, Quinn would steal far more from her than she could afford to lose.
From somewhere, she summoned an award-winning portrayal of calm reason. “Why don't we make an agreement. I'll do my best not to threaten your independence in any way, and you shelve Don Juan for the duration. Okay?”
Smiling, he nodded. “Okay.”
“Good. Now, I'm going to do something about lunch while you shave. And afterward, if you don't feel like resting, there are a host of alternatives, beginning with reading or television and ending with a card game.”
“You play cards?” His eyes gleamed at her. “Poker?”
“Any kind except strip,” she said gently.
“Oh, shoot,” he murmured, not Don Juan now but the mischievous boy who was nearly as seductive.
She shook her head at him and turned toward the door, but halted there when he spoke softly.
“Morgana? Thank you.”
Again she found her resolve threatened, and again she managed to shore it up. “Oh, you can pay me back easily, Alex. Just return the necklace you stole from me.”
He laughed at her as she left the room, completely unrepentant and utterly shameless.
Inspector Keane Tyler of the San Francisco Police Department scowled down at the virtually nude body of Jane Doe (#3 for this month) and said to no one in particular, “This is not my favorite way to spend a Saturday afternoon.”
“Don't imagine it's hers either.” Inspector Gillian Newman, new to San Francisco but clearly not to the job, spoke with the slightly wry detachment common to cops who saw too much of the darker side of life's streets. “Preliminary estimate says she's been dead awhile, but when's difficult to pin down.”
“Why?”
“Doc says she's spent some time in a freezer.”
Keane's scowl disappeared and his eyebrows lifted. “That's an unusual wrinkle. So somebody wants to mess with our heads.”
“Looks like. Could be somebody she knew, trying to make the time of death as vague as possible because he—or she—can't establish an alibi.”
“Any evidence the killer knew her?”
“Not so far.”
“Was she raped?”
“Doc says no.”
“Stripped to her panties but not
raped. Maybe because her clothes could have given us an I.D.—or at least a place to start looking for an I.D.”
“Or maybe the killer is a boob man. Gets his rocks off looking or copping a feel, and took the clothes as a trophy.”
“Equally as likely,” Keane admitted. “At least until we have some solid evidence either way.”
“It's clear he didn't want her identified. The doc says her fingers were burned with a blowtorch.”
“That'll do it,” Keane said grimly. “Maybe forensics can get something resembling a print, but it'll take time if it's even possible at all.”
“In the meantime, back at the office they're checking her description against the missing-persons file,” Gillian reported briskly. “Nothing so far. We're doing the usual door-to-door, but so far nobody saw a thing. Not surprising, considering how remote this place is. Area's being searched, but I think we both know this is just where the body was dumped. Nothing else happened here.”
“Great,” Keane muttered. “So unless she turns up in our files as missing or we get wildly lucky and somebody recognizes a photo, we don't have a hope in hell of getting an I.D.”
“Well, there is one thing that might point us in a specific direction. Or at least point us where the killer wants us to go.”
“What do you mean?”
“During the preliminary exam, the doc found something. In her panties. It's a strip of paper torn from one of those guides you pick up when you visit a national landmark—or a museum. You know, information, a map. I sort of doubt it got in her underwear accidentally.”
Keane began to feel queasy for the first time. “Ah, don't tell me. Please don't tell me.”
“Sorry. It's the Museum of Historical Art.”
CHAPTER
THREE
“What I don't understand,” Storm Tremaine drawled somewhat absently as she typed commands into the computer, “is why you're still snapping at Jared. He's just doing his job.”
“What I don't understand is why you have to work on a Saturday. Max told you to take weekends off.” Resting a hip on the corner of her desk and wearing her little blond cat on his shoulder, Wolfe Nickerson, security expert and representative of Lloyd's of London, was waiting for his lady to finish the work she insisted had to be completed today.
