by Kay Hooper
“All true,” he said grimly.
“Do you also kick puppies and steal candy from children?”
Quinn drew a deep breath. “Only on odd Thursdays.”
She smiled a little. “You know . . . I'd have a much easier time believing all these rotten things about you if you didn't try so hard to make me believe them.”
With a glint of despair in his vivid eyes, he said, “Morgan, get it through your head—I'm not a nice person.”
“I never said you were.”
Quinn blinked but recovered quickly. “I get it. You're a danger junkie, that's why you brazenly invited me to be your lover.”
“A danger junkie. Well, maybe. I would never have guessed I'd turn into one, mind you, but anything's possible. Meet a world-infamous cat burglar in a dark museum one night and all kinds of doors are suddenly before you.” Morgan's tone remained thoughtful. “It's a new path. A less-traveled path. All the best journeys in life are the unexpected ones. So why not?”
“Why are you talking like a fortune cookie?”
Morgan hadn't enjoyed herself so much in years, and it took everything she had to keep from laughing out loud. Instead, she said gravely, “All kinds of doors. I'll say this for you, Alex. They're interesting doors. Very interesting doors. And the one thing I know for sure is that I really do want to find out what's behind those doors.”
“Tigers,” he warned.
“Somehow I doubt that. But not handsome princes either. You're not that magnanimous. Adventure, I'd say. Maybe danger. Changes, for sure. I think my life is ready for changes.”
“Morgan—”
“I'm a big girl, Alex, all grown up and everything. I think I can make decisions about my life. And who to let into it. I think that's what being a grown-up is all about.”
“Morgan, I'm a thief. I break the law. I do bad things. Remember? I am not the sort of man you should let into your life.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Alex, you can't expect me to believe you're an evil ogre when you won't even let yourself be decently seduced. Any genuine villain would have been in my bed like a shot. Especially a boob man. Which we both know you are.”
Quinn bowed his head and muttered a string of soft but heartfelt oaths.
Perfectly aware that he was trying hard not to laugh and trying equally hard to be serious about this, Morgan said gravely, “Look, I'm not an idiot. Yes, you've broken the law, frequently and with a certain amount of panache. Being a law-abiding person myself, I find that hard to understand, much less excuse. I can't even console myself by believing that some tragedy led you into a life of crime in the best melodramatic tradition. You enjoyed your past, and you're enjoying this dangerous shell game now.
“I've told myself all that. I've been very rational about the situation. And if I were looking for a happily-ever-after ending, this conversation wouldn't be taking place. Because I know damned well any woman who gets involved with you is asking for trouble. She's also asking for heartache—not because you're an evil man, but because you aren't.”
Quinn raised his head and stared at her.
Her amusement gone, Morgan smiled a bit ruefully. “I've tried. I have tried. But I can't seem to do much about this. You'd be damnably easy to love, Alex. Rogues always are, and you're certainly that. But I'm not fool enough to believe I could catch the wind in my hands, so you don't have to worry about me clinging. I don't want golden rings or bedroom promises. Just . . . an adventure. And I won't make it difficult for you. I won't even ask you to say good-bye when it's over.”
“Dammit, would you stop—”
“Being noble?” she interrupted, her dry voice cutting through his rough one. “Isn't that what you've been doing?”
After a moment, he said, “I don't want to hurt you.”
“I know. And you certainly get nine out of ten for effort.”
The light comment didn't alter his grim expression. “Ten out of ten, because it stops here.” Each word was bitten off sharply with the sound of finality. “If you want to play in the danger zone, pick some other rogue to show you how.”
Morgan gazed at the spot where he'd stood long after he was gone. Then, gradually, she began smiling. Things were, she decided cheerfully, definitely looking up.
It was nearly midnight as Jared stood restlessly at the window of his hotel room. His suit jacket and tie had long since been discarded, but he still wore his big automatic in its accustomed shoulder holster, and he needed only to pull on a light jacket if he had to leave in a hurry. Which is what he more or less expected.
It was an unusually clear night for the moment, affording an excellent view of the colorful city lights, but he knew fog was forecast and that it would probably be of the pea-soup variety. Not that the view interested him anyway; his work demanded all the caution of walking a knife's edge, and he had taught himself long ago to focus his concentration. Too often, keeping his mind on business had been a simple matter of life or death.
When the phone finally rang, he turned instantly from the window and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“I hear things are a little tense between you and Wolfe.”
Jared relaxed, but only slightly. “And have you also heard that Morgan talks too much?”
“Yes, I have heard that—but how do you know it was Morgan? It might have been Storm.”
“I know Storm. She'll talk to Wolfe about me, but she wouldn't talk to you, Max—not about undercurrents.”
Max chuckled. “No, you trained her too well. As a matter of fact, it was Morgan who mentioned it. She said things had been very strained lately.”
“Yeah, well—give her two points for observation; it didn't take ESP to see it.”
“You want me to talk to him?”
“No, I don't think so.” Jared was glancing at his watch as he spoke. “Between his preoccupation with Storm and his hostility toward me, he hasn't had a lot of time to think about what we're doing, and I'd just as soon keep it that way as long as possible. The last thing I want right now is a lot of questions, especially from Wolfe.”
Max was silent for a moment, then sighed. “All right, I'll keep out of it. For now.”
“Thanks.”
“Don't mention it. Have you told Alex about the ballistics report?”
“Not yet. We're supposed to meet tonight.”
“How do you think he'll take it?”
“The certain knowledge that Nightshade is in San Francisco and is the one who put a bullet in him? I think he'll do something reckless.”
“Like what?”
“I don't know. But the possibilities are making me very nervous. Max, we've still got a few days before the collection is in place and the exhibit ready to open to the public. It's not too late to stop this.”
“That isn't an option.”
“You're a hardheaded bastard, you know that?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Look, relax, will you?” Amusement crept into Max's deep voice. “As tense as you are, anybody'd think there was something dangerous going on.”
Jared made a rude noise and cradled the receiver without force. His somewhat rueful amusement didn't last long, however. He checked his watch and remained by the phone for some minutes, but when it finally rang it pulled him away from the window for a second time.
And, this time, the conversation was much briefer.
“Yeah?”
“You sound impatient. Am I late?”
Jared checked his watch again. “Yes. I was about to go looking for you.”
“You wouldn't have found me.”
“Don't bet on it.”
A soft laugh. “One of these days, we'll put that to the test, you and I.”
“If we live long enough, you're on. Now, do we need to meet tonight?”
“I think so. . . .”
The cold fog drifting over the bay began to obscure the distant, hulking outline of Alcatraz, and Quinn was glad. Though it was no longer a place where dangerous criminals were
held, the defunct prison and its lonely island continued to be a stark, visible reminder of the price demanded of those who chose to be lawless.
Quinn didn't need the reminder.
Still, as he turned the collar of his jacket up and dug his hands into the pockets, he watched the rocky island until the mist enveloped it and rendered it invisible. It was an eerie sight, the fog creeping over the water toward him while, behind Quinn, the moonlight gleamed down on the city. At least for now, some time after midnight. In another hour, Quinn thought, he probably wouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his face.
He was beginning to really like this city.
“Why the hell are we meeting here?”
Quinn had been aware of the presence before he heard or saw anything, so the low voice didn't startle him. “I thought it was rather apt,” he murmured in response. “Before the fog rolled in, Alcatraz was shining like a beacon in the moonlight.”
Jared sighed. “Are you getting edgy? You, Alex?” His voice held a very slight note of mockery.
Quinn turned his back on the archaic, mist-enshrouded prison and looked at his companion. “No, but I'll be glad when this is over. I'd forgotten how long the nights get.”
“Your choice,” Jared reminded him.
“Yeah, I know.”
Jared had keen eyes, and the moon was still visible hanging low over the city, so he was able to see the lean face of his brother clearly. “Is your shoulder bothering you?” he asked a bit roughly.
Quinn shrugged, the movement easy and showing no sign of the damage a bullet had caused barely more than a week previously. “No. You know I'm a quick healer.”
“Even for a quick healer, that was a nasty wound. You probably should have stayed at Morgan's longer than a few days.”
“No,” Quinn said. “I shouldn't have done that.”
After a moment, Jared said, “So, Max was right.”
“About what?”
“Don't be deliberately dense, Alex.”
Quinn resisted the impulse to ask if he could be accidentally dense. “Max is very perceptive—but he isn't always right. As for Morgan, let's just say that I have enough common sense for both of us.”
“And no time for romance?”
“And no time for romance.” Quinn wondered, not for the first time, if becoming such an accomplished liar had been a good thing or a bad one. It might have kept his skin intact a bit longer, he thought, but sooner or later it was all going to catch up with him—and a great many people would no doubt be furious at him.
Jared seemed to be thinking along the same lines.
“We've been amazingly lucky so far,” he said. “But you really can't afford to get in any deeper with Morgan.”
“I know that.”
“She knows too much already.”
Quinn drew a deep breath but kept his voice light. “Pardon me for not thinking too clearly when I was bleeding. I'll try to do better next time.”
“I'm not blaming you for that.”
“Too kind.”
Jared swore under his breath. “Look, all I'm saying is that we're running out of time. You really don't have the leisure—or the right—to pull any woman into a situation like this, especially when you're dealing with someone as deadly as Nightshade.”
Calmer now, Quinn said quietly, “Yes. You're right, I know that. And I am trying.”
Deciding that it was time to change the subject, Jared said, “Well, we do have other things to think about. The police have their preliminary reports on the Jane Doe, and the ballistics report on the bullet the doc dug out of your shoulder came in.”
“And?”
“Current thinking is that the Jane Doe isn't one of Nightshade's victims. She was stabbed, for one thing. For another, he never bothers to try and delay identification of his victims. Given that and where she was found, it seems unlikely that Nightshade killed her.”
“Not his style. And that so-called clue left on the body sounds even less like him.”
Jared said, “I just found out about that myself. How did you find out?”
“I often know things I'm not supposed to know. How do you think I was able to keep one jump ahead of the police for so many years?” Quinn shook his head. “Don't worry—there's no leak in the police department here. Or in Interpol, for that matter.”
Deciding not to ask, Jared merely said, “Still no I.D. on that body, by the way. No match in the missing-persons database. The forensics specialists are trying to get a viable fingerprint, but so far no luck. Nobody's recognized her photo within blocks of the area where she was found. The only thing the police are certain of is that her killer is pointing them toward the museum. Whether as a distraction or a taunt, not even the police shrinks are willing to guess.”
“What's your guess?”
“It's obvious and meant to look obvious. It also points at the museum, but not specifically at the Mysteries Past exhibit.” Jared paused, then shook his head. “We don't know a thief killed her, so pointing the police toward the museum could be something as simple—and as sick—as a joke. Her death could have absolutely nothing to do with the museum or the exhibit. But the police have to follow the lead, so . . . That's a hell of a big building. Impossible for the police to search completely.”
“And they're wasting a lot of time trying.”
“Maybe. They've questioned virtually everyone connected to the museum, showed them a photo of the Jane Doe. So far, nobody admits to having seen her, in the museum or outside it. The police are beginning to think her killer was just trying to throw them off the scent, that she has nothing at all to do with the museum.”
Quinn considered that for a moment in silence, then said, “Without more to go on, I'm not surprised the police don't know where to fit that particular puzzle piece.”
“You think she fits somewhere, that she's part of someone's plans for the museum or the exhibit?”
“Oh, yes,” Quinn replied matter-of-factly. “In a situation like this, there are no coincidences.”
“Then we've got another player.”
“It's very likely.”
“Great. That's just great.”
Quinn studied his brother, then said, “Are you going to give me the results of the ballistics report?”
“Do I have to?”
“No. Nightshade shot me.”
Jared sighed. “The bullet matched those taken from his previous victims. The question is, did he know who he was shooting.”
“He couldn't have known anything. He probably suspected another thief, maybe trying to I.D. him or trying to get rid of some of the competition.”
“Even if he didn't connect you with the museum, he has to suspect a trap.”
“Probably. I would.” Without waiting for a response to that, Quinn added, “The collection is being set up in the museum now, so there are armed guards everywhere around the clock; no thief in his right mind would try to go after it until the exhibit opens to the public.”
“Can we assume Nightshade is in his right mind?”
“We can assume he's not stupid. I don't believe he'd try for the collection now with all the security so visible. He'll wait, until the museum has to accommodate the public, has to reduce the number of guards and rely on electronic security. That's when it's most vulnerable.
“We have the by-invitation-only private showing next Friday, and then the exhibit opens to the public on Saturday. I think we both agree that the sooner we lure Nightshade into the trap, the better. If we let him, he could well wait for the next two months and make his move when we've relaxed our guard.”
“I'd rather not have to haunt the museum for the next two months,” Jared said politely. “The sooner we wrap this up, the happier I'll be.”
“Yes, I imagine you're pretty fed up with having to be my watchdog.”
“It isn't my favorite job, I admit.”
Curiously, Quinn asked, “Because you don't like being a watchdog, or because it's me?”
; Jared drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Let's not go there, okay?”
Quinn hadn't kept himself alive and at large for ten years without learning when it was safer to back off. So he backed off. “Right. Look, I don't see that I can learn anything more by using the methods I've been using so far. With the collection out of the vaults, the stakes have just shot sky-high.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I can no longer afford to be cautious.”
“You're saying you've been acting cautiously all this time?”
“Of course.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Quinn could have said that he had, in fact, fooled his brother, but instead said, “Oh, I'm always careful.”
That solemn statement was so wide of the mark that Jared could only shake his head. “Sure you are.”
“I am. And I plan to be very, very careful during the next step of my plan.”
“Which is?” Jared inquired somewhat warily.
“Well, hunting by night hasn't earned me much except a bullet. I think it's time I tried a more direct approach.”
Jared sighed. “I've got a feeling I won't like this.”
“No, probably not.” Quinn's even, white teeth showed in a sudden grin. “But I will.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
“May I have this dance?”
Morgan West would have known the voice anywhere, even here in a Sea Cliff mansion in the middle of an elegant, black-tie party. Rather numbly, she looked up to meet the laughing green eyes of the most famous—and infamous—cat burglar in the world.
Quinn.
He was dressed for the party, a handsome heartbreaker in his stark black dinner jacket. His fair hair gleamed as he bowed very slightly with exquisite grace before her, and Morgan knew without doubt that at least half the female eyes in the crowded ballroom were fixed on him.
The other half just hadn't seen him yet.
“Oh, Christ,” she murmured.
Quinn lifted her drink from her hand and set it on a nearby table. “As I believe I told you once before, Morgana—not nearly,” he said nonchalantly.
