by Kay Hooper
“That's all.”
“The entire Bannister collection to choose from, and you pick this?”
“Is it a problem?”
Amused, she shook her head. “No, it isn't a problem. I don't usually get hired to penetrate layers of sophisticated security for something like this, but what the hell. You want, I deliver. That's the deal. Provided you agree to the price, of course.”
“The price is fine. Half now and half on delivery is also fine. Your reputation precedes you; my research indicates you're trustworthy and that you can be counted on to have complete loyalty to your employer. For the duration, and for a price.”
Unoffended, she smiled. “That's right.”
“I'll expect to hear from you as soon as possible.”
“You will. I'd just as soon do what I came here to do and get out of this city. There are far too many thieves skulking around for my taste.”
“The pot calling the kettle black.”
She laughed. “I'm no thief. I'm an artist.”
“As far as I'm concerned, that remains to be seen.”
“You'll see,” she said. “Everyone will see.”
Morgan quite deliberately stayed away from the museum on Sunday, then came to work on Monday morning as usual. She chided herself for it later, but the truth was that she looked for Quinn at the museum for most of the day. It wasn't easy, considering the crush of people eager to view the Mysteries Past exhibit, which to no one's surprise was proving to be very popular and highly profitable for the museum, but she looked for him nevertheless.
And never mind that she was being an idiot.
She wanted to believe in him, that was the problem. Maybe as a salve to her conscience, or maybe just because she needed to believe she saw something in him that most others would have found surprising if not impossible.
Something good.
If he'd been dark, Morgan thought vaguely, brooding or sardonic, it might have been easier to believe the worst of him. But he was fair and handsome, even his voice was beautiful, and how was a woman supposed to know?
All she had were her instincts, and they told her there was much more to Quinn than met the eye.
So she looked for him and didn't pretend to herself that she wasn't eager to see him again. She had even dressed with more care than usual, choosing a slim, calf-length black skirt that she wore with a full-sleeved white blouse and a really beautiful, hand-beaded vest done in opulent gold, black, and hints of rust. The outfit was completed with black pumps, and she wore her long black hair swept up in an elegant French twist.
Morgan had told herself that she had dressed so carefully only because, now that Mysteries Past was open, the director of the exhibit had a responsibility to look her best—but she didn't believe herself. She had dressed with Quinn in mind, and she knew it.
She wanted to look . . . sophisticated and cultured. And tall.
And if it occurred to her that sexy might have been added to a description of the appearance she was trying to achieve, she ignored the realization. She looked for Quinn all day, searching the crowd of faces for the one imprinted in her mind. She thought she was being subtle about it, a happy delusion shattered when Storm emerged from the computer room somewhere around three in the afternoon.
“You know, I really wouldn't expect to see him here for at least another hour or so,” the petite blonde drawled as she joined Morgan near the guards' desk in the museum's lobby. Her little blond cat, Bear, rode her shoulder as usual, so exact a feline replica of Storm that he seemed an eerie familiar.
“See who?” Morgan hugged her clipboard and tried to look innocent. It wasn't her best expression.
Storm pursed her lips slightly, and her green eyes danced. “Alex Brandon.”
“Dammit, was I that obvious?”
“Afraid so. The way you keep staring at tall blond men is a little hard to miss. I picked it up on my monitor, as a matter of fact.”
Morgan sighed and said dammit again without heat and without self-consciousness. “Well, in that case—why wouldn't you expect to see him for at least another hour?”
Storm glanced casually around to make certain they couldn't be overheard before she replied. “He has to sleep sometime, doesn't he? I imagine he's on watch or on the move most of the night, and since the collection is safest during the day with the museum filled with people, that'd be a good time to sleep.”
“I knew that.” Morgan frowned at herself.
Storm chuckled. “He probably wasn't in bed before seven or eight this morning, so he likely hasn't been up more than an hour, if that long. I'd give him time for a shave and shower, as well as breakfast, if I were you.”
“You've made your point.” Morgan sighed. “If this keeps up, I'm never going to see him in the daylight. I mean, he was at my apartment for a couple of days when he was healing, but we didn't go outside, so I haven't actually seen him in the sunshine.”
“One of your ambitions?”
“Don't laugh, but yes.”
“Why on earth would I laugh? It seems a reasonable enough aim to me. Especially if you've the suspicion he's a vampire.”
Morgan looked at her friend seriously. “No, because I've seen his reflection in a mirror.”
“Oh. Well, that does seem to prove he isn't a creature of the night. Not that kind of creature, anyway. I don't suppose he could be another kind?”
“Only vampires are famous for their seductive but deadly charm,” Morgan reminded her, still solemn.
Storm nodded gravely. “That's what I thought. You could wear a cross, I guess, and find out for sure.”
Silently, Morgan hooked a finger inside the open collar of her blouse and held out a fine golden chain from which dangled a polished gold cross. Storm studied the cross seriously, then met Morgan's earnest gaze. Then they both burst out laughing.
A bit unsteadily, Storm said, “Lord, this man must have quite an effect on you if he's got you half-seriously contemplating the undead.”
“Let's put it this way. I wouldn't be surprised to find he's three parts sorcerer at the very least.” Morgan got hold of herself. She looked at her clipboard and tried to remember that she was being paid to do a job. “Umm . . . I have to go do another walk-through of the exhibit and make sure everything's going all right. If anyone should ask—”
“I'll tell him right where you are,” Storm assured her.
“If you were a true friend, you'd lash me to the nearest mast before I make an utter fool of myself,” Morgan said somewhat mournfully. “All that crafty devil has to do is smile and say something—anything—and I forget all my good intentions.”
With a faint smile, Storm said, “I'd be glad to lash you to a mast if I thought that was what you really wanted.”
“I'm not fooling anybody today, am I?”
“No. But don't let that worry you. We're all entitled to at least one bit of reckless folly in our lives, Morgan. My daddy taught me that. It's something to remember.”
“Have you had yours?” Morgan asked curiously.
The small blonde smiled. “Of course I have. I fell for Wolfe in the middle of a very tricky situation when I couldn't tell him the truth about myself. It was reckless and foolish—but it turned out all right in the end. Something else for you to remember: Often the definition of a foolish act is just . . . bad timing.”
Morgan nodded thoughtfully and left her friend, beginning to make her way through the crowded museum toward the Mysteries Past exhibit, housed on the second floor and in the west wing of the huge building.
Reckless folly. A good description, Morgan thought. After all, nobody in their right mind would consider this fascination with an internationally notorious cat burglar anything but reckless folly. Bad timing? Oh, yes, it was that too.
And knowing all that did absolutely nothing to knock some sense into her normally sensible head, she reflected wryly.
“It's impressive as hell,” Keane Tyler commented to his partner as they wandered through the exhib
it.
“I'll say,” Gillian Newman agreed. “Whoever designed these display cases is a real artist; all the pieces look wonderful. And if we ever have time, I want to go through and read all the information cards on each piece. Looks like most of this stuff has a very colorful history.”
“I'm a bit more worried about its future than its past.”
“Still no valid connection to our Jane Doe,” Gillian reminded him. “So I'm still wondering why we're here.”
“I told you. I don't like it when a killer points me in a specific direction with a very obvious clue. Bugs the hell out of me.”
“Uh-huh. And so we're here. Again.”
Keane shrugged irritably. “I want to eliminate this place from our line of investigation.”
“I thought we pretty much had. Been here, done this. We haven't been able to find a soul who recognizes our Jane Doe, or any evidence that she was ever here.”
“I know. So why the hell did her killer want us looking in this direction?”
“Maybe sleight of hand,” Max offered as he joined them, accompanied by a thin, rather mousy-looking young woman with huge black-rimmed glasses and a solemn expression. “He could want you looking away from his real target.”
Sighing, Keane said, “With your collection out of the vaults and on exhibit, Max, it is the prime target for any thief in the city. Hell, maybe in the world. But, yeah, it could also be a distraction from something else.”
“Anything you need from us, just ask. Speaking of which, I wanted to introduce the museum's new assistant curator. Chloe Webster—Inspector Keane Tyler and Inspector Gillian Newman. Chloe just started today.”
They all made happy-to-meet-you noises, and then Chloe said, “Inspector Tyler, Mr. Dugan asked me to tell you that we'll have that list of contributors to the museum for you by the end of the day.”
“Thanks, Ms. Webster.”
Max said, “Reaching a bit, aren't you, Keane?”
“I'm reaching a mile. But until we I.D. our Jane Doe or eliminate any connection to the museum or this exhibit, we'll be checking every possibility.” Keane smiled wryly. “You have powerful friends, Max, and they all want to make absolutely certain everything possible is being done to protect your collection.”
“Sorry to make your job harder.”
“You aren't making it harder.” The words were barely out of his mouth when the alarms were set off for the third time that afternoon. Keane winced. “But this fancy security system Storm designed is giving me a hell of a headache.”
The alarms were swiftly silenced, and they all heard a nearby guard's walkie-talkie mutter, “Clear. All clear.”
“We're still making adjustments,” Max admitted, smiling faintly.
“I better go check on . . . Excuse me—” Chloe left them rather hurriedly.
“She's more nervous than you are,” Keane observed to Max.
“She's young and it's her first important job.” Max paused before adding, “She may quit when she finds out about our latest . . . wrinkle.”
Keane was immediately alert. “What is it?”
“I know we agreed that searching the storage areas in a building this size and complexity was a fairly useless exercise and that you pulled your people out of the basement, but I asked Wolfe and some of the extra guards to take a look around anyway. A few minutes ago they found something.”
“What?” Gillian asked.
“A message,” Max said.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Morgan strolled through the exhibit wing, casual but watchful, studying visitor reactions to the various displays as well as noting potential traffic bottlenecks as particular pieces of the Bannister collection drew more interest than others. The display cases had been designed specifically for the individual pieces or groups of similarly themed pieces and were very carefully lighted, so each case showed off its contents beautifully.
The exhibit was actually made up of four connected rooms within the wing, with the display cases—freestanding and lining the walls—helping to direct the flow of people smoothly through the expansive space. There were a few benches scattered about, but the idea was to keep people moving, and the careful design appeared to be doing its job well.
Morgan jotted several notes to herself, reminders to see about more lighting for one corner; an extra velvet rope to redirect traffic through a particular room; and to have an inconveniently placed bench moved from its present location.
She answered a few questions from people who knew she was the director of the exhibit, returned a few lost children to their parents, and coped with a couple more accidentally triggered alarms.
Earlier in the day she had spoken to Max and Wolfe, but both seemed to have disappeared by late afternoon. She hadn't seen any sign of Jared, which didn't surprise her. Jared, like Quinn, would undoubtedly spend more nights than days in the vicinity of the museum, since the thief they were intent on luring was virtually guaranteed to make his move during the dark hours.
Morgan had thought about that only fleetingly during the day, partly because she kept herself busy and partly because the deadly danger Nightshade was famous for was something she didn't like to think about. She did her job briskly and professionally and tried to avoid looking for tall blond cat burglars.
It wasn't until nearly six o'clock, when the museum's visitors were beginning to make their way toward the exits and she was doing a final walk-through of the exhibit for the day, that she saw Quinn.
He was standing alone at the central and most elaborate display case the exhibit could boast, the one holding the clear star of the show, the spectacular Bolling diamond. He was dressed casually in dark slacks and a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, with a black leather jacket worn open. Hands in his pockets, head bent, he stood gazing intently at the priceless seventy-five-carat teardrop canary diamond in the display case. And maybe it was the special lighting of the case that made his face look shadowed, as if it were hollowed with hunger—or avarice.
Then again, maybe the lighting had nothing to do with it.
Morgan paused in the doorway of the room and watched him silently, uneasy. The last few visitors in this area wandered past her, talking, and she nodded automatically at one of the guards who was following his usual patrol past the room, but she could hardly take her eyes off Quinn.
Max Bannister, certainly nobody's fool and a notable judge of character, believed this man saw his unique collection only as bait set out to lure a far more deadly thief. Wolfe was risking his job and sterling reputation because he believed the same thing—or, at least, because he trusted Max's judgment. Even Jared, despite the bitter anger he'd shown about his brother's life of crime, seemed to have no doubt that Quinn had no designs on the Bannister collection.
But now, watching him as he stared at the Bolling diamond, Morgan felt her throat close up and her hands were suddenly cold. His face was so still, his eyes oddly intent, and she couldn't help wondering . . .
Was the enigmatic Quinn making fools of them all?
Drawing a deep breath and then holding her clipboard rather like a shield, she moved slowly toward him. And it was obvious he knew he'd been under observation, because he spoke rather absentmindedly as soon as she reached him.
“Hello, Morgana. Do you know the history?”
“Of the Bolling?” She was pleased by her own calm voice. “No, not really, other than that it's supposed to be cursed. As director of the exhibit, my responsibilities are all administrative. I know, of course, all the facts about the pieces—carat weight and the grades of each stone, for instance—but I don't believe in curses, and gems were never my favorite subject.”
“You don't believe in curses?”
“Of course not. Myth and legend.”
“It's all just myth and legend,” Quinn said. “Until it isn't.” With barely a pause, he went on. “So, as an archaeologist you prefer relics? Bits of pottery and fossils?”
“Something like that.”
He turned his head suddenly and smiled at her. “I thought diamonds were a girl's best friend.”
“Not this girl. To be honest, I don't even like diamonds. Rubies, yes; sapphires and emeralds, definitely—but not diamonds, even the colored ones.”
“Too hard? Too cold?” He seemed honestly curious.
“I don't know why; I've never thought about it.” She shrugged off the subject, wondering irritably if he even remembered that she had rather publicly rejected him hardly forty-eight hours before.
He looked at the room around them, his expression critically assessing. “The design of the exhibit is excellent; my compliments.”
“Being a connoisseur of such things?”
“I have closely studied a number of gem exhibits over the years,” he reminded her modestly.
He had skillfully plundered a few as well. Morgan sighed. “Yeah. Well, I can't take all the credit for this one. Max and I designed the layout, but Wolfe and Storm had input because of security considerations and we had additional professional help with the lighting and display angles.”
“A very efficient team. What's going on in the basement?”
Morgan blinked. “The basement?”
“There were two police inspectors here earlier talking to Max, and all three headed toward the basement with rather grim looks on their faces. I believe there are several guards down there as well. And Wolfe.”
“How long have you been here?”
“An hour or so. What's going on in the basement, Morgana?”
“I have no idea,” she replied frankly. “Shall we go and find out?”
Before he could answer, a serene and polite recording announced over the public-address system that the museum would be closing in fifteen minutes. Quinn waited for the end of the announcement, then said, “I'd rather not make myself memorable to the police, if it's all the same to you.”
“But you have this blameless daytime persona,” she said innocently. “Why would Alexander Brandon hide his face from the police?”
“Not his face. But the police are hardly idiots, and excessive interest from me in the basement of a museum might strike even the casual observer as odd.” He sighed. “Why don't I wait for you in the lobby, Morgana? I'm sure you can think of some way of updating me as to what's happening without giving the guards the mistaken impression that you have any personal interest in me whatsoever.”
