by Kay Hooper
She checked the security room first, talking briefly with two incurious guards who reported a peaceful day undisturbed by anything except the usual number of children momentarily lost from their parents and a couple of lovers' spats. Morgan had been bemused years ago to discover that a surprising number of lovers chose to work out their differences in museums—possibly believing the huge, echoing rooms and corridors were much more private than they really were.
Given her own knowledge of the security surrounding such valuable things, Morgan was always aware of the watching eyes of video cameras, patrolling guards, and other members of the public, and so museums were not what she considered either romantic or private.
With that thought still in her mind, she went on down the hallway to the computer room, finding Storm frowning at her computer as she typed briskly.
“Hi,” Morgan said, deliberately casual as she leaned in the doorway. “What's up?”
The petite blonde finished typing and hit the enter key, then leaned back in her chair and looked at her friend with solemn interest. “We'll get to that in a minute. What's up with you?”
Since she wasn't easily embarrassed, Morgan didn't blush under that shrewd scrutiny. “Well,” she offered, still casual, “I'm better than I was yesterday.”
“Mmm. Even after being chloroformed?”
“That wasn't the high point of the evening.”
“I should hope not. Alex?”
Morgan felt herself smiling. “Does it show?”
“Only all over you.” Storm smiled in return. “Sort of disconcerting, isn't it?”
“I'll say. And with all this other stuff . . . Well, let's just say I'm taking things as they come.”
“Probably best.” Then Storm looked more serious. “Jared said they thought it was Nightshade who grabbed you.”
“Yeah. Just my luck, huh? Listen, has Max checked in today? I feel guilty as hell about missing work.”
“As a matter of fact he's here. Out in the museum somewhere.”
“I'll try to find him. Um . . . where's Bear?” She didn't see the little cat anywhere.
“With Wolfe—who is also somewhere out in the museum.” The computer beeped just then, commanding Storm's attention, and she sat up to deal with the electronic summons. “He's getting a bit nervous. Wolfe, I mean.”
That surprised Morgan, since she had seldom seen the security expert rattled by anything. “About the trap?” she asked.
Storm keyed in a brief command, then looked back at her friend with a smile. “No. About a church wedding in Louisiana. He was all for us finding a preacher and just doing it, but we can't. After six sons, my mama started saving her pennies for my wedding the day I was born, and I just can't spoil that for her. So, even as we speak, plans are being made back home. And Wolfe's feeling a bit daunted about meeting my family and walking down the aisle.”
She didn't sound particularly worried, Morgan thought in amusement. But then—there was no reason she should be. However nervous he might be about the ordeal awaiting him in Louisiana, it was abundantly clear that Wolfe was so deeply in love with Storm it would have taken a great deal more than a gauntlet of relatives to drive him away from her. It would, Morgan thought, take something absolute. Like the end of the world.
Somewhat dryly, Morgan said, “His job and reputation on the line, and he's worried about a little rice and orange blossom.”
“Men are odd, aren't they?”
“Ain't that the truth? Listen, is there anything else I should know about, workwise?”
Storm reported the latest findings and their own speculations on Jane Doe, finishing with, “Keane's forensics team was down in the basement for a while, trying to determine points of entry, but they're gone now. Didn't find anything conclusive. We've beefed up security cameras and alarms on all exterior doors. And windows.”
“Sounds good.” Morgan frowned. “Does Keane believe they're any closer to identifying Jane Doe?”
“I don't think so, but he did say they were pretty much focusing all their efforts on getting a viable fingerprint from the body.”
“Is that even possible with burned fingers?”
“The experts believe they have a shot at it. Let's hope they know what they're talking about.” Storm grimaced. “It's actually easier to look for a missing person than it is to I.D. a body when it's dumped somewhere other than a crime scene and the description doesn't match up with any listed missing person. Makes sense when you think about it.”
“Yeah. Got to have a place to start.”
“That's what Keane says. And he's frustrated as hell about it. Anyway, that's it for now. You're up to speed.”
“Thanks.” Morgan lifted a hand in farewell and went on down the hall. She stopped at her office, discovering that her clipboard wasn't on her desk where she'd left it, then continued to the curator's office at the end of the hall. She found Chloe Webster there at Ken's desk, frowning down at paperwork. The frown vanished when she looked up to see Morgan in the doorway.
“Hey, are you all right? I heard you got mugged last night.”
Which was, Morgan decided, a safer version of what had happened than the truth. “I'm fine. Actually, it all seems like something out of a nightmare now, as if it never happened.”
“You could have been killed.”
Quinn had said the same thing, Morgan remembered. “I don't know—it happened so fast I didn't have time to be scared. Anyway, it's over now.” She glanced around at Ken's cluttered office. “Have you seen my clipboard? It wasn't on my desk, so I figured—”
Chloe moved a stack of papers to one side. “Is this it?”
“Yeah, thanks. Ken must have needed it. I really should have come in today.”
“I heard Mr. Bannister say an unscheduled day off never hurt anybody. Besides, as far as I can tell, there haven't been any problems.”
“You were frowning when I came in,” Morgan observed.
Chloe shook her head dismissively. “Oh, I was just talking to Stuart Atkins—at the Collier Museum?—and he told me that several of the museums in the area have been having problems with their security systems. Alarms going off for no reason, things like that. But everything here seems fine.”
“Famous last words,” Morgan said.
“I know, that's why I'll tell Mr. Dugan and Mr. Bannister about the call. Just in case.”
Morgan nodded, agreeing that would be best. She continued on to her own office to return the clipboard to her desk and check all the status logs. Then she went in search of Quinn.
“I don't like it,” Max said.
“I didn't expect you would.” Quinn sighed and eyed the other man rather cautiously. “Look, we both know Morgan's impulsive; I'd made her mad and she came to pour wrath all over me. She was smart enough to figure out where I was watching, and furious enough to come storming up the fire escape.”
“I know that, Alex.” Max shifted his broad shoulders just a bit in a rare movement that gave away his tension. “What I don't know—and what you've been evasive about—is what Nightshade was doing on that fire escape. If it was him, of course.”
The two men were standing in a gallery near the Mysteries Past exhibit, out in the open so that no one could approach unseen, and both kept their voices low.
Quinn hadn't exactly looked forward to this interview, but he'd known it would take place sooner rather than later; Max was far too intelligent to have missed the significance of what had happened last night.
As casually as possible, Quinn said, “Didn't Jared explain?”
“No. He said you were too upset to talk about it last night when he came to relieve you. I got the feeling he had a few questions of his own.”
Quinn only just stopped himself from wincing. He thought Jared had more than a few questions by now, having had time to consider what Quinn remembered himself saying: Maybe he got suspicious of me and showed up tonight looking for me. . . .
It was the only time in his entire career that Quinn
could recall having been so disturbed—by Morgan's close call—that he spoke without thinking. And by now Jared had quite probably reached the conclusion that Nightshade's identity was definitely no longer a mystery to Quinn.
Pushing that aside to be dealt with later, Quinn cleared his throat and spoke in a convincingly frank tone. “Well, it isn't so complicated, Max. Nightshade, if it was him, of course, was probably casing the museum—though I don't know how I could have missed it—and he must have seen me on the roof. I can't know what he meant to do, naturally, but it's obvious Morgan got in his way and so he put her to sleep for a little while. I heard something and came down before he could do anything else—and he left. That's all.”
Max never took his eyes off the other man's face. “Uh-huh. Tell me, Alex: Do you carry chloroform around at night?”
“I've been known to,” Quinn admitted candidly. “It's an efficient and nonlethal way of dealing with unexpected problems.”
“Does Nightshade carry it?”
“He did last night.”
After a long moment, Max said, “Is Morgan in danger?”
Quinn answered that with genuine sincerity. “I'll do everything in my power to make certain she's not.”
Max frowned slightly. “You didn't answer my question.”
“I answered it the only way I could. Max, there are a few things I didn't exactly plan on in all this, and Morgan's one of them. It seems to be . . . more than usually difficult to predict what she might do at any given moment, so I can't be sure she won't charge up another damned fire escape. But I won't let anything happen to her.”
“Are you so in control of the situation that you can promise that?”
“Max—” Quinn broke off, then sighed. “Look, after tonight, I'll know how in control of the situation I am, and until then I can't give you an answer. You'll just have to trust me to know what I'm doing.”
“All right,” Max responded slowly. “I'll wait—until tomorrow.”
“That's all I ask.” With any luck, he'd think of something plausible by then. Either that or else figure out a way to avoid Max until this was finished. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find Morgan.”
“Tell her I said hello.” Max waited until the other man turned away, then added, “Alex? Did you steal the Carstairs necklace?”
Quinn wasn't imprudent enough to conjure a hurt expression or even to sound offended, but he did manage an utterly sincere answer. “No, Max, I didn't steal it.”
Max didn't say another word; he merely nodded and watched the younger man walk out of the gallery. A moment later, he didn't react with surprise when Wolfe entered from the opposite end and joined him. Wearing his black leather jacket and a faint scowl, Wolfe didn't look much like a crack security expert—and even less so with a little blond cat riding on his shoulder.
But Max was familiar with the appearance (even to the cat, since Wolfe was often accompanied by Bear these days). Still gazing after Quinn, he said meditatively, “I'm beginning to think Alex is lying to me.”
“Now you know how it feels,” Wolfe told him, unsurprised and not without a certain amount of satisfaction.
“I never lied to you. I merely withheld portions of the truth.”
“Yeah, sure.” Somewhat morosely, Wolfe added, “Maybe Alex is doing the same thing. We both know he only lies about something when he's sure he's going to eventually come clean. If he's lying now, I'll bet it's because he's in deeper than he's told us.”
“I'd take that bet,” Max agreed. Then he sighed. “And we may have another problem. Mother called. She's in Australia—but she's heading this way.”
Wolfe's face brightened, but that instant reaction was quickly altered by a scowl. “The timing isn't exactly the best, Max. Couldn't you stop her?”
“Stop Mother?” Max asked in polite disbelief.
“Sorry, I forgot myself.” Wolfe shook his head. “Well, maybe it'll be over by the time she gets here.”
“Yah,” Bear commented in a distinctly sardonic tone.
Max looked at the little cat and sighed. “Bear, I couldn't have said it better myself.”
The lobby was nearly deserted when Morgan crossed it to get to the stairs, but she met Leo Cassady about halfway up. The lean and handsome collector smiled as soon as he saw her and stopped when they reached the same tread.
“Hello, Morgan. I hear I unintentionally played matchmaker at my party last Saturday.”
She felt a little jolt at the reminder that it had been barely a week since she officially met Alex Brandon, but she was able to smile at Leo. “Let's just say I have a feeling my life will never be the same again.”
“And it's all my fault?”
“Well, it was your party, Leo. But . . . we would have met anyway, I imagine. Collectors have been drawn to the exhibit in droves.”
Somewhat wryly, he said, “Yes, I can't seem to stay away from it myself. Is Alex here now?”
“He's around somewhere,” Morgan replied casually. “Max too.”
“I talked to Max upstairs, but I didn't see Alex. Tell him I said hello, will you?”
“Sure. See you later.”
Morgan continued up the stairs as he continued down, and when she was at the top, she paused to look back and watch Leo's elegant figure strolling through the lobby to the front doors. Even his lazy saunter couldn't quite hide the kind of ease and grace that came from muscles under perfect control, like those of a dancer or an athlete.
What had Quinn said? If you came face-to-face with a man you knew was Nightshade . . .
Nightshade was someone she knew. Probably someone she knew well or at least saw on a regular basis, or else Quinn might have told her who he was. Could it be Leo?
She gripped the massive bannister and looked rather blindly down into the lobby, her thoughts whirling, feeling suddenly very cold. Leo? He was certainly a collector, and though he often made light of it, he had himself termed his hunger for rare and beautiful things an obsession. He had traveled all over the world gathering them, paying incredible amounts to own what no other man could. . . .
Leo . . . Nightshade?
Morgan didn't want to believe it. She didn't even want to consider it possible. Nightshade had killed people—including a young woman of twenty-two whom Alex Brandon had loved like a sister. Nightshade had shot Alex—Quinn.
Nightshade had used chloroform on her.
As hard as she tried to remember, Morgan couldn't recall any identifying characteristic of the man who had held her in an iron grasp and rendered her unconscious. He'd been taller than her, but she wasn't sure how much taller. Strong. Quick. She could remember no scent except the chloroform, and no sound except those made by her own struggles.
Could Leo chloroform a young woman he knew well and the next day meet her with a pleasant smile?
Quinn had said something once about having the ability to lie convincingly under stress. He'd said it took a certain kind of nerve—or a devious nature. Did Leo also possess that brand of cunning?
She couldn't know, not for sure. With a faint shiver, Morgan turned and slowly made her way toward the Mysteries Past exhibit, where she expected to find Quinn. She wondered if he would answer with the truth if she asked him whether Leo was Nightshade. She wondered if she could even ask.
When he saw her standing at one of the display cases in the exhibit, Quinn paused for a moment and just looked at Morgan. He was vaguely aware that closing time had been announced and that it would no doubt be wise for him to get out of the museum with all speed and without encountering Max again, but he couldn't make himself hurry.
What was she thinking? Lovely face solemn, great golden eyes intent, she stood with her hands loosely clasped together before her and gazed at the Bolling diamond. She was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, her glorious hair spilling down her back like black fire, and just looking at her made his heart beat faster.
He wondered if she knew what she did to him. She'd be aware of the physical res
ponse, certainly; he could hardly conceal his desire for her, and so he hadn't tried. But did she know the enormity of it? Did she have any idea that he wanted her, needed her, far past the point of reason?
His life, especially in recent years, had made him adept at hiding or disguising his feelings, but he wasn't sure he had been able to hide how he felt about her. Jared certainly knew, after last night. Max knew, although he hadn't said anything about it since they had talked the night Quinn was shot.
But did Morgan know?
He moved up behind her, instinctively cat-footed because he so often had to be, but she didn't jump when his arms slipped around her. She had known it was him.
“There's a plaque,” she said almost idly, relaxing against him. “It tells the story of the Bolling—though not as interestingly as you did.”
“Thank you, sweet.” He nuzzled her hair aside and kissed the side of her neck. Her skin was particularly soft there, and he loved the way it felt under his lips.
“Mmmm. The point is, I didn't even read it. I mean, I helped put the plaques in place for all the pieces, and I didn't even bother to read them.”
“You were busy with other aspects of the exhibit,” he reminded her, placing another kiss just beneath her ear. Soft flesh . . . bruised by a cruel grip. That bruise still filled him with a hot, almost murderous fury—he had added it to the tally of Nightshade's many crimes—and he brushed his lips very gently over the small area of discolored flesh.
Morgan made another faint sound, then turned in his arms to gaze up at him, her hands lifting to rest on his chest. She was smiling, but her golden eyes were heavy-lidded in the look of sensual awareness he loved. And her voice was a little husky when she said, “We both know how many security cameras are trained on us right now. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not entertain the guards.”
Quinn kissed her very lightly. “No, I suppose not.” He stepped back just a little but caught her hand in his and held it firmly. “You do realize the museum's closing?”
