Always a Thief (11 page)

“All right, all right—calm down.”

“I am perfectly calm,” Quinn said in a voice so sharp it had edges.

Jared sort of sighed. “Yeah. Okay, we'll talk about this later. I gather I'm here to relieve you?”

“If you don't mind.” Quinn sighed as well—though his sounded a bit ragged. “I'm not expecting anything else to happen tonight, but I'm not sure enough to leave the place unwatched. I need to take Morgan back to her apartment and make sure she's going to be all right.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” Abruptly, Jared sounded amused. “How're you going to get her home?”

“Carry her.”

“Down five floors, across four blocks, and up another three floors?”

“She's not very big,” Quinn replied a bit absently, his voice even clearer now because he had knelt beside her.

By that point, even if Morgan could have opened her eyes she wouldn't have. Completely aware but utterly boneless, she felt herself gathered up and held in arms her body recognized instantly—simply by the touch of them. She heard an odd little noise escape her, something that sounded embarrassingly sensual, even primitive, and wondered uneasily if Jared heard her. Bad enough if Quinn heard . . .

She had the sensation of descending, even though she heard nothing, and realized that Quinn managed to move almost silently even down a fire escape and carrying her. It made her feel very strange to be carried so effortlessly by him, and that probably delayed her recovery from the chloroform a good five minutes or more.

When Morgan finally managed to force her heavy eyelids up, the fire escape was behind them and Quinn was striding down the sidewalk right out in the open. She concentrated fiercely and managed to raise her head from his shoulder, and though the nausea was horrible, she managed not to get sick.

“I—I think I can walk,” she told him, sounding decidedly weak to her own ears.

Quinn looked at her without breaking stride. His face was completely expressionless in the illumination of the streetlights, and his voice was unusually flat. “I doubt it. Your right ankle's badly bruised.”

Since she was wrapped in a blanket, Morgan couldn't see her feet. She tried to move the right one experimentally and bit back a sound of pain. Remembering, she realized she must have banged that ankle hard against the fire escape in her struggles to escape her attacker.

Cradled in Quinn's arms, she gazed at his profile and wished miserably that she hadn't let her reckless anger make her go charging out after him. She'd had every right to be mad as hell, dammit, but now
this
had happened, and with him carrying her home—on her shield, so to speak—she felt ridiculously defensive and at fault. But then, even as the feelings surfaced, another realization made her feel a little better.

If she
hadn't
blundered into whoever that was on the fire escape, he might have been able to sneak up on Quinn—and he might not have simply put the cat burglar to sleep.

. . . either to watch me or else to get rid of me.

Morgan shivered and felt his arms tighten around her.

“Almost there,” he said.

She let her head rest on his shoulder once more and closed her eyes against the waves of nausea. And, apparently, feeling sick wasn't the only aftereffect of chloroform, because she dozed off again. Only a few minutes this time; when she opened her eyes again, Quinn was unlocking her apartment door. He must have at some point gotten her keys from her shoulder bag, she mused vaguely.

Inside the apartment, he lowered her to the couch so that she was sitting sideways, her feet up on the cushions. He was gentle enough, but she still caught her breath when her bruised ankle touched the firm cushions. The pain wasn't really horrible, but it was abrupt whenever she tried to move her foot or it touched anything.

Quinn straightened up and stared down at her, his face still curiously hard. In the subdued lighting of the living-room lamps, his green eyes were shuttered. He was dressed in his Quinn costume, black material from neck to toe, and as she looked up at him he dropped her keys onto the coffee table, then unbuckled his compact tool belt from around his waist and dropped it there as well.

He glanced at the television, which was still on and turned low, then looked at her again and said merely, “I'll get some ice for your ankle.”

Alone in the quiet living room, Morgan managed to unwrap herself from the blanket so that her arms were free. She found her shoulder bag still attached to her and wrestled the strap off over her head; from the weight, she knew the only thing missing from it was her keys, so her attacker had obviously not attempted to rob her. She sort of slung the bag onto the coffee table, and it landed on top of Quinn's tool belt.

A glance at the clock on her VCR told her it was just after one
A.M.
, which surprised her. How could so much happen in so little time?

Listening to the rattle of ice cubes in her kitchen, she cautiously leaned forward and opened the blanket the rest of the way to expose her legs, and winced at the sight of her right ankle. Even through her (somewhat mangled) hose, the swelling and discoloration were obvious. When she very gingerly moved it, the pain was hot and swift, but at least she
could
move it, so nothing was permanently harmed. Her head was clear once more, and she wasn't so queasy now, which was definitely a relief.

When Quinn returned to the room, he had her ice bag in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “You left the coffee on,” he told her as he handed the cup to her.

“I was in a temper,” she admitted, avoiding his eyes. Her voice was her own again, another thing to be thankful for. She hated sounding like a wimp.

Without immediately commenting on what she said, he got one of the decorative pillows from the other end of the couch and gently lifted her leg so that her foot and ankle were propped up. He eased the ice bag down on her swollen ankle, then left the room again, but only long enough to get a second cup of coffee from the kitchen.

When he came back, he startled her by sitting on the edge of the cushion at her thigh so that they were facing each other. He was sort of leaning sideways over her legs, one elbow and forearm resting on the back of the couch—either deliberately or accidentally blocking her in. The pressure of his hip against her leg distracted her from the heavenly relief of the ice bag on her ankle, and she wondered what spell he had used to make her body respond to him with such instant hunger.

Quinn took a sip of his coffee, then set the cup on the table and looked at her with those veiled eyes. In a carefully measured tone, he said, “Do you mind telling me what the hell you were doing out there tonight? And do you realize how close you came to getting yourself killed?”

“That wasn't the plan.”

“Oh, you had a plan?”

“Don't be sarcastic, Alex—it doesn't suit you.”

“And lying in a crumpled heap on a fire escape doesn't suit you.” His voice was losing its measured precision; it was rougher now, harder. “What made you do it, Morgana? Why the hell were you on that fire escape?”

“I was looking for you, obviously. I don't know anyone else who might be found on the roof of a deserted building in the middle of the night.”

Quinn refused to recognize her stab at self-mocking humor. “Why were you looking for me?”

“I told you, I was in a temper.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

The hard immobility of his face changed when he frowned. “About me? Why? What had I done?”

Morgan took refuge in her coffee. She couldn't hide, but at least it gave her a moment to think. Not that it helped; when she answered him, the words were blurted out with little grace and far too much pain.

“You said wouldn't use me again. That you needed me on your side. Remember?”

He was still frowning at her. “Morgana, I haven't tried to use you.”

“Oh, no? Can you look me in the eye and tell me you haven't been very deliberately distracting me since the night at Leo's party when you went public as Alex Brandon? That you haven't used your Alex persona—all charm and gentlemanly attention—to make sure I didn't ask too many questions about what Quinn was up to every night?”

“You talk as if I really am two men.” His tone was odd, almost hesitant.

“You as good as say you are,” she retorted instantly. “With some nice, neat dividing line separating you two. Night and day, black and white, Quinn and Alex. Two distinctly different men. Except that it's not that simple. You don't have a split personality, and you
aren't
two men—what you are is a hell of a natural actor.” Exactly what Max had tried to warn her about, Morgan recalled.

“Am I?”

She nodded. “Oh, yes. A gifted one. Do you want me to tell you how I think your reasoning went?”

“Go ahead.” His voice was a bit wry.

“I sat here tonight thinking about it, trying to understand what you were doing—and I finally got it.”

He waited, silent and expressionless, his gaze fixed on her face.

“I think that when you decided to go public, there was one small problem you really hadn't planned on. Me.” She held his gaze, determined to get this out. “There
was
something between us, something you couldn't ignore or pretend didn't exist. Something real.”

Quinn might have heard the very faint question there; he nodded and said gravely, “Yes. There was.”

Morgan tried not to let her relief show; she'd been almost sure he did feel something for her. Almost. Going on steadily, she said, “Because of that, because you knew we'd be together often, you were afraid I'd figure out some things you didn't want me to know. For whatever reason.”

“For your own good, maybe?” he suggested, more or less telling her she was on the right track.

“We'll talk about
that
later,” she told him, ruthlessly keeping them on the subject. “The point is, you decided it would be a good idea to keep me distracted so I wouldn't think too much about the part Quinn was playing at night.”

“Morgana—”

“Wait. The defense can argue later.”

He smiled slightly and nodded.

Morgan sighed. “Maybe you honestly don't think of it as using me and what I feel, but that's what you've been doing. I don't know if the reasons matter. I don't know if your reasons are good enough to excuse what you did. All I do know is that you used my feelings to help you hide what you were really doing here.”

CHAPTER

TEN

“W
hat I'm
really
doing?”

“You said something once—that there were times you had to lie to everyone. This is one of those times, I think. All this isn't nearly as straightforward as you'd have us believe, this clever plan to catch Nightshade. You've been lying about it somehow. Maybe to Jared, probably to Max and Wolfe—and certainly to me.”

“You think I'm after the collection,” he said flatly.

“No.”

“No?”

She smiled faintly at his disbelief. “No. Despite everything, including my own common sense, I don't believe you are. I can't know for certain what it is you're trying to do and how you're trying to do it—but I'm willing to bet the ultimate aim
is
to get Nightshade. It's in your voice every time you talk about him. You
do
really want him, and very badly, I think. So much so that you aren't going to let anyone or anything get in the way of catching him.”

“That's what you think?”

“That's what I
feel
. Maybe Interpol thought you could catch Nightshade, but that isn't why you're here. You may be dancing to their tune, but only because it's your choice. And nobody's pulling your strings, Alex. Nobody. This—all this, this whole plan to set a trap—was your idea, wasn't it?”

Quinn stared at her for a long moment, then drew a breath and let it out slowly. “You think too much,” he murmured, then smiled and added, “and you think too well.”

“I'm right about this.”

He hesitated, then nodded just a little. “The trap was my idea. Jared wasn't happy about it, but the chance to catch Nightshade was something he couldn't pass up. His . . . superiors at Interpol know we're after Nightshade but don't know how we're planning to catch him.”

That
was a surprise, and Morgan knew it showed. “They don't know? You mean all this is unofficial?”

Quinn rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and looked at her wryly. “Morgana, Interpol doesn't have a policy of baiting traps with priceless gem collections. In fact, both Jared and I would likely land in jail if it got out that's what we're doing. Unless we're successful, of course. Because, if we're successful, no one, except those of us directly involved, will ever know it was a trap.”

“And Interpol was willing to give you that much freedom, let you loose on this side of the Atlantic with only one . . . handler, I guess he's called, holding the leash?”

“Let's just say . . . Jared gambled on his little brother. His superiors believe we're over here gathering information, trying to track Nightshade and figure out a way to catch him. Jared's responsible for me.”

Morgan eyed him thoughtfully. “I got the impression that you two were barely on speaking terms. I gather it was a deliberate impression?”

Quinn had the grace to look a little sheepish. “I told you that a lot of what I do is pretense. Jared was understandably furious when he found out who Quinn really is, but he's a man who looks forward—not back. He believes I can . . . redeem myself by helping Interpol now. He's willing to be part of that. But he really
is
mad at me about half the time—he thinks I'm reckless and take too many dumb chances.”

“You don't say.”

“Sarcasm doesn't suit you either, Morgana.”

She frowned at him. “Mmm. So you're the one who went to Max and asked him to risk his collection.”

“I'm the one.”

“Well, I must say I'm impressed. I knew he'd climb out on a fairly long limb for a friend, but you must be something pretty special.”

He assumed a hurt expression. “You don't think so?”

“Stop that. You know what I mean.”

Quinn smiled. “Yes, I know. And the truth is . . . Max and I go way back. Besides, once he heard about Nightshade's past activities, he thought catching the bastard sounded like an excellent idea.”

Morgan was still frowning. She was reasonably sure that Quinn was being honest with her now, but that didn't mean he'd told her everything. He had an uncanny ability to tell just enough of the truth to make it all sound
right
without giving away anything he really didn't want someone else to know.

It was an unsettling talent—and it didn't help her to understand him the way she needed to. The problem was, she had yet to figure out what drove this man, what made him who he was. Everyone had some core motivation, some inner force propelling them through life as it shaped decisions and choices; what was his? She thought everything would make sense if she could only figure out what it was.

Slowly, probing for the answer to that question, she said, “I think I said once that I thought you had a personal reason for going after Nightshade—now I'm sure. And it isn't because he shot you. Why, Alex? What did he do to make you so determined? How did his path cross yours?”

Quinn didn't say a word for a moment. His face was still, wiped clean of all expression, and when he spoke, his voice was low and strained. “Two years ago, Nightshade killed someone who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—a not uncommon occurrence during one of his robberies. Only this time his victim was someone I cared about.”

From a window in a building several floors taller than the Museum of Historical Art, she studied first the museum and then the nearby building where the Interpol agent watched.

Bad night to skulk around, at least in this area, she acknowledged silently.

The place really was thick with thieves.

And cops.

Quinn had nearly caught her, damn him.

She lowered the binoculars and frowned, conscious of time passing too rapidly for her peace of mind. And her bank account. Almost everything was in place, her plan unfolding nicely so far. There were still a few minor details to take care of, of course, before she was ready to move.

And then there was him.

Quinn.

After tonight, she was more certain than ever that Morgan West was his weakness, his point of vulnerability. On the one hand, that was good: With his attention mostly focused on her, he was more apt to make a mistake—or at the very least be less attentive, less aware.

It could cripple him, that distraction.

On the other hand, his interest in her kept him close to the exhibit and those involved with it. He was on the inside, keenly aware of what was going on.

You had to admire the son of a bitch. He was having his cake and sleeping with her too.

What she had assumed was an unlucky break—encountering Morgan on that fire escape—had instead confirmed something she had guessed weeks ago. Those two could somehow sense each other, and after tonight it was doubtful that Quinn would let Morgan get too far away from him.

Good. That was good.

The more he was distracted from his work, the better for her. Sort of disappointing, not going up against Quinn at his best, but there would be other chances for that.

Lots of other chances.

She turned away from the window and put the binoculars away in her backpack. For now, this was the job she'd been hired to do, and anything that made it easier or simpler for her was all to the good.

Even love.

She heard herself laughing, and wasn't surprised.

“Who did he kill?” Morgan asked slowly.

“Her name was Joanne. Joanne Brent. She was attending a party at a house in London and, apparently, wandered into her host's library very late looking for something to read. She surprised Nightshade at work—and he killed her. Left a dead rose on her body.”

“That's awful,” Morgan whispered.

“Yes.” His voice was stony. “She was twenty-two.”

Morgan searched his hard, handsome features, suddenly afraid of a ghost. “You . . . loved her.” It wasn't a question.

He shook his head slightly, that look of rigid control softening a bit. “Not the way you mean. I never had a sister, but Joanne was the nearest thing. Until I came here to the States to attend college, we lived near each other in England. She was still a kid when I graduated—eight years younger—and after that I traveled quite a bit, so we didn't see each other often. When she was killed, I hadn't seen her in nearly six months.”

“Did she know you were Quinn?”

“No. I trusted her, but . . .”

Perceptively, Morgan said, “You didn't tell her because she would have worried?”

“Something like that.”

After a moment, Morgan nodded and said slowly, “You don't need me to point out that revenge tends to punish the one looking for it more than the target.”

Quinn smiled, but his eyes were suddenly as hard and cold as emeralds. “I don't want revenge, Morgana. I want justice.”

“What kind of justice?”

“The best kind. A man like Nightshade has spent his life collecting beautiful things, most of which he's secreted away so that his are the only eyes to see them. He sits in the middle of his treasures and gloats because he owns what no other man can claim.” Quinn smiled again. “So I'm going to take all that away from him. I'm going to put him in prison, surrounded by bare concrete walls and men who have very little appreciation for beauty. And I'm going to make damned sure he rots there.”

Morgan couldn't help shivering a little, but she tried to lighten the moment. “Sounds like a plan.”

He looked at her for a moment, then smiled a much more genuine smile. “So it does.”

She glanced down at the coffee cup she was cradling between her hands, absently aware that it was cooling, then returned her gaze to his face. “Your plan. You decided you could catch Nightshade, and you talked everybody else—Jared, Max, and Wolfe—into going along.”

Thoughtfully, Quinn said, “I think Max convinced Wolfe. I was never very good with him. We always had . . . communications problems.”

“He doesn't like thieves,” Morgan reminded dryly.

“There is that, of course. And he's a bit hidebound about people who bend the law now and then. I always thought Max was as well, but he surprised me.”

“You,” Morgan said, “are a dangerous man. You have this weird ability to say the most outrageous things and make them sound perfectly reasonable.”

Solemnly, Quinn said, “A certain inborn talent and a hell of a lot of practice.”

“Mmm. That isn't your only talent. You also have a very devious nature. Answer a question? Truthfully?”

“I'll have to hear it first.”

“Okay. Interpol caught up with you—what?—sometime last year?”

“Yes. Not a question I'd lie about, Morgana.”

“And not the question I want answered. But this is: They caught you because you let them. Didn't they?”

“Morgana—”

“You needed the resources of Interpol. All your own resources are in Europe, and they told you that Nightshade was probably operating out of the States. So you needed help in finding him. You needed to be inside an international police organization that could legitimately call upon U.S. authorities for information and help.”

“So I allowed the police to capture me, possibly lock me away? Morgana—”

“You gambled. You said earlier that Jared gambled on his little brother, but he wasn't the only one doing that. You gambled that you could talk him over to your side, persuade him that setting a thief to catch a thief was a good idea. Gambled that he could persuade his superiors it would be better to use your knowledge and talents than lock you away. You gambled your freedom. Maybe even your life.”

He was silent.

“Not a question you can answer truthfully?”

“You think too much,” he said again.

“And too well? You let them catch you. It was the first step of your plan. This plan. To catch Nightshade.”

He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “You make it sound more dramatic than it was.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

Morgan didn't argue. Instead, she said, “It must be nearly two by now. Will Jared expect you back tonight?”

“We both have cell phones; he'll call if he needs me.”

“Will he expect you back tonight?” she repeated steadily.

“No, probably not. He knew I was concerned about you, that I wouldn't want to leave you alone.”

In a mild tone, she said, “I'll be all right.”

“Yes. Still.”

She nodded, unwilling to question him further at the moment. “Okay. Right now, I could use a hot shower to wash away a layer of grime from that fire escape and the last effects of the chloroform.”

If he hesitated, it was only for an instant. “Then I'll make a fresh pot of coffee while you take your shower.” He took her cup and set it on the coffee table, then got to his feet. “How's the ankle?”

“Ask me when I'm standing.”

Quinn helped her to her feet, keeping a firm grip on her arms until it became obvious that her injured ankle could bear weight, then he released her—but remained watchful.

Morgan hobbled toward her bedroom, relieved to find that the pain wasn't as bad as it had been. Over her shoulder, she said to him, “Back in a few minutes.”

“I'll be here,” he replied.

About that, at least, she knew he was telling the truth.

When Jared's cell phone vibrated a summons, he was a little surprised to see that the call came from Keane Tyler. He answered with a guarded, “Yeah?”

“Working late, huh?”

“You too. What's up?”

“Still no I.D. on Jane Doe, but the labwork came back on that knife we found in the museum. It's her blood, and the M.E.'s report says it's the murder weapon. No real surprises there.”

“Then why're you calling me at two in the morning?”

“Because whoever is leading us around by the nose has left another signpost for us to follow. The M.E., at my request, did a more thorough tox screen on Jane Doe. And found something unexpected. A small amount of venom, injected via a hypodermic and postmortem. Since she was already dead, it obviously wasn't meant to kill her. Wouldn't have anyway.”

“So a sign for us.”

“Looks like.”

“What kind of venom?”

“A spider's. Black widow.”

By the time Morgan returned to the living room a little more than half an hour later, she felt much better physically. She'd washed away the dirt of the fire escape and the memory of chloroform, carefully rubbed liniment on her sore ankle (the skin wasn't broken, but there was a nasty bruise), and thought about all he'd told her tonight.