She blinked up at him. “You . . . ?”
“I’ll be fine. You go home. And—thank you for charging to my rescue. It almost gives me hope . . .”
She thought for a minute that he was slipping into his teasing, Don Juan persona, and she thought she would never forgive him if he did.
But then he stepped closer and bent his head to kiss her with a gentleness that made her throat ache. “I think you’re going to break my heart,” he murmured. Before she could respond, he had faded back into the fog and darkness of the night.
After a long moment, Morgan got into her car and drove away from the shattered buildings.
Wolfe had made an effort to charm Storm’s enigmatic cat, scratching him under the chin and feeding him bits of meat from their Sunday night dinner in the suite, but he didn’t think he’d made much of an impression.
Until Monday morning. That was when he woke up in Storm’s bed, with her cuddled up to his side as usual, and found the little blond cat curled up in the crook of her arm—which was flung across his chest. Wolfe had felt the most absurd sense of triumph as he’d lain there with Storm in his arms and her cat sleeping on his chest.
He didn’t want to disturb either of them, but since neither he nor Storm could afford to spend a weekday away from the museum with the scheduled opening of the Mysteries Past exhibit so near, he didn’t have much choice.
One discovery he had made was that Storm wasn’t a morning person. She was never grumpy, just sleepy and utterly limp—and he was amused to find that her cat was just the same. When he lifted Bear from his chest, the small golden cat hung from his hand as though he were boneless, enigmatic green eyes closed.
“Wake up, you ridiculous cat,” Wolfe said, gently shaking the dangling handful of fur.
Sleepily, Storm murmured, “He’s not a morning person either.”
“Well, he has to wake up. You too; I want to take you out for breakfast on the way to the museum.”
She levered herself up on an elbow and peered at him, her green eyes drowsy. “Oh, God, it’s Monday, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so.” He thought about spending eight or nine hours with her at the museum, frustrated by people coming and going all around them, and wondered if he could talk her into returning to his apartment or coming back here at lunchtime.
Storm sighed gustily. “It’s going to be a long day.”
Wolfe wondered if she meant it the same way he thought, but didn’t ask. He slid a hand into her wild, tumbled hair and raised his head to kiss her, absently returning Bear to his chest.
She smiled at him when the kiss ended. “Let’s come back here for lunch.”
“You’re on.”
She pushed herself up until she was half sitting, her long hair veiling her nakedness, and Wolfe tried to distract himself before the urge to haul her back down beside him became too strong to fight. The distraction he found was when he realized that Bear was still on his chest, sprawled out now with boneless legs and one ear folded under, snoring softly.
“He’s still asleep?”
“I told you, he’s not a morning person.” Storm reached over and found the tip of the cat’s tail, then pinched it gently.
Bear’s head jerked up, his eyes blinking sleepily, and his vivid little face was such a feline replica of Storm’s that Wolfe burst out laughing. Jostled a bit by the chest moving under him, Bear sort of moaned, “Yahhh,” and tumbled off Wolfe to the bed beside him.
Still chuckling, Wolfe said, “I’m glad at least one of us is easy to wake up.”
“All he needs is food,” Storm said. “And all I need is a shower and coffee.”
They shared the shower, and despite Wolfe’s good intentions, the steamy heat in the stall had less to do with hot water than with their response to each other. It was the second time he had wanted her so badly that he hadn’t been able to wait long enough to get them out of the shower, and since Storm was every bit as urgent, their joining was so explosive it left them drained and clinging to each other.
“Or maybe I don’t need coffee,” she murmured, rubbing her wet, rosy cheek against his chest.
“If we keep doing this,” he told her ruefully, “what I’m going to need is a chiropractor.”
“Are you complaining?”
“Hell, no.”
He didn’t feel like complaining about anything—except the fact that both of them had to go to work. They stopped at a small restaurant for breakfast, and Wolfe amused Storm by saving a piece of his bacon to take to the little cat waiting patiently for them in the car.
“I fed him at the hotel,” she reminded him.
“I know. He just looked so . . . woeful when we left him out there.”
Storm chuckled. “If you let him brainwash you with those pathetic looks, he’ll have you right where he wants you. Cats are the world’s worst opportunists.”
Wolfe didn’t argue with her; he had the sheepish idea that she was right. But he took the bacon out to Bear anyway.
It was after nine when they got to the museum, and Wolfe found himself unusually conscious of the guards’ impassive observation as he carried most of Storm’s homework in for her. It bothered him only because those same guards had watched him, during the course of the past months, being dropped off or picked up by a succession of blondes, and he wanted to tell them this was something entirely different. Except that it wasn’t any of their business anyway.
When she unlocked the door of the computer room, he carried her stuff in and piled it on the desk. “Are you going to be stuck in here all day?” he asked her.
“Pretty much,” she said, smiling up at him. “I have to load all the floor plans and security hardware diagrams into the computer to form the basis of the security program, so that means I have to stay close.”
He sighed. “I’ll be on the phone all morning with Lloyd’s. And this afternoon I need to go and talk to the police about that robbery Saturday night.” The morning paper delivered to Storm’s hotel suite had told them the bare facts of the robbery, but Wolfe believed he could get more information from his police contacts.
Storm had brought the paper with her, since she wanted to study it more carefully, and glanced at it where it lay on her desk. “Did that museum have a modern security system?” she asked, thinking he’d know.
“Yeah, very modern. And I want to find out how they got past it.”
“They?” Storm looked up at him curiously. “The article said only a few large pieces were taken and that there was no way to know who the thief was. Do you have some idea?”
Wolfe shrugged. “The way things have been vanishing in this city, you’d think we had a wandering black hole. Do I have an idea? Sure, plenty of them. But all I know for certain is that we have at least one gang of thieves operating in San Francisco and God knows how many independent contractors or collectors.”
“And Quinn,” Storm said.
“And Quinn.” Wolfe frowned. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you knew he was in town. The police haven’t publicly linked him to any theft so far, and neither have the newspapers.”
Silently cursing the slip, Storm shrugged and said, “Morgan told me he was in town.”
“She would.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but since he’s been in the city for weeks, apparently, and all we can be sure he’s stolen is a single jeweled dagger, shouldn’t he be pretty high up on our list of concerns? I mean, he must be waiting for something, and if it’s the opening of Mysteries Past . . .”
Wolfe looked a bit grim. “Yeah, I know. That’s one reason I want to talk to the cops, to find out if they have any suspicions it might have been him Saturday night. Since only a few choice pieces were taken, it sounds more like him or one of the other collectors than that gang. I need to know.”
She nodded. “Makes sense. Let me know what you find out?”
“Of course.” He leaned down to kiss her, ending up with both arms wrapped around her when he lifted her completely off her feet,
a position Storm clearly enjoyed as much as he did.
Reluctantly, he leaned back down to set her on her feet, and when he released her and straightened he found he’d acquired a passenger.
Obviously surprised that her cat had transferred to Wolfe’s shoulder from her own, Storm said, “If it bothers you, just set him on the desk.”
Wolfe hesitated, but he liked the slight, warm weight of the little cat and he was still feeling a bit proud at having won over Storm’s familiar. “No, it’s okay. At least—he won’t dig his claws in every time I move, will he?”
“Only if you startle him by moving suddenly. Actually, his balance is pretty good, so he hardly needs to hold on. If he wants down, he’ll tell you, and that’s when you should bring him back here. I’ve got his litter box in here, remember.”
He knew that; it was over in a corner of the room and matched the one she kept in her hotel suite.
“I’ll remember.” Still, he hesitated, finally bending to kiss her again, this time briefly.
When he left, she went slowly around the desk and got settled, turning on the computer and trying to arrange the clutter into some kind of order. When the computer was ready for input, she set it up to begin receiving all the data concerning specific details of the museum and the various security hardware. All that was ready to be transferred from disks, which the previous computer programmer had prepared and which Storm had found to be perfectly acceptable.
While the computer began digesting data, Storm eyed her telephone, mentally decided to postpone the necessary call, and drew the newspaper toward her. She was very curious about the Saturday night robbery.
She had just read the short article through for the second time when a light voice said, “Buy you a cup of coffee?”
Her first thought was that Morgan was upset about something, though it was more a perception than a certainty. The brunette seemed both keyed up and curiously calm, as if she had dragged on a surface tranquility to mask a deep turmoil. And it was that more than anything else that caused Storm to agree affably and accept the cup Morgan had brought with her.
“Thanks. Have a seat,” she invited.
The computer room’s one visitor’s chair was shoved over into a corner to be out of the way, so Morgan casually sat on the edge of the big desk. “Where’s your cat?” she asked.
“With Wolfe.”
“Oh-ho—is that as promising as I think it is?”
Storm widened her eyes innocently.
Smiling slightly, Morgan said, “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but I’ve got to know. When he went tearing out of here Friday after I delivered your message, Wolfe was madder than I’ve ever seen him. He looked like he wanted to strangle you. Or something.”
Clearing her throat, Storm murmured, “He didn’t strangle me.”
“So I see. Would I be far off in assuming that you two spent the weekend together?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Storm said. “When Wolfe woke up this morning—Bear was on his chest.”
“Do I offer congratulations?” Morgan asked solemnly.
“Not just yet. We have a few hurdles to get over before anything’s settled.”
A bit dryly, Morgan said, “Some of his past ladies had pets, and, believe me, Wolfe kept his distance. He didn’t want to get involved, and it showed. If he’s wearing your cat on his shoulder, it’s just a matter of time.”
Storm had felt hopeful about that herself, but since the hurdles looming ahead were bad ones, she didn’t let herself hope too much. With a slight shrug, she said, “Maybe. But, speaking of his past ladies, did you see Nyssa Armstrong leave here on Friday?”
“No, why?”
“It’s kind of a funny thing.” Storm hesitated, but she didn’t see any reason not to tell Morgan about it. “Wolfe and I went out to the ballpark Saturday night to see the Giants, and I could have sworn I saw her in the crowd.”
“Nyssa? At a baseball game?”
“Like I said—kind of funny, huh? There was a home run hit just then that distracted me, and when I looked again I couldn’t see her. But I’m pretty sure it was her. I didn’t tell Wolfe, but I wondered about it.”
In a theatrical tone that would have shamed one of those old radio thrillers, Morgan said, “She’s obviously following you. Slinking along on your trail, bitter and heartbroken because you lured Wolfe from her bed. She’s probably sharpening her knife even as we speak, her serial-killer eyes glittering with insane rage and jealousy while she plots how best to slay you and get away with it.”
Storm blinked and then giggled. “Yeah, right.”
Morgan grinned at her. “Hey, don’t scoff. I read a book just last week where that was the killer’s motive. She got away with it too. Better watch your back.”
Storm shook her head and tapped the newspaper still lying open on her desk. “This is the kind of crime I’m more concerned with at the moment. Did you hear about it?”
“The robbery? Yeah, I heard about it.”
“Wolfe thinks it might have been Quinn,” Storm ventured, watching the other woman carefully because she sensed more than saw Morgan tense. “How about you?”
Morgan peered into her coffee cup and pursed her lips slightly, the picture of frowning concentration. “No, I don’t think it was him.”
“Why not?”
Amber eyes flicked toward Storm, then away again, and instead of answering, Morgan said, “I met him, you know. Quinn. A few weeks ago.”
“Did you?” Storm waited a moment, then added quietly, “I’m a good listener. And I don’t tell tales out of school.”
“I always liked that phrase,” Morgan said with a brief smile. “Telling tales out of school . . . It makes secrets sound like innocent things.”
“But sometimes they aren’t,” Storm murmured. “Sometimes they’re dangerous.”
It really was a pity he’d lost Carla. He always felt much more in control when his tools knew what the stakes were, even though it was riskier. Having someone on the inside who was completely unaware of being used lacked something, he’d always thought.
Still, there were benefits to using an oblivious tool, and he was fully aware of them. There were also drawbacks, of which he was just as aware; it was a far less direct approach, and he had to be careful how he asked his questions.
But during this pleasant brunch meeting, he didn’t have to ask much of anything at all. He just had to listen.
“I don’t know about his new security system being installed at the museum. The programmer is supposed to be one of the best, but . . . she doesn’t look the part, for one thing. And I’m not at all sure it’s even possible to use the old hardware with all this new software. Bannister is providing some new hardware, of course, but it’s still bound to be a patchwork, don’t you think?”
“Sounds like it.”
“And there are all these thieves in the city. That gang the police can’t seem to get close to, for one. I also heard a rumor that Quinn might be here. Have you heard that?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Christ, I hope not. That’s all I need.”
“Perhaps he’s after something besides the Bannister collection.”
“Are you kidding? That collection is every thief’s wet dream.”
“Still, there are plenty of other valuables in the city.” As host, he offered more wine.
“Oh, I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have had any, really. It’s so early, and I have to get back.”
He smiled. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that life is all too short. We never know what might be waiting just around the next corner.”
His companion laughed. “Live today, for tomorrow we may die?”
“Exactly.” He filled both glasses, still smiling. “Tomorrow we may die.”
“Yeah. Secrets can be dangerous.” Morgan sighed and set her coffee cup down on the desk. Then, quickly and somewhat tersely, she told Storm about her first late-night meeting with an infamous cat bur
glar named Quinn several weeks before. About him stealing her ruby necklace right off her neck—though she didn’t go into detail about that. And, finally, about what had happened on Saturday night. Everything except for what Morgan had overheard here in the museum and those final few minutes with Quinn.
Storm drew a deep breath and murmured, “Wow. You’re a braver man than I am, Gunga Din.”
“Actually, I was terrified. I don’t know what possessed me to do such a ridiculous, dangerous thing.” Morgan frowned down at her coffee cup, one hand toying with the handle. “So, anyway, I know it wasn’t him that robbed that particular museum Saturday night. I mean, he was obviously going to, but that gang got in his way . . . or whatever.”
Storm leaned back in her chair and folded her hands over her stomach as she watched the other woman. “Sort of reminds me of something I once read about Byron,” she said.
Her lazy drawl made the name sound curiously exotic, and it took a moment or so for Morgan to realize her friend was referring to the English poet. “Byron? You’re comparing Quinn to Lord Byron?”
Storm smiled. “It’s something somebody once said about Byron. Don’t remember who, but it must’ve been a woman. She said Byron was ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know.’ That sounds a lot like your Quinn.”
“He isn’t mine,” Morgan denied automatically. But then she remembered his last words, and a little shiver went through her. Absurd, of course. It had just been another of his Don Juan lines designed to throw her off balance. She’d need her head examined if she took anything that despicable thief said seriously.
She was the director of a forthcoming exhibit of priceless art and antiquities, and that was the only reason Quinn kept turning up in her life.
The only reason.
“If you say so,” Storm murmured.
Morgan felt a bit startled, until she realized that Storm was remarking on her own statement that the infamous cat burglar was definitely not hers.