“Shhh,” he whispered, drawing her close to him and deeper into the shadows. “They’re coming.”
Morgan’s instant of rigidity was just that brief. The man must have ears like a bat; she hadn’t heard a thing but was now aware of the muffled footsteps coming toward them up the hall. A lot of muffled footsteps.
Quinn bent his head until his lips were near her ear and softly breathed, “Their truck’s parked by a side entrance; they have to pass this room in order to reach it.”
Morgan was definitely nervous about the possibility of discovery, but even then she was aware of a totally extraneous and illogical observation. Despite Quinn’s implication that if he had known about her charms earlier he might have allowed his hands to wander a bit, the hand at her waist remained perfectly still and had not “accidentally” fumbled en route there. It was to his eternal credit as a man, she thought. Or a credit to his detached professionalism as a thief with more businesslike matters on his mind. Or else he had been grossly exaggerating his admiration of said charms. She wasn’t sure which.
She wanted to know, though. She very badly wanted to know.
Pushing the insanely inappropriate thoughts aside, she tried to ignore the disturbing closeness of his hard body as they watched almost a dozen shadowy forms file quietly past the doorway. All the men carried leather satchels and were burdened with various tools. Morgan watched them, and it suddenly hit her that the small brown bags contained the museum’s treasures.
It was like a kick in the stomach that hurt and made her feel ill. She couldn’t just stand here and watch without lifting a finger to stop them—
That was when Quinn quickly and silently clapped his hand over her mouth again, and the hand at her waist held her in an iron grip that defied her to attempt any movement.
She felt very peculiar. How had he known? Surely the wretched man couldn’t read minds? No. No, of course not. She must have given away her feelings somehow. Twitched or whimpered or something. She made herself stand perfectly still until he finally—somewhere around ten minutes later—relaxed and turned her loose.
“My ribs,” she said temperately, “are cracked. At least three of them.”
“Sometimes I don’t know my own strength,” he apologized solemnly.
She followed as he strolled casually out of their hiding place and into the hall, reasoning from his lazy attitude—and the fact that his deep voice was no longer unnaturally quiet—that he knew the other thieves had gone. “What happened to the security guards?” she asked him in a normal voice.
“It’s just a guess,” he answered, walking through the hall with more briskness now, “but from the way they were snoring when I checked on them earlier, I’d say they had been drugged. And nicely trussed as well. You heard the charming Ed say that the phone lines had been cut; the alarm system has naturally been deactivated, and none of the outside doors was damaged when they came in—Damn.” The oath, uttered with more resignation than heat, escaped him as they stood in the doorway of what had been meant to be the Egyptian exhibit.
Morgan said something a great deal stronger. In fact, she said several violent and colorful things, the last few of which caused Quinn to turn his head and look down at her with a definite gleam in his vivid eyes.
“Such language,” he reproved.
“Look at what they did,” she very nearly wailed, gesturing wildly at the room as the echoes of her bitter cry bounced mockingly back at her. It looked, she thought painfully, like a room after a child’s party: messy, depressingly empty, and rather pathetic.
The thieves had been thorough. Into their little brown satchels had gone all the literally priceless jewelry of the Pharaoh as well as everything else they could carry away. Figurines, the gold plates and goblets meant to hold the food and drink of divine royalty in the afterlife, even—
“The mummy case,” she gasped. “They took it too?”
“Carted it out before you crashed the party,” Quinn answered, still maddeningly calm.
Morgan turned and seized fistfuls of his black turtleneck sweater, rather pleased when he flinched visibly as her nails dug into his chest. “And you didn’t even try to stop them?” she demanded furiously.
Quinn looked down at her. “Ten to one,” he reminded in an absent tone. “And they had guns. Don’t hit me, but you look rather magnificent when you’re angry.”
She snarled at him and gave him a shove as she stepped back. The shove didn’t budge him, which also, obscurely, pleased her. “You are a soulless man,” she told him. “How anybody—anybody at all—could stand here and look at this . . . this rape in total calm passes the bounds of all understanding.”
“Appearances,” he said softly, “can be quite deceiving, Morgana. If I could get my hands on the man who ordered this done, I would probably strangle him.” Then, in a lighter and rather mocking tone, he added, “Such wholesale thievery has a distressing tendency to enrage the local constabulary, to say nothing of persons with valuables to protect. And it’s so greedy, aside from the trouble it causes we honest craftsmen.”
“Honest?” she yelped.
“I have my living to make, after all,” he said in an injured tone. “Can I help it if my natural skills set me in opposition to certain narrow-minded rules?”
She looked blankly after him as he turned away, then scurried along behind him. The floor was cold under her stockinged feet, and it reminded her . . . “Oh, hell, I hope they haven’t killed Peter,” she muttered almost to herself as she caught up with Quinn.
“The boyfriend?”
“My date,” she corrected repressively. “He’s the curator of this place.”
“And he brought you here after hours? Let me guess. He wanted to show you his etchings?”
If she could have seen his face, Morgan knew it would have looked sardonic; she didn’t have to see his face, because his voice was just the same. But his question was so damned apt that she had a difficult time being indignant.
Finally, sweetly, she said, “None of your business.”
“That’s put me in my place,” he murmured, then added, before she could explode, “I wouldn’t worry about your Lothario; professional thieves tend to avoid murder.”
“Does that go for you too?” she asked nastily.
He was unruffled. “Certainly. The judges of the world, by and large, look on robbery with severe eyes—but not nearly so severe as those regarding murder.”
Morgan couldn’t manage anything but a sneer, which was wasted because Quinn was rapidly surveying the rooms they were passing through. Interested despite herself, she asked warily, “Are you looking for something?”
“I hate wasted efforts,” he explained absently.
She almost tripped over a security guard lying on the floor, his hands taped behind his back and—as Quinn had said—snoring gustily. Regaining her balance, she hurried on, catching up to the infamous thief as he stood looking down into a glass case.
“The Kellerman dagger,” he said in a considering tone.
She didn’t like the tone. “What about it?”
“It’s a nice piece. Gold haft studded with rubies. Plain sheath, but what the hell. Fetch a good price.”
CHAPTER
THREE
* * *
What?” Morgan was so enraged, her voice actually squeaked. “You don’t think I’m going to just stand here and let you steal that?”
“No.” He sighed. “No, I rather thought you’d have an objection.” And then he moved.
Forever afterward, Morgan was unable to explain to her own satisfaction how he managed to do it. He didn’t exactly leap at her, he was just there, in a flash like a big shadow. She was off balance. That was her only excuse. Off balance and lulled by the sinful charm of the thieving scoundrel.
She found herself, quite unaccountably, sitting on the cold marble floor. She wasn’t at all hurt. Her wrists were bound together (snugly but not too tightly) with black electrician’s tape, and she was staring at the
ornate leg of the display case, which her arms were wrapped around. Effectively immobilized.
She tried to kick him, but he was too agile for her.
Chuckling as he stood just out of her range and removed something from his tool belt, Quinn said admiringly, “Your eyes spit rage, just like a cat’s. No, stop trying to kick me, you’ll only hurt yourself.”
Morgan winced as the glass in the display case shattered under his expert touch. “You’re not going to leave me here?” she demanded incredulously, peering up at him.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“You—you bastard.”
He might have heard the note of genuine horror in her voice; his head tilted as he looked down at her, and his low voice was more sober. “Only for an hour or so, Morgana, I give you my word. As soon as I’m away, I’ll tip the police.”
She scowled at him, angry at herself for having shown a moment of weakness. The truth was, she did not at all enjoy the idea of being alone, helplessly bound, in a dim museum with only drugged guards and a possibly murdered Peter for company.
She hadn’t realized it until now, but Quinn’s insouciant manner and easy strength had been—in some peculiar way she didn’t want to think about—more than a little comforting. Even if he was a devious, rotten, no-good criminal.
“Is your word any good?” she asked coldly.
He seemed to go very still for a moment, then said in a voice different from any she’d yet heard him use, “My word is the only good thing about me. One must, after all, cling to some scrap of honor.”
The overly light tone couldn’t quite disguise a much deeper feeling underneath, a seriousness that surprised her. Morgan couldn’t hold on to her scowl, but she did manage not to soften toward him. Much.
She watched him lift the dagger from the case and drop it into a chamois bag she hadn’t noticed tied to his tool belt. Then a sudden memory made her say, “Ed said I’d be locked in until morning; how’re you going to get out?”
“The same way I got in.” His voice was his again, careless and somewhat mocking.
“Which is?”
His eyes gleamed, catlike, as he looked down at her. “Which is my little secret. After all—I may use the same trick to get at your exhibit.”
Her momentary softening vanished as if an arctic wind had blasted it. “I swear to God, Quinn, if you lay so much as a single finger on any part of Bannister’s collection . . .”
“I know,” he said sympathetically when her choked voice trailed off. “It’s so hard to rise to glorious heights a second time. The first threat was so marvelously phrased. Let’s see—ah, yes. If I tamper with Mysteries Past, you mean to hunt me to the ends of the earth and roast my gentleman’s carcass over perdition’s flames. That was it, I believe?”
She made a strangled sound of sheer rage.
He chuckled. “I must go now, chérie. Are you quite comfortable?”
Pride told her to ignore the mockingly solicitous question; the hard coldness of the floor beneath her thin skirt told her to speak up before he disappeared. Common sense won out, but her Cherokee pride made her voice sulky. “No, dammit. The floor’s hard. And cold.”
“My apologies,” he said gravely. “I will try to remedy that.” He vanished into the shadows toward another of the rooms.
Morgan had to fight a craven impulse to cry out his name. Museums were unnerving places at night, she decided firmly, squashing the impulse. So . . . so quiet. With big, dark things looming in shadows, and the faint, musty smell of age and inexorable decay. She shivered, seeing the remnants of history from a new perspective and not liking it much.
Quinn returned in just a few minutes, carrying a colorful, tasseled pillow he’d gotten from God knew where. Still sulky but curious, she waited to see how he’d manage; her position on the floor was awkward and she couldn’t raise herself much. He stepped around behind her, bent, and slid one arm around her waist (again with no exploratory fumbles). Then he lifted her a few inches and neatly slid the pillow underneath her.
“How’s that?” he asked briskly.
She looked up at him as he came into sight again. “Better,” she said grudgingly. “But the police are not going to believe a ruthless thief took the time and trouble to put a pillow under my ass.”
He laughed with genuine amusement. “They will believe it. Trust me. Just tell them you asked for the pillow.” The laughter fading, he stood looking down at her for a moment. “And tell them I was here. Don’t forget that.”
Morgan had the sudden realization that her story was going to sound awfully improbable. She found herself mentally editing Quinn out of the story completely and was so astonished at herself she could only stare up at him bemusedly. “I—I don’t—That is, I haven’t decided what I’ll tell the police.”
He was silent for a few beats, then said softly, “Will you lie for me, sweet Morgana?”
“No,” she snapped. “For me. In case you haven’t realized, any story I tell is going to sound fishy as hell. Running from a group of organized thieves and caught by an internationally famous cat burglar who just happened to be burgling the same museum on the same night? After which, said thief tied me to the leg of a display case and put a pillow under my ass before stealing a lone dagger and making good his escape? Don’t forget that Peter and I got in with a key. What’s to stop the police from suspecting I was in league with—with you or the other ones?”
“If you know how to play dumb,” Quinn said dryly, “the idea will never cross their minds.”
“I’ll play hysterical,” she snarled. “God, the messes I get into. Just because Peter had to show me his etchings. Stop laughing, you monster! Go on—get out of here, why can’t you? Fade away into the misty night. Fold up your tent and beat it. Hit the road. The next time I see a black ski mask, I’ll kick it in the shin. I hope the next place you burgle has a pack of wild dogs in it. Dobermans. Big Dobermans. Big hungry Dobermans—who missed their breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
She eyed him resentfully as he leaned somewhat weakly against the display case and continued to laugh at her.
“On the whole,” Quinn said unsteadily, “I think I’d prefer the flames of perdition.”
“You can count on that. If Interpol doesn’t get you, I will.”
A last chuckle escaped him as Quinn straightened. “I find myself almost looking forward to that. Good night, sweet—and thank you for enlivening a boring evening.”
She held out until he reached a distant, shadowy doorway, then said, “Quinn?”
He hesitated, then turned. She caught the flash of his green eyes.
“You—you will call the police?”
“I give you my word, Morgana,” he said steadily. “They’ll be here within an hour.”
She nodded, and in a moment the shadows were only shadows. It was very quiet and felt curiously desolate. She sat there, bound to the leg of a display case, her stockinged feet growing cold—why hadn’t she asked Quinn to find her shoes?—and a thick pillow cushioning against the hard floor.
It occurred to her that she should start weaving a reasonable story for the police. Knit one, purl two. No, that wasn’t weaving. Weaving was Penelope picking out the threads of her tapestry by night because she didn’t want to marry anyone else even if Ulysses had been gone an awfully long time.
What were the odds against running into an infamous cat burglar twice in one lifetime? Remote. Unless, of course, one was the director of a fabulously valuable exhibit. . . .
“Well, officer,” she said aloud in the cavernous room, “it happened like this . . .”
By the luminous hands of her watch, the police arrived forty-five minutes later. And Quinn had been right, damn him. They took one look at her and accepted without a blink the notion that a busy thief would take the time to find her a pillow because she’d told him the floor was too hard and cold.
There were benefits to looking like a dumb sex kitten.
Sometimes.
Once in a blue
moon.
“I don’t like it,” Wolfe said, slouching in his chair as he stared broodingly at a police report lying before him. “That makes two museums robbed within two weeks. This new gang is obviously greedy as hell, and I doubt they’ll stop now.”
“Did you really think they would?” Morgan asked.
“No. No, I didn’t.”
It was very early, and they were in Morgan’s office, since it was the larger of the two.
After a moment, Morgan said, “Neither of those museums has the kind of security being installed here; their systems aren’t even as good as the existing system here. They relied on guards and simple door alarms. No lasers or sensors and no backup system in case of electrical failure.”
Wolfe shook his head. “That isn’t what’s bothering me; I’ll grant the museums’ security was outdated. What I don’t like is the scale. That gang of thieves came in like an army and stole everything they could carry. According to both your observations and police reports, they were unhurried, methodical, and very businesslike. They didn’t leave a fingerprint or a clue, and I can’t see they made a single mistake.
“All we have is basic information, and most of that was supplied by you: ten to twelve men, one of them named Ed, who very efficiently stole items no self-respecting fence would touch. That points to a major collector, or cartel of them, being supplied by these thieves. And that means nothing stolen is likely to surface again; the police haven’t got a hope in hell of finding that stuff.”
“The dagger might surface,” Morgan murmured.
“What dagger?”
Morgan cleared her throat and met his eyes. “The Kellerman dagger. The thieves—the group of thieves—didn’t get that. Someone else did.”
“Who?” Wolfe asked.
“Quinn.”
Wolfe sat up with a jerk, staring at her. “Quinn? He was there last night?”
Nodding briefly, Morgan said, “He was there. I didn’t tell the police because . . . well, because if it hadn’t been for him, that gang would have caught me and probably wouldn’t have been nice about it.”