“My dear young woman,” he said, that same emotion threaded through his soft, unaccented voice, “I am neither common nor ordinary. In fact, I’m one of the last of a vanishing breed in these uncomfortably organized high-tech days. If you must attach a noun to me, make it ‘cat burglar.’ However, I’d much rather you simply called me Quinn.”
Morgan stared at him. Quinn? Quinn. She knew of him. Of course she knew of him! For nearly ten years, the name of Quinn—along with assorted aliases and journalistic nicknames in various languages—had been synonymous with daring, nerveless theft at its most dramatic. If the newspapers were to be believed, he had smoothly robbed the best families of Europe, relieving them of fine baubles and artworks with a delicate precision and finicky taste that made the “cat” in his preferred noun an apt choice. And in so doing he had bypassed some of the most expensive and complicated security systems ever designed with almost laughable ease. Also according to the newspapers, he never used weapons, had never injured anyone, and had never come close to being caught—all of which made him something of a folk hero.
“Hell,” Morgan said.
“Not yet.” He seemed even more amused. “I see that my reputation precedes me. How gratifying. It’s nice to know that one’s work is appreciated.”
She ignored the levity. “I thought you were a European thief exclusively.”
“Ah—but America is the land of opportunity,” he intoned in a reverent voice.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or swear again. It disturbed her to realize that she—be it ever so reluctantly—found him amusing. With her own love of ancient artifacts and priceless artworks, she had never felt the slightest urge to romanticize the theft of them. And no matter how rapturous certain journalists seem to. Be in describing the daring exploits of thieves with taste and without any leaning toward violence, she saw nothing of a Robin Hood-type myth clinging to this one: No one had ever implied that Quinn shared his spoils with the poor.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I rather thought that was obvious.”
Morgan drew a deep breath. “Dammit, I meant— Stop staring at my chest!”
Quinn cleared his throat with an odd little sound, and in a suspiciously pensive and humble tone said, “I have held in my hands some of the finest artworks the world has ever known. Had I but realized a few moments ago that so exquisite a work of nature herself was so near … May I say—”
“No, you may not,” she said from between gritted teeth, fighting a mad urge to giggle. It cost her something to stop him, because the words were certainly lovely enough if one cared for that sort of base flattery—not sure that she was impressed by them, of course.
“No, naturally not,” he murmured, then added sadly, “there are certain drawbacks to being a gentleman burglar.”
“Oh, now you claim to be a gentleman?”
“What’s your name?” he asked curiously, ignoring her question.
“Morgan West.” Oddly enough, she didn’t think about withholding the information.
“Morgan. An unusual name. Derived from Morgana, I believe, Old Welsh—” This time he stopped himself, adding after a thoughtful moment, “And familiar. Ah, now I remember. You’re the director of the forthcoming Mysteries Past exhibit.”
She raised a hand and shook a finger under his nose. “If you dare to rob my exhibit,” she said fiercely, “I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and roast your gentleman’s carcass over perdition’s flame!”
“I believe you would,” he said mildly. “Interpol itself never threatened me with more resolution.”
“Never doubt it.” She let her hand fall, then said in an irritable tone, “And you distracted me.”
Still mild, Quinn said, “Not nearly as much as you distracted me, Morgana.”
“It’s Morgan. Just Morgan.”
“I prefer Morgana.”
“It isn’t your name—” She got hold of herself. Absurd. Of all the ridiculous … Here she was in a dark museum that was being systematically looted by an organized group of thieves. Her dinner date had been, at the very least, knocked unconscious; she’d been chased through marble halls by a man who probably wouldn’t have been nice if he’d caught her; and now she was defending her name preference to an internationally famous cat burglar who had too much charm for his own good.
And hers.
Doggedly, she tried again. “Never mind my name. If you aren’t with those jokers out there, then why are you here?”
“The situation does have its farcical points,” he said amiably. “I’m afraid I dropped in on them. Literally. We seem to have had the same agenda in mind for tonight. Though my plans were, of course, on a lesser scale. Since they outnumber me ten to one, and since they are definitely armed, I chose not to—shall we say—force the issue. It breaks my heart, mind you, because I’m almost certain that what I came here for is now neatly tucked away in one of their boring little leather satchels. But… c’est la vie.”
Morgan stared at him. “What did you come for?”
Quite gently he said, “None of your business, Morgana.”
After a moment, she said speculatively, “I don’t suppose you’d let me see your face?”
“That wouldn’t be my first choice, no. Quinn is a name and a shadow, nothing more. I have a strong feeling that your descriptive powers are better than average, and I don’t care to see a reasonable facsimile of my face plastered across the newspapers. Being a cat burglar is the very devil once the police know what you look like.”
And don’t miss the sequel to
ONCE A THIEF
The thievery continues in
ALWAYS A THIEF
available wherever
Bantam Books
are sold
HAUNTING RACHEL
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Copyright © 1998 by Kay Hooper.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98–607160.
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