Always a Thief Part 2

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does. If you're angry at what he chose to do with his life, that's concern for him. If you're angry because he didn't tell you, that's your bruised ego."

"Ego, h.e.l.l. I'm a cop, Max, an officer in an international police organization. So how do you think I felt to find out that my brother was the crafty thief who had topped our most-wanted list for the better part of ten years?"

Morgan came back into the room just in time to hear that astonis.h.i.+ng information and was so startled she spoke without thinking. "Brother? You mean, you and Quinn are-"

He looked at her with those pale, angry eyes, and for the first time she saw an elusive resemblance between his handsome features and Quinn's. "Yes, we're brothers," he confirmed flatly. "Do us all a favor and forget you know that."

She didn't get angry at him in return, because she was both perceptive enough to see the anxiety underneath his simmering fury and shrewd enough to have a fair idea of what a difficult position Jared must have found himself in when the infamous Quinn turned out to be his own flesh and blood. There was, clearly, reason enough for him to be a trifle put out.

"Consider it forgotten," she murmured.

Jared didn't look as if he believed her but directed his question to Max. "Is he awake?"

"He was a few minutes ago."

"Then I'd better talk to him."

"Max, you said he was ready to sleep. Can't it wait until later?" Morgan protested.

"No," Jared told her briefly, and headed for the bedroom with a determined stride.

Morgan stared after him for a moment, then looked at Max. "Don't you think you'd better go in there too? Jared has blood in his eye, and Quinn's lost too much of his own to be able to defend himself."

"You're probably right." Max was frowning slightly, but he didn't waste any time in following Jared.

It was after eight o'clock that morning before Max and Jared emerged from the bedroom.

"Wolfe'll have a fit when he finds out what happened," Jared muttered gloomily, his anger apparently gone but his mood not much improved.

"I'll handle Wolfe," Max told him.

"Good. He's still p.i.s.sed at me."

"Why should he have a fit?" Morgan asked curiously. "Good lord, does he he know Quinn too? I mean really know him, the way you two do?" know Quinn too? I mean really know him, the way you two do?"

"Ask Quinn," Jared growled, and stalked from her apartment.

Morgan was feeling her virtually sleepless and very eventful night by then, a state not helped by numerous cups of coffee, and nearly wailed at Max, "And all this time I felt guilty because I I knew him!" knew him!"

One of his rare smiles swept across Max's hard face. "Morgan, since Alex is asleep and will probably sleep for hours, why don't you stretch out on your couch and take a nap. I think you need one."

That suggestion held too much appeal for her to argue, and it wasn't until she'd closed the door behind Max, briefly checked on her sleeping patient, and curled up on the couch with a pillow and blanket that something occurred to her.

Max had directly referred to Quinn by name only once, and then it had been his real name-Alex. She tried to think about that, but she was just too tired, falling asleep almost instantly.

Storm Tremaine, tiny and blond, with fierce eyes and a lazy Southern drawl, didn't look anything at all like a cop-or even a technical specialist. But she happened to be both-an agent with Interpol, specializing in computers and security.

In any case, Jared Chavalier, senior Interpol agent and her boss on this a.s.signment, had known her too long not to know that she was small only in physical stature, not ability or self-confidence.

"So Max is talking to Wolfe, huh?" She glanced at the computer screen on her desk from time to time as the security system she had designed and installed was currently running its diagnostic program. But otherwise she kept her gaze on Jared, who was moving rather restlessly around the very small room.

"Yeah."

"And since you know Wolfe is still furious at you, you're hiding back here with me."

"I am not hiding."

"Right. You just love pacing about six square feet of floor s.p.a.ce. Where I come from, that's what we call going nowhere in a hurry."

Jared turned to stare at her, but after meeting her amused gaze, he finally sat down in her visitor's chair with a sigh. "I've been expecting him to pull the plug ever since you were attacked and he found out about the trap. After what happened last night . . . G.o.d knows what he'll do."

"Whatever Max wants him to do."

Jared knew that Wolfe was completely in love with Storm and she with him, and he also knew there were-now-no secrets between them, so he said bluntly, "He knew about Quinn before this, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but not because I told him."

Jared lifted an eyebrow, but Storm shook her head with a smile. "I gather he got in touch right after he found out about the trap, but he didn't say how. Just that he and Quinn had a little . . . meeting."

"And Quinn told him the truth?"

"Wolfe thinks he did."

"What do you think?"

"I think . . . Quinn is the sort of man who always has an ace or two up his sleeve. Maybe even a rabbit. And never tells anybody the whole truth."

Jared grimaced. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"But you do believe he's working with you rather than against you this time?"

"Christ, I don't know. Before all this started, I would have said Max was the last man on earth who'd have to worry about Quinn stealing anything from him. Now . . . I just don't know."

"This trap . . ." Storm pursed her lips, then went on slowly. "Interpol doesn't know about the bait, do they?"

"Interpol isn't in the habit of using priceless private collections of gems and artworks to bait traps."

"Umm. That's what I thought. But they do know that Quinn is working with you to catch this thief they're calling Nightshade, an arrangement they approve because Nightshade is by all accounts way more vicious and deadly than Quinn is. Yes?"

"Yes."

"And because when he finally did get caught, Quinn was quietly given a choice between rotting in prison for the rest of his life or putting his skills to good use playing on Interpol's team. So you're supposed to be holding the leash."

"Supposed to be," Jared said grimly, "is a good description. He claimed to need more freedom in order to do his job, job, so I let the leash play out and gave him what he wanted. G.o.d knows if I could even reel him in now." so I let the leash play out and gave him what he wanted. G.o.d knows if I could even reel him in now."

"Mixing your metaphors," Storm murmured, then went on before Jared could do more than glare at her. "His working with Interpol is recent, right?"

"Right. Other than some . . . intelligence he's provided, this is the first active case he's been on. First time out on a leash, so to speak."

"So you can't really know if this is going to work on any level. But you said he gave you his word he wouldn't try to escape you-or Interpol."

"He did."

"You also said his word was worth something, that he never breaks a promise."

"That's what I keep telling myself."

"You think he'd run if he got the chance?"

"Not before we catch Nightshade. It's personal for him."

"How-"

"Don't ask; I don't know the details. I only know that Quinn wants Nightshade. Badly."

"Umm. Well, in the meantime, I can see how Interpol might be a bit upset with you if they find out exactly what's going on over on this side of the pond. And I imagine Lloyd's of London wouldn't be very pleased if they knew about the trap either, since they insure the collection. And Wolfe is definitely risking his job with them. I guess I'm most surprised at Max being willing to take the risk. It took his family five centuries to build the collection, and every piece is irreplaceable."

"Don't remind me. I think it's a lunatic idea and I have from the beginning."

"Then it wasn't your idea. Why did you agree to it?"

"Max agreed. Once he did, there was nothing I could do about it except go along."

Storm couldn't help but smile. "Sounds like you've got a pit bull at the other end of that leash. It was Quinn's idea, wasn't it? His plan?"

Jared nodded, and hesitated for an instant before saying, "If it had been anybody but Nightshade, I never would have even allowed Quinn to approach Max. But to stop a thief and murderer like Nightshade, almost any risk can be justified."

"Even your brother's life?"

Jared's face tightened slightly, but he replied in a steady voice. "He's been risking his life for ten years or more. The only thing that's changed is the reason why."

"Has he ever been shot before?"

"No. He says not. Injured a few times and beaten up more than once, but never shot."

"So that's changed. And one more thing has changed, Jared."

He waited, silent.

"This time, Quinn's on a leash. Something a man accustomed to total freedom might well find to be a problem. A deadly problem."

"Yes," Jared said. "I know."

"The doctor said you have to take the pills. They'll help prevent infection."

"Not with milk," Quinn said firmly, frowning up at her. "I hate milk, Morgana."

She sighed, faced with the first real mutiny from her patient after slightly more than twenty-four hours of tranquillity. He had slept most of that time, waking only briefly every few hours and accepting without protest the broth she had spooned into him. He had watched her steadily, his green eyes quiet, thanked her gravely for any service she performed for him, and was otherwise a model patient. Until now, anyway.

Given his personality as she knew it, she hadn't expected the placidity to last, of course, but she had hoped for at least a couple of days before he began to get restless.

"All right, no milk," she said agreeably. "But you have to take the pills. How about juice?"

"How about coffee?"

"The last thing you need is caffeine."

"Coffee," he repeated, softly but stubbornly.

Morgan debated silently, then decided it wasn't worth a fight. It was more important that he take the pills-no matter what he washed them down with. Besides, she was almost sure she had a can of decaffeinated. "All right, coffee. It'll be a few minutes, though; I have to make some."

He nodded, those absurdly long lashes veiling his eyes so she couldn't tell if he was gloating over her capitulation. She retreated from the bedroom with the unwanted milk, vaguely suspicious although she didn't know why.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned to the bedroom to find the covers thrown back and the bed empty and realized she must have read his intentions subconsciously if not consciously. His minor rebellion was escalating. The bathroom door was closed, and there was water running in the sink.

She set the cup of coffee on the nightstand, went to the door, and knocked courteously. "Alex, what are you doing in there?"

"It's not polite to ask that, Morgana," he reproved in a m.u.f.fled but amused voice.

She leaned her forehead against the door and sighed. "You're not supposed to be out of bed. The doctor said-"

"I know what the doctor said, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I ever let myself get that that helpless. There are some things a man prefers to do for himself. Do you have a razor?" helpless. There are some things a man prefers to do for himself. Do you have a razor?"

"You aren't going to shave."

"Oh, yes, I am."

Morgan took a step back and glared at the door. "All right. I'll just wait out here until you get dizzy and fall on your a.s.s. When I hear the thud, I'll call Max and ask him to come over here and drag your carca.s.s back to bed."

There was a moment of silence, and then the water stopped running in the sink and the door opened. He stood there a bit unsteadily, a towel wrapped around his lean waist, his green eyes very bright, and that crooked, beguiling smile curving his lips. He had slid his left arm from the sling meant to ease the weight on that shoulder and braced his good shoulder against the doorjamb.

Judging by the dampness of his tousled hair, he had washed up a bit, doing the best he could when he could hardly stand and couldn't get his bandaged shoulder wet. As for the towel-he probably hadn't felt steady enough to get into any of the clothing Max had sent over, even though the stuff was neatly folded in plain view on the storage chest at the foot of Morgan's bed.

When Max had stripped him, he had removed everything; Morgan knew that because she had washed the pants and shorts and thrown the ruined sweater in the trash.

"You're a hard woman, Morgana," he murmured.

She wished she was. She had been trying rather fiercely to see him only as a wounded body needing her help, and as long as he'd remained in the bed she had more or less succeeded. But he was on his feet now-however unsteadily-and it was impossible for her to look at him wearing only a towel and a bandage and not see him as utterly male and heart-catchingly s.e.xy.

He's a thief.