Once a Thief

by Kay Hooper

  Since she was wearing only socks, he towered over her by more than a foot, and rage came off him in waves so strong they were practically visible, but Storm didn’t back down or back away; it simply wasn’t in her. Taking up for herself as a child with six older brothers to torment her—all of whom were considerably larger than her—had taught her not to give an inch of ground willingly.

  She planted her hands on her hips, raised her chin so her eyes met his dangerous ones, and snapped right back at him.

  “I thought my meaning was perfectly clear. But if you want words of one syllable, I’ll give them to you.”

  “What I want is a goddamned apology. You had no business saying that—and to Morgan, for God’s sake; it’ll be all over the city by Monday—”

  “Like it isn’t already? Listen, if you think for one minute that Nyssa’s plans for you are secret—think again. You’re already party gossip in this city, hero. She’s got you on her hook. And from what I hear, Nyssa hasn’t lost one yet.”

  “I am not on her hook!” he bellowed. “Goddammit, I told you she didn’t get what she wanted from me. I wouldn’t give her first look at the collection no matter what she offered, and if you can possibly believe anything else—”

  “Yeah, what?”

  Wolfe made a visible effort to calm down, and when he spoke again his voice was more controlled. “You honestly think I’d give in to her? Even worse—you think I’d give away security secrets or even useless information as payback for a good time in bed? That’s what you think of me?”

  “What I think? I think you could give stubborn lessons to a jackass,” she snapped.

  He stared at her. “Is this the same fight we started a minute ago?”

  “No, it’s a different one.”

  She was trying to knock him off balance again, he decided, and it made him even madder. “I don’t want to start a new fight until the old one’s finished. Are you going to apologize for what you said, or not?”

  “Not.” She lifted her chin an inch higher. “So that finishes the first fight.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  * * *

  On some level of his mind, it occurred to Wolfe that absurdity went a long way toward defusing anger, but he was still mad enough not to recognize that their fight was beginning to lean in a comical direction.

  He was so mad he was almost shaking; he wanted to yell and destroy things. Unfortunately, the focus of his rage was a tiny blonde—even smaller than he was accustomed to without her boots—who could give a few lessons in stubbornness to donkeys herself, and whom he couldn’t have lifted a hand against no matter how furious he was.

  She stood there glaring at him, her small, expressive face angry and her green eyes bright with temper, and he knew that no matter how much he raged, she wasn’t going to back down so much as an inch. It was maddening.

  “Ahhhh, hell,” he muttered. “What’s the second fight about?” The question didn’t strike him as at all ridiculous at the time, though it would later.

  “Your stubbornness.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Me, stubborn? I’m not stubborn. I’m just right.”

  Wolfe felt them drifting off track again, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. “Right about what?”

  “Your stubbornness.”

  “This is a ridiculous conversation,” he suddenly realized.

  “I’m serious,” she snapped.

  He stared at her. “If you expect to be taken seriously, never wear pajamas with feet in them.”

  Storm returned his stare for a moment, then looked down at her feet bemusedly. She looked back at Wolfe and burst out laughing. He found himself laughing as well, the anger gone as though it had never existed.

  When she could, Storm said, “I’m not wearing pajamas with feet in them, I’m just wearing socks that happen to match my leggings.” She was leaning a hip against the back of the couch, relaxed now that the confrontation was over.

  “Oh. Well, they look like pajamas with feet in them.”

  She swallowed a last chuckle as she looked at him. He was smiling at her, that utterly charming smile she hadn’t seen from him in days, and she hoped it would be a long time—if ever—before he found out that he could win any argument with her by using his softer side.

  Dryly, she said, “Okay, I was out of line with what I said about you and Nyssa.”

  “Thank you,” he said promptly, accepting the apology without crowing about it. “And just so you don’t think I take your opinion lightly, I am checking her out.”

  “I thought you’d already done that,” Storm murmured, unable to bite back the mild sarcasm.

  “Don’t start again,” Wolfe warned her severely. “What I should have said is that I am having Nyssa Armstrong’s background checked out.”

  “Oh.” Storm looked at him thoughtfully. “By who?”

  He shrugged. “I have a contact with the police. It’s useful in my line of work.”

  “I guess it would be. So—you think she could be a threat to the collection after all?”

  Wolfe hesitated, then shrugged again. “It’s a possibility. She’s certainly not hiding her interest. That’s why she came to the museum today, by the way.”

  Storm smiled slightly. “You mean it was business, not personal? Think again. She came by the computer room first, remember, so I know what was on her mind. The collection, sure, but you too. She enjoys being a vamp.”

  “I haven’t heard that word in years,” Wolfe said, shaking his head.

  Storm barely hesitated. “Maybe I should take a lesson from her. Much as it galls me to admit it, I seem to be a total failure as a seductress.”

  Wolfe hesitated, but only for an instant. “No, you aren’t a failure.”

  “More sleepless nights?” She was smiling a little, her green eyes softened.

  “They’re getting to be a habit. What have you done to me, Storm?”

  She was silent for a moment, just looking up at him, and then she straightened away from the couch and took two small steps, exactly halving the distance between them.

  Meeting him halfway.

  Wolfe was never sure afterward if he made a conscious decision or an instinctive one. In any case, he closed the remaining distance between them with one step and pulled her into his arms as if something had snapped.

  Her green eyes gleamed up at him. “I want you,” she said huskily. “You aren’t going to say no this time, are you? Don’t say no again, Wolfe.”

  “No,” he said, pulling her hard against him and covering her mouth with his.

  At some point he carried her to the bedroom, although Storm could never remember afterward just when. She didn’t remember who did what, but clothing fell away and they were somehow on the bed, and she didn’t care what might happen tomorrow.

  Ed wasn’t exactly spineless, but he had a well-cultivated sense of self-preservation and that usually told him when to keep his mouth shut. This time, he ignored the instincts screaming a warning.

  “Are you out of your mind? Pulling another job so soon after the last one? We need to lay low, that’s what we need to do, and wait until people relax a little bit.”

  “You’re the one who’s out of his mind. Security in this town is just going to get harder—not easier. Give people time to shore up their defenses, and that’s what they’ll do. We strike now, while there are still vulnerabilities to be exploited.”

  “Jesus Christ, you—” He broke off, blinking, when he saw the gun. “Hey, now—”

  “How many times are we going to have this conversation, Ed? Because I’m getting a little tired of it. Either you do what I tell you to do, or I’ll find someone who will.”

  Ed didn’t have to be told that retirement from this particular gang would most likely be permanent. He took a deep breath, and nodded. “Okay. You’re the boss. When do we hit the museum?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  Keeping his voice neutral, Ed said, “There aren�
��t too many pieces we’ll be able to carry out of there.”

  “There are enough.” The gun was put away, but obviously remained within reach.

  Ed took due note. He wasn’t ready to retire just yet.

  Wolfe didn’t remember much of the next minutes. He thought they both dozed for a little while, still lying close together on the tumbled bed.

  It occurred to him vaguely that it was still early, though it took a moment for him to verify that fact; he didn’t want to move, and since his arm was covered by the warm weight of her hair he couldn’t see his watch. But he turned his head far enough to see the clock on the nightstand, which told him it wasn’t yet eight o’clock in the evening.

  Storm lifted her head from his shoulder then, startling him; he hadn’t realized she was awake. And if he’d tried to predict her first words after having taken a man to her bed for the first time, he would have missed by a mile. As usual, her reaction was completely unexpected.

  Her green eyes were grave and her lazy voice unutterably sweet when she said, “Thank you.”

  Wolfe felt something inside him turn over with a peculiar, almost painful lurch. “For what?” he murmured, lifting one hand to brush back baby-fine strands of her golden hair. His fingers lingered to stroke her warm, silky skin.

  She smiled. “For being my first lover. You made it wonderful for me.”

  “I hurt you,” he said.

  Storm was matter-of-fact. “I expected that. But it wasn’t bad at all, because you made me want you so much I barely felt the pain. I know it could have been a lot worse. I don’t think it was easy for you, having to be so patient with me, and I just want you to know I’m grateful.”

  There was nothing in her green eyes except honesty, and Wolfe felt another of those odd little lurches inside him. He’d never before been thanked for making love to a woman and didn’t really know how to respond. Especially since he thought it would have taken an absolute monster to not be careful with her, given her delicacy and her inexperience. He didn’t know whether to point out that fact to her or simply accept her thanks with what grace he could muster.

  Finally, opting for the latter because he needed to at least try to keep things casual between them, he said a bit dryly, “Don’t mention it.”

  Storm smiled at him and kissed his chin, then pushed herself up onto an elbow. “I’m probably being hideously unromantic in thinking of food at a time like this,” she said, “but it’s nearly eight and lunch was a long time ago. Why don’t we order something from room service?”

  “We can go out if you’d rather,” he told her.

  “I’d rather stay here with you.” Then she hesitated, and there was a flash of vulnerability in her eyes, gone so quickly he almost didn’t recognize it. Her voice remained casual and matter-of-fact when she asked, “You are planning to stay the night, aren’t you?”

  His hand had fallen to her shoulder when she moved, and his long fingers probed the fineness of small bones under silky skin. “If I’m invited, I plan to stay here all weekend. We’ll discuss next week later.”

  Storm said merely, “You’re invited,” and tilted her head briefly to rub her cheek against his hand. Then she pulled gently away from him and slid from the bed.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. But he saw her wince slightly as she got to her feet, and concern for her tempered his renewing desire. “If you take a warm bath now, your muscles will appreciate it later,” he said lightly.

  She stretched cautiously, entirely unself-conscious, and made a slight face. “I think you may be right. I’m not used to doing anything in bed except sleeping or reading a book.”

  Telling himself there would be plenty of time to satisfy this hunger he felt for her, Wolfe sat up and swung his feet to the floor. Light. He needed to keep things light and casual. “I’ll get the menu and place the order. By the time you finish your bath, the food should be here.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” She smiled at him and went into the bathroom, and a moment later he heard the tub beginning to fill.

  He got out of bed and found his briefs and pants but didn’t bother with his shirt except to pick it and Storm’s things up off the floor and toss the clothing over a chair. He went into the living room of the suite to find the room-service menu, and it wasn’t until he got the folder from the top of the desk that he remembered the third occupant of the suite.

  Bear was exactly where he had been all along, on the back of the couch near Wolfe’s black leather jacket, sort of crouched in that odd position cats seemed to find comfortable, with his paws folded under him and his long tail tucked alongside him. He regarded Wolfe enigmatically through green eyes eerily like Storm’s.

  “Hello,” Wolfe said experimentally. He was unaccustomed to cats but had the feeling he should speak to this one.

  Either Bear was feeling unsocial or else he simply hadn’t decided whether to accept a man’s—or this man’s—presence in Storm’s life, because he remained silent. And that vivid little face with its clear green eyes remained enigmatic.

  “So much for that,” Wolfe muttered, and carried the room-service menu back into the bedroom. He glanced at the menu, realized he didn’t have the faintest idea what Storm might like for her supper, and went to the bathroom door. It was open a few inches, and the water was still running in the tub. He knocked lightly on the door and asked if she was decent.

  Storm sounded amused. “No, but come in anyway.” And when he obeyed, she said, “Could you turn the water off, please? I don’t want to move.”

  He did as she asked, his attention once more completely taken up by her. She was lying back in the large oval tub, up to her neck in bubbles. Her hair was piled somewhat carelessly atop her head, which made her appear even more delicate and, to Wolfe, wildly sexy in yet another way. He couldn’t stop staring at her.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, her head resting back on the lip of the tub. She looked up at him with slumberous eyes, and a contented smile curved her lips. “You ought to get a medal for suggesting this.”

  “I’ll think up a reward for later,” he said, going down on one knee on the mat beside the tub. He forced himself to concentrate on practicalities. “In the meantime, what do you want from room service?” He opened the menu and held it above the bubbles so she could see it.

  Storm sighed luxuriously. “I could get used to this.”

  Before Wolfe could frame a retort, the phone in the bedroom shrilled a summons. Storm shook the bubbles off her hands and took the menu away from him, saying she still wasn’t ready to move, so he went out to answer the phone.

  Whoever it was obviously didn’t want to talk to him, hanging up after an instant of silence. When he returned to the bathroom, Wolfe said ominously, “If a man answers . . .”

  Undisturbed, she said promptly, “Yeah, except you’re on the wrong end of that equation. I’d only tell a lover to hang up if I was married and afraid my husband would answer. It was obviously just a wrong number. Does chicken sound good to you? Or are you a steak-and-potatoes man?”

  “I’m a food man, not at all picky.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Storm handed the menu back to him and pointed out exactly what she wanted, then told him to order whatever he liked for himself. “I’m on an expense account, and Ace is paying,” she said.

  Wolfe lifted an eyebrow at her. “Is that usual?”

  “For me, it is. One of the perks for being willing to go wherever they send me.” She eyed him with amusement. “And even if they found out they were feeding you this weekend, they wouldn’t object. As I understand it, when you threw your weight around, and added Max Bannister’s in for good measure, my boss was willing to do just about anything to please you. In case you’re interested, it cost them big bucks to pull me off the job in Paris and get me here fast enough to suit you.”

  Wolfe smiled wryly. “Shows you what can be accomplished by a bit of fire and brimstone and a dash or two of blackmail.”

  She chuckled and then close
d her eyes. “I have a feeling you’re pretty good at that sort of thing. I certainly know about your ability to conjure the fire and brimstone.”

  “Look who’s talking. Do you want coffee, tea, or a soft drink?”

  “No—milk. I’ll need my strength.”

  “You think so?”

  She grinned at him. “Don’t you?”

  Wolfe looked at her in the bubble bath, then nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He went to place the order.

  Morgan had spent far too many of her evening hours recently standing watch outside various museums and jewelry stores; by Friday night, she was determined to stop wasting her time.

  He’d been right, damn him. When he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found, period. Whatever extra sense or awareness had led her to him that once had remained maddeningly silent ever since.

  She’d missed her chance to put his ass behind bars, and it served her right.

  It did no good to console herself with the knowledge that Quinn was the most infamous cat burglar in the world, for God’s sake, and most of the police forces in existence had been after him for at least ten years. There was just no way her amateur efforts were going to locate him—even if she could feel when he was near.

  When he let her feel it.

  Dammit.

  At any rate, since she had no other plans for the evening and was feeling too restless to sit at home and read or watch television, Morgan decided around eight that night to go to the museum and pick up some paperwork she could deal with over the weekend. It wasn’t unusual for her to go to the museum after hours, and one of the guards let her in as soon as he saw her from inside the lobby.

  “Hi, Steve,” she said cheerfully as she came in. “Anything happening today?”

  The middle-aged guard shook his head. “Nah, not much. Mr. Dugan was here until after closing. Oh—and Mr. Bannister’s back in the city. He dropped by a few minutes ago to take a look at the Mysteries Past wing. Had somebody with him. A cop, I think.”

  Morgan frowned at him. “A cop? Are you sure?”