Part 15 (1/2)

Instead of rus.h.i.+ng openly to the museum, she crossed the street and kept to the shadows, moving with all the stealth she could summon. She hung the strap of her shoulder bag to cross her chest so she was able to keep her hands free, but she was so intent on finding Quinn that she didn't follow her usual custom of keeping one cautious hand on her can of pepper spray.

It was easy enough to approach the museum without making her presence known, but once there she had to figure out where Quinn would be keeping watch. None of her archaeological or administrative skills covered the problem of possible vantage points for cat burglars, so all she could depend on was her common sense-and that extra sense she could occasionally tap into in order to feel him.

He was certainly close, she knew that much. Because she could feel him. Perhaps oddly, concentrating harder made the sensation more elusive. The trick, she quickly discovered, was to relax and simply ask herself where he was, because when she did that, the sense of his presence grew stronger.

He'd have to be high up, of course, with a clear view of the museum-but not so high that he couldn't get down in a hurry if he needed to, Morgan decided. She studied the buildings all around the museum, allowing that extra sense to open up. There. He was there. It was a building that was only a couple of stories taller than the museum and less than half a block away.

Once she reached the building, she realized it was a perfect choice from a common-sense point of view. An apartment building with a handy fire escape, it was in the process of being renovated and was obviously empty of tenants and curious doormen.

Five floors. Morgan gritted her teeth and climbed, trying to be quiet and silently cursing herself because she'd forgotten to bring a flashlight. The moon provided some light, but the angle of the fire escape kept her in total darkness most of the time. Which was, she decided later, the main reason he was able to catch her off guard.

It happened so quickly that Morgan had no time to yell. All of a sudden she was grabbed and yanked against a hard body, her arms pinned, and a cloth that smelled sickly-sweet covered her nose and mouth. She tried to struggle even as she fought to hold her breath, and she was vaguely aware that her heavy purse struck the metal of the fire escape with a sound that seemed to her incredibly loud.

By then her lungs were screaming for air, her nails clawing for any part of her attacker she could reach, and a sudden jolt of pain in one ankle told her she'd kicked the fire escape and had been punished for it. Dizziness swept over her, and as the strength began to drain from her body she was conscious of a last, purely annoyed thought.

In all those old gothic romances, she remembered, the heroine always went charging off into the night, alone and unarmed, because she heard a suspicious sound or had a realization. Not only did she always land in trouble for it, but inevitably she was dressed in either a filmy nightgown or something equally unsuitable for nighttime wandering.

Morgan had always sneered at those heroines, promising herself that she she would never venture into danger with such a stupid lack of preparation. And, until now, she could say she'd been at least partially successful. After all, when she had gone charging (alone and mostly unarmed) to Quinn's rescue some time back when the bad guys had captured him, at least she had been sensibly dressed. And it really hadn't been her fault that neither her cell phone nor can of pepper spray had been helpful. would never venture into danger with such a stupid lack of preparation. And, until now, she could say she'd been at least partially successful. After all, when she had gone charging (alone and mostly unarmed) to Quinn's rescue some time back when the bad guys had captured him, at least she had been sensibly dressed. And it really hadn't been her fault that neither her cell phone nor can of pepper spray had been helpful.

This time, she reflected irritably, she'd not only blundered out without the means to defend herself, but she hadn't even had the sense to put on a pair of jeans first.

She could feel her attacker's body behind her, impressively hard, feel the ruthless strength of an arm that seemed to be cutting her in half, and she had the dim realization-a strange but comforting certainty-that it wasn't Quinn doing this to her. Then the chloroform did its work, and as she slumped against him she could feel her short skirt riding up her thighs.

Dammit, I should have put on some jeans. . . . . . .

She heard voices. Two of them, both male and both familiar to her. She was lying on something very hard and cold and uncomfortable, but she seemed to be wrapped in something like a blanket, and she felt peculiarly safe. She couldn't seem to open her eyes or even stir, but her hearing was excellent.

”Will she be all right?”

”Yeah, I think so. It was chloroform; the cloth was lying on the fire escape beside her.”

”What the h.e.l.l was she doing here?”

”Since she's been unconscious since I found her and before I called you, I've hardly been able to ask her.”

”All right-then try this. What happened?”

”Look, I can only guess. Maybe he got suspicious of me and showed up tonight looking for me-either to watch me or else to get rid of me. He had the chloroform with him, and I doubt he carries the stuff whenever he goes out; he was obviously planning to put somebody to sleep. Morgan must have surprised him coming up the fire escape. He couldn't get out of her way, so he had to get rid of her. If I hadn't felt-heard-something and gone down there to check it out, he might have had time to finish the job. She's d.a.m.ned lucky he didn't dump her over the railing and into the alley.”

”All right, all right-calm down.”

”I am perfectly calm,” Quinn said in a voice so sharp it had edges.

Jared sort of sighed. ”Yeah. Okay, we'll talk about this later. I gather I'm here to relieve you?”

”If you don't mind.” Quinn sighed as well-though his sounded a bit ragged. ”I'm not expecting anything else to happen tonight, but I'm not sure enough to leave the place unwatched. I need to take Morgan back to her apartment and make sure she's going to be all right.”

”No problem.”

”Thanks.”

”Sure.” Abruptly, Jared sounded amused. ”How're you going to get her home?”

”Carry her.”

”Down five floors, across four blocks, and up another three floors?”

”She's not very big,” Quinn replied a bit absently, his voice even clearer now because he had knelt beside her.

By that point, even if Morgan could have opened her eyes she wouldn't have. Completely aware but utterly boneless, she felt herself gathered up and held in arms her body recognized instantly-simply by the touch of them. She heard an odd little noise escape her, something that sounded embarra.s.singly sensual, even primitive, and wondered uneasily if Jared heard her. Bad enough if Quinn heard . . .

She had the sensation of descending, even though she heard nothing, and realized that Quinn managed to move almost silently even down a fire escape and carrying her. It made her feel very strange to be carried so effortlessly by him, and that probably delayed her recovery from the chloroform a good five minutes or more.

When Morgan finally managed to force her heavy eyelids up, the fire escape was behind them and Quinn was striding down the sidewalk right out in the open. She concentrated fiercely and managed to raise her head from his shoulder, and though the nausea was horrible, she managed not to get sick.

”I-I think I can walk,” she told him, sounding decidedly weak to her own ears.

Quinn looked at her without breaking stride. His face was completely expressionless in the illumination of the streetlights, and his voice was unusually flat. ”I doubt it. Your right ankle's badly bruised.”

Since she was wrapped in a blanket, Morgan couldn't see her feet. She tried to move the right one experimentally and bit back a sound of pain. Remembering, she realized she must have banged that ankle hard against the fire escape in her struggles to escape her attacker.

Cradled in Quinn's arms, she gazed at his profile and wished miserably that she hadn't let her reckless anger make her go charging out after him. She'd had every right to be mad as h.e.l.l, dammit, but now this this had happened, and with him carrying her home-on her s.h.i.+eld, so to speak-she felt ridiculously defensive and at fault. But then, even as the feelings surfaced, another realization made her feel a little better. had happened, and with him carrying her home-on her s.h.i.+eld, so to speak-she felt ridiculously defensive and at fault. But then, even as the feelings surfaced, another realization made her feel a little better.

If she hadn't hadn't blundered into whoever that was on the fire escape, he might have been able to sneak up on Quinn-and he might not have simply put the cat burglar to sleep. blundered into whoever that was on the fire escape, he might have been able to sneak up on Quinn-and he might not have simply put the cat burglar to sleep.

. . . either to watch me or else to get rid of me.

Morgan s.h.i.+vered and felt his arms tighten around her.

”Almost there,” he said.

She let her head rest on his shoulder once more and closed her eyes against the waves of nausea. And, apparently, feeling sick wasn't the only aftereffect of chloroform, because she dozed off again. Only a few minutes this time; when she opened her eyes again, Quinn was unlocking her apartment door. He must have at some point gotten her keys from her shoulder bag, she mused vaguely.

Inside the apartment, he lowered her to the couch so that she was sitting sideways, her feet up on the cus.h.i.+ons. He was gentle enough, but she still caught her breath when her bruised ankle touched the firm cus.h.i.+ons. The pain wasn't really horrible, but it was abrupt whenever she tried to move her foot or it touched anything.

Quinn straightened up and stared down at her, his face still curiously hard. In the subdued lighting of the living-room lamps, his green eyes were shuttered. He was dressed in his Quinn costume, black material from neck to toe, and as she looked up at him he dropped her keys onto the coffee table, then unbuckled his compact tool belt from around his waist and dropped it there as well.

He glanced at the television, which was still on and turned low, then looked at her again and said merely, ”I'll get some ice for your ankle.”

Alone in the quiet living room, Morgan managed to unwrap herself from the blanket so that her arms were free. She found her shoulder bag still attached to her and wrestled the strap off over her head; from the weight, she knew the only thing missing from it was her keys, so her attacker had obviously not attempted to rob her. She sort of slung the bag onto the coffee table, and it landed on top of Quinn's tool belt.

A glance at the clock on her VCR told her it was just after one A.M. A.M., which surprised her. How could so much happen in so little time?

Listening to the rattle of ice cubes in her kitchen, she cautiously leaned forward and opened the blanket the rest of the way to expose her legs, and winced at the sight of her right ankle. Even through her (somewhat mangled) hose, the swelling and discoloration were obvious. When she very gingerly moved it, the pain was hot and swift, but at least she could could move it, so nothing was permanently harmed. Her head was clear once more, and she wasn't so queasy now, which was definitely a relief. move it, so nothing was permanently harmed. Her head was clear once more, and she wasn't so queasy now, which was definitely a relief.

When Quinn returned to the room, he had her ice bag in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. ”You left the coffee on,” he told her as he handed the cup to her.