Once a Thief Page 9

  Wolfe had another uneasy feeling, this time that his mouth was open. He was thirty-six, which meant that his interest in females—and vice versa—went back more than twenty years. If he’d wanted, he could have told some colorful stories; he was a scarred veteran of the sexual wars. But this was a first for him.

  Was she simply a very honest woman? A woman who was attracted to a man she’d just met and said so without hesitation or any attempt to play games? Somehow, he wasn’t quite prepared to buy that. He wasn’t that vain—or that gullible. And he was a skeptical man.

  So . . . what was she up to?

  He frowned down at her, trying to listen to his instincts. “I’m getting a little confused. Are you after a date, a lover, or a husband?”

  “Well, that depends on your stamina, doesn’t it? At least I assume that’s your problem. Judging by what I know of your track record, there must be some reason why you haven’t been able to go the distance—any distance at all, in fact—with any of your previous blondes.”

  Whatever Wolfe’s instincts were trying to tell him was drowned in the roar of his temper. Biting every word off, he said, “Did it ever occur to you that the problem might simply be a lack of continuing interest on both sides?”

  Storm pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I suppose it might have occurred to me, but I figure that any man who dates only carbon copies of one type of woman must be sure that he knows what he wants and certainly should know what makes him happy. Assuming that, you must be satisfied with brief, surface relationships—or else you’d make an effort to try something different. Ergo, if there is a problem . . . it’s yours.”

  Wolfe didn’t really follow the logic of her argument, mostly because her drawling voice and dispassionate tone—not to mention her words—were feeding his temper steadily. If she’d set out to make him so mad he would act purely on impulse, she couldn’t have done a better job.

  Almost growling the question, he asked, “Did you drive here this morning?”

  “No, I took a cab.”

  “Then meet me out front at six.”

  “You’re on,” she said promptly.

  Wolfe turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  After a few moments, Storm took her boots off the desk and got up. She went to the door and closed it quietly. She leaned against it, gazing at nothing in particular, until a beep from the computer terminal drew her back to the desk. Returning to her chair, she removed a CD from the computer’s CD-ROM drive tray and replaced it with another she took from a disk file beside the keyboard. She typed a short command, and the computer began humming softly once again.

  Her actions were the automatic and unthinking ones of an expert in her field, and during most of the process she gazed absently toward the door. Finally, however, she leaned back in her chair and peered under the desk.

  “Why didn’t you come out and provide a little distraction?” she asked in a chiding tone. “It might have saved me from the consequences of my own insanity.”

  “Yaaah,” her companion answered in a voice so soft it was hardly a murmur, then he came out from under the desk to jump on top of it.

  The cat was an almost eerie feline replica of Storm. It was very small and appeared delicate; its thick and rather wavy fur was the exact same shade of pale gold as her hair; and its eyes were a vibrant green. Even the small face held the same vivid aliveness that was in Storm’s expression.

  A very superstitious, slightly drunk man had once fleetingly believed that Storm had actually turned herself into a cat. And a good thing too; his brief moment of alcohol-induced terror had given her the opportunity she’d needed to escape.

  A close call, that.

  Shrugging off the memory, Storm eyed her cat reprovingly. “Don’t tell me he scared you.”

  The cat began to wash a blond forepaw with studied disinterest.

  “Yeah, right,” Storm said. “Bear, you’re almost as good a liar as I am.” She frowned slightly. “He’s a wolf, you’re a bear, and I’m a storm. If any more feral names pop up, I’m going home. It wouldn’t exactly be a good omen.”

  “Yaaah,” Bear replied, sounding, as always, the way he looked—like a very small and very meek kitten rather than a full-grown cat who had turned five on his last birthday.

  “You’re just saying that because you love to watch me walking a high wire without a net.”

  The cat lifted his chin and half closed his eyes in an expression any cat lover would have recognized. Utter contentment.

  “Some pal you are,” Storm told him dryly. “It’d serve you right if we find out he’s allergic. Then where will you be?” She listened to her cat purr a response and sighed.

  If the universe wanted to be kind to her, Wolfe would indeed have an allergy to cats—which would effectively keep him away from Storm.

  The problem was, she didn’t have much faith in the kindness of the universe. Not this time.

  The universe tended not to be kind to liars.

  Carla’s nerve broke when she heard through the office grapevine that Jonathan had fucked up his job installing the new security system at the Museum of Historical Art, and that some hotshot programmer was being pulled off a job in Europe and rushed over to patch up Ace’s black eye.

  And install a totally new security system to protect the building and the upcoming Mysteries Past exhibit.

  A security system that would not be on file anywhere at the Ace offices.

  Carla didn’t have to know anything about art or antiquities to know that the Bannister collection was the dream target of every thief that breathed. Including the one who was blackmailing her. And even though he had demanded the design plans of several other security systems, she didn’t doubt that getting his hands on the Bannister collection was his ultimate goal. She didn’t think he was going to be happy when he discovered that the schematics she’d gotten for him were worthless, and that she couldn’t possibly get the plans for the newly designed system.

  Carla really didn’t want to wait around and find out just how unhappy he would be.

  She went to work on that Tuesday as usual, her nerve gone but desperately trying to appear the same as usual even as her mind worked frantically.

  Run? Or find something, anything, to placate the blackmailer?

  She came within a whisper of going to her supervisor and confessing everything, but the memory of prison stopped her. After all, she couldn’t prove she’d been blackmailed, and at least one of the security systems whose diagrams she had copied for him had been breached. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gems had been stolen.

  She’d take the fall for that, she knew. An accessory charge or something.

  That realization was all it took. Carla was not going back to prison, not if she could do anything to stop it. Running was the only answer. She’d go, just start driving when she left work, and she’d start all over again somewhere else.

  She could do that. She could.

  It was an hour or so from quitting time when Carla made her decision. After that, she watched the clock and counted down the minutes until she could leave.

  Storm was a bit late in leaving the museum, mostly because she had wanted to finish loading the operating system so she’d be ready for the other programs first thing next morning. As a result, she locked the door of the computer room at half past six and found one of the security guards waiting for her at the front door.

  “The boss said to wait and let you out,” the man said.

  She paused to regard him thoughtfully. “Which boss?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m trying to figure out who runs things around here. So, which boss told you to wait for me?”

  “Oh. Well—Mr. Nickerson. He’s in charge of security.”

  Storm found the response interesting. Technically, Wolfe was not, in fact, in charge of security for the museum—only for the Mysteries Past exhibit. Which wasn’t even in place yet. However, it was natural he would be concerned with the museum’s
security, since the building would house the exhibit. What Storm found interesting was the fact that the guards—and not just this man, because she’d asked a couple of others as well—really did consider Wolfe’s word law. Which meant that in an emergency it would be Wolfe the guards would look to, no matter who else was present.

  Thoughtful, she nodded to the guard and passed through the door when he opened it for her. She paused just outside at the top of the wide steps, looking down toward the curb.

  He was waiting for her, leaning against the hood of a late-model sports car that was, she knew, a rental.

  As she started down the steps toward him, she thought about the fact that both he and she were visitors to this city, both living transient lives here. Wolfe had a sublet apartment, she knew; he was set to be here for months while the Bannister collection of artworks and gems was being exhibited at the museum. She, on the other hand, was scheduled to be in San Francisco only a matter of a few weeks, just long enough to get the security system on line and functioning properly; her temporary home here was a small suite in a nearby hotel.

  Storm hadn’t been granted a lot of time to check out the situation here before she arrived—which was her habit—because she’d gotten her orders on fairly short notice. But she was a resourceful woman, and she’d managed to find out quite a lot, certainly more than Wolfe realized; she’d been most interested in checking him out, since he was head of security. She had found out that the two of them had some things in common—and a number of differences.

  Wolfe was based in New York and London; the only place she’d lived for more than a few weeks at a time during the past ten years was Paris, so if she had a base that was probably it. They were both accustomed to living out of a suitcase.

  Wolfe had a thing about blondes. That was true enough, and she’d goaded him about it—but she hadn’t mentioned one very important point about his seeming fixation. All the blondes he’d dated—for want of a better word—since arriving in San Francisco were in some way involved with foundations, trusts, charities, art societies, museums, or private collections of artworks, gems, and other valuables.

  Smart man, she had realized with an inner salute of respect when that pattern became apparent to her. He was mixing business and pleasure quite effectively, enjoying the company of his blondes while he picked their brains. In the past months he’d been in and out of San Francisco and, particularly in recent weeks when he’d been living here, he had undoubtedly gathered an impressive amount of intelligence about the close-knit art world in this city—to say nothing of having fun while he did it.

  Storm respected that, and she didn’t consider it a cold-blooded thing for him to do. She had once or twice dated a man purely because he could tell her something she wanted to know, so why shouldn’t Wolfe? (Even if he did take the matter to extremes.) He was a very attractive man—and obviously one with a strong sex drive—who simply looked for his women where their knowledge could help him do his job most effectively.

  In fact, she didn’t doubt that by now Wolfe had reminded himself of her computer expertise and had come to the conclusion that he might gain some useful knowledge from her even if the first date ended up being the only one.

  That also didn’t bother Storm; he wasn’t likely to waste his charm on her, considering the friction between them, so she wasn’t worried about telling him anything she didn’t want him to know. Even assuming there was more than this first date, of course, which there probably wouldn’t be.

  Shouldn’t be.

  This was not a good time for her to lose her head. And Wolfe, she was certain, was not the kind of man a woman should ever, ever lose her head over.

  “Nice car,” she said when she reached the curb. “But how come men drive either trucks or sports cars?”

  “Max drives a Mercedes,” Wolfe said, because it was the first thing that popped into his mind.

  “Mercedes don’t count; they are not cars but works of art. And, anyway, I was asking you personally. So why are you driving something that looks like it belongs in a cage?”

  Wolfe had spent quite a bit of time reasoning with himself during the past couple of hours, coming to the conclusion that Storm Tremaine was not only not his type, she was also virtually guaranteed to make his life far more difficult than it needed to be. He had, therefore, very calmly and rationally decided that he was not going to let her get to him during this, their first and last date.

  But when he heard that drawling voice laced with mockery and looked into that small, vivid face, he could feel the irritated fascination creeping over him again. He didn’t like the feeling one bit—but he couldn’t seem to control it.

  He also didn’t have a good answer for her question. So, in the time-honored tradition, he replied with one of his own. “What do you drive?”

  “Something practical,” she answered promptly. “While I’m here, I’ll probably rent a Jeep.”

  He eyed her. “So you’re a practical woman?” He expected her to bristle a bit or at least instantly deny the horrible accusation; in his experience, no woman wanted to be termed practical. But Storm—and not for the first time—didn’t react as expected.

  “Oh, it’s far worse than that,” she said in a solemn voice. “I’m a logical woman.”

  Wolfe had the notion that he was being warned. “So I should act accordingly?”

  Storm shrugged slightly. “That’s up to you. Just don’t expect me to act like one of your Barbie dolls.”

  “Will you stop calling them that?”

  “Are you offended on their behalf—or yours?”

  The drawled question brought him up short, because he realized that he was offended on his own behalf. That was a sobering realization, so he was naturally annoyed at Storm for having made him face it. “Look,” he began, but then broke off abruptly when he noticed something odd.

  There was a creature on her shoulder. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it had green eyes. That was literally all he could see, since her hair was so thick and whatever was there blended right in.

  “What is that?” he asked cautiously.

  She didn’t need the question clarified. With a practiced gesture, she reached up and flipped her long hair behind that shoulder, revealing a very small blond cat.

  “I hope you’re not allergic,” she said. “Bear goes everywhere with me—except into restaurants, of course.”

  “Bear?”

  “Yes, Bear. He’s my familiar.”

  Wolfe had an odd feeling that she wasn’t kidding. And since the little cat looked eerily like her, even to the striking vividness of its green eyes, the idea that there could be something supernatural between the woman and her cat didn’t seem as far-fetched as it should have.

  “I see,” he murmured.

  “I doubt it.”

  He straightened away from the car and stared down at her, instinctively attempting a very old intimidation ploy by making his greater size obvious—and consciously aware that it wasn’t working on Storm. Though her chin rose slightly when he loomed over her, she didn’t step back and looked, if anything, amused rather than dismayed.

  Wolfe nearly snapped the words. “Are you this confrontational with everybody, or is it just me?”

  “Lots of people—but not everyone. It must be your lucky day.” She smiled. “I forgot to mention: I was also captain of the debate team in college.”

  Wonderful, Wolfe thought with a reluctant flicker of humor. As a track star she could chase him down, and once she caught him he was never going to win an argument with her.

  “This just gets better by the minute,” he told her ironically.

  “Oh, be brave,” she said. “Surely you’re not worried about one measly date. Is that why you ordered me to meet you out here, by the way? I mean, are we going somewhere? And, if so, could we get started? In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s a little chilly out here.”

  “I know I’m going to regret this.” Wolfe opened the car door and gestured for her to get in.


  In an interested tone, she asked, “Are you a gentleman born, or is it something you have to work at?”

  “Get in the car,” he said.

  She grinned at him and got in.

  By the time Wolfe closed her door with exquisite care and went around to his side, he’d counted to ten at least three times. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Well, it was your invitation—at least it was sort of an invitation,” she said. “So it’s up to you. Since neither one of us is really dressed for it, we’d better rule out someplace fancy. Not that I mind being seen in jeans, but you have your reputation to consider.”

  If it hadn’t been too late to get a reservation for “someplace fancy,” Wolfe would have taken her to the best place in town and suffered the indignity of being given a tie by the maître d’ just so he could have watched her regret her blithe words. She would have, surely. Even the most self-confident of women would have felt underdressed in jeans and a sweater.

  He knew he was letting her get to him, he knew it. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. Her light mockery grated on his nerves, and something else about her—he wasn’t sure what—was affecting his senses in the most peculiar way.

  He couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle her or find out if her curiously erotic lips were as soft to the touch as they looked.

  “I’m not hard to please,” she was saying soulfully in that voice that was driving him crazy. “A crust of bread and a little water—”

  Wolfe said something under his breath.

  “Such language,” she murmured.

  He realized he hadn’t even started the car. That he was sitting there, staring through the windshield and seeing absolutely nothing. That he was very tense and didn’t dare to look at her, because he didn’t know which impulse he’d obey if he did—choke her or kiss her. That he wanted a cigarette, and he’d never smoked in his life.