Once a Thief by Kay Hooper Page A

of a robbery—hell, he’s never even broken a window as far as I know.”
    Morgan thought of Quinn’s own words on that subject, but all she said was, “Steals from the rich and gives to the poor?”
    With another laugh, Keane said, “No, he hasn’t gone that far—or if he has, the giving part was anonymous. But he doesn’t steal from the poor, doesn’t take food out of the mouths of babes, and I count that as at least a point or two in his favor.”
    Morgan hesitated, then said, “Keane, could you do
me
a favor? Could you find out all the information on Quinn that’s available to law-enforcement officials?”
    “I figured you’d have researched him by now. I mean, since he’s a threat to Max’s exhibit.”
    “I did research him. I read a lot of newspaper articles written by a whole bunch of journalists gleeful that the rich were getting it in the neck. None of them offered me anything in the way of hard information about Quinn.”
    “There isn’t much, even for us,” Keane pointed out.
    “Yeah, but can you get me what you have? Maybe there’s something that’ll help me figure out a way to defend the exhibit against him.”
    “Maybe—if that new computer technician from Ace knows a trick or two the rest of the world doesn’t know.”
    “Maybe she does. Anyway, I have to give her all the information I can. Will you do me the favor, Keane?”
    “Sure. I’ll dig up everything I can and get back to you ASAP.”
    “Thanks.” Morgan cradled the receiver, then sat there staring across her office at nothing.
    And seeing green eyes filled with devilry.

CHAPTER
    SIX
----
    W olfe wasn’t vain enough to instantly assume that Storm had in mind a sexual pursuit—but he couldn’t think of any other reason why she’d be comparing their running abilities.
    “Are we going to be running somewhere?” he asked.
    “That,” she said, “depends on you.”
    “Storm—you don’t mind if I call you Storm, do you?” His voice was very polite.
    Hers was equally so. “Certainly not. After all, we’re both a force of nature—Wolfe.”
    He crossed his arms over his chest and gazed down at her with what he hoped was an unreadable expression. His curiosity had gotten him into trouble in the past, but he was sure he could handle this diminutive blonde. Without commenting on the comparison of their names, he said, “Storm, are you implying that you’d like to mix business with pleasure?”
    “Oh, no, I’d much rather keep the two separate. My business hours—like the museum’s—are nine to six. During those hours I fully intend to work. But that leaves a lot of time—and I understand San Francisco has a wonderful nightlife. I don’t need much sleep. How about you?”
    As he gazed at her vivid face and bright eyes, Wolfe had the sudden wary feeling that there was an underlying guile in her voice or manner that he was missing, and that his instincts were trying to warn him to look beneath the surface. But what she was saying kept getting in the way.
    “Somehow, I don’t think we’d suit each other,” he said finally.
    “Why?” she drawled. “Because I’m not five-foot-nine and sleek? You should widen your horizons. To say nothing of your standards.”
    In a voice that had more than once been termed dangerous, Wolfe said, “I’m going to strangle Morgan.”
    “Oh, don’t blame her—she wasn’t the first person who told me about your obsession with Barbie dolls. That’s the worst-kept secret in the city—especially since you change them about as often as you change your socks.”
    He realized his teeth were gritted only because his jaw began to ache. He didn’t like feeling on the defensive; it was an unusual and very uncomfortable sensation. Consciously relaxing taut muscles, he said, “Well, we all have our preferences, don’t we?”
    “That’s put me in my place,” she said, not noticeably discouraged about it. “Most women would view that as a rejection. I’m not most women. And I