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to see his face, because his voice was just the same. But his question was so damned apt that she had a difficult time being indignant.
    Finally, sweetly, she said, “None of your business.”
    “That’s put me in my place,” he murmured, then added, before she could explode, “I wouldn’t worry about your Lothario; professional thieves tend to avoid murder.”
    “Does that go for you too?” she asked nastily.
    He was unruffled. “Certainly. The judges of the world, by and large, look on robbery with severe eyes—but not nearly so severe as those regarding murder.”
    Morgan couldn’t manage anything but a sneer, which was wasted because Quinn was rapidly surveying the rooms they were passing through. Interested despite herself, she asked warily, “Are you looking for something?”
    “I hate wasted efforts,” he explained absently.
    She almost tripped over a security guard lying on the floor, his hands taped behind his back and—as Quinn had said—snoring gustily. Regaining her balance, she hurried on, catching up to the infamous thief as he stood looking down into a glass case.
    “The Kellerman dagger,” he said in a considering tone.
    She didn’t like the tone. “What about it?”
    “It’s a nice piece. Gold haft studded with rubies. Plain sheath, but what the hell. Fetch a good price.”

CHAPTER
    THREE
----
    W
hat?”
Morgan was so enraged, her voice actually squeaked. “You don’t think I’m going to just stand here and let you steal that?”
    “No.” He sighed. “No, I rather thought you’d have an objection.” And then he moved.
    Forever afterward, Morgan was unable to explain to her own satisfaction how he managed to do it. He didn’t exactly leap at her, he was just
there,
in a flash like a big shadow. She was off balance. That was her only excuse. Off balance and lulled by the sinful charm of the thieving scoundrel.
    She found herself, quite unaccountably, sitting on the cold marble floor. She wasn’t at all hurt. Her wrists were bound together (snugly but not too tightly) with black electrician’s tape, and she was staring at the ornate leg of the display case, which her arms were wrapped around. Effectively immobilized.
    She tried to kick him, but he was too agile for her.
    Chuckling as he stood just out of her range and removed something from his tool belt, Quinn said admiringly, “Your eyes spit rage, just like a cat’s. No, stop trying to kick me, you’ll only hurt yourself.”
    Morgan winced as the glass in the display case shattered under his expert touch. “You’re not going to leave me here?” she demanded incredulously, peering up at him.
    “Sorry,” he murmured.
    “You—you
bastard.
”
    He might have heard the note of genuine horror in her voice; his head tilted as he looked down at her, and his low voice was more sober. “Only for an hour or so, Morgana, I give you my word. As soon as I’m away, I’ll tip the police.”
    She scowled at him, angry at herself for having shown a moment of weakness. The truth was, she did not at all enjoy the idea of being alone, helplessly bound, in a dim museum with only drugged guards and a possibly murdered Peter for company.
    She hadn’t realized it until now, but Quinn’s insouciant manner and easy strength had been—in some peculiar way she didn’t want to think about—more than a little comforting. Even if he
was
a devious, rotten, no-good criminal.
    “Is your word any good?” she asked coldly.
    He seemed to go very still for a moment, then said in a voice different from any she’d yet heard him use, “My word is the only good thing about me. One must, after all, cling to some scrap of honor.”
    The overly light tone couldn’t quite disguise a much deeper feeling underneath, a seriousness that surprised her. Morgan couldn’t hold on to her scowl, but she did manage not to soften toward him. Much.
    She watched him lift the dagger from the case and drop it into a chamois bag she hadn’t noticed tied to his