Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [52]
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 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 hell 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