Dreamwalker (2 page)

The darkness that confronted him was familiar ground. With proper manipulation, it would yield the answers he needed. He smiled, confident of success.

At that thought, the darkness changed, took on shape. Suddenlyhe stood inside a fantasy harem straight out of the
Arabian Nights
, complete with thick carpets and lounging pillows. Smoke wafted up from several places, solidifying into naked women smelling of that same spicy perfume. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, they surrounded him, pressed against him, caressed him with their nubile bodies, knowing hands, and lush lips. Lascivious laughter filled his ears as they brought him to rampant attention.

Alarm stirred in Damon. He was losing control of the mental contact. In a dim corner of his mind, he realized his cock had swollen to aching proportions. He’d never responded so quickly to a dream, especially not on a mission. Was it some kind of psychological defense he’d never encountered before? To play it safe, he’d have to keep this short before he lost control.

Gathering his will, he banished the imagery, calling back the formless darkness. Then he framed his query and released it into his master thief’s sleeping mind. Long moments passed, surrounded by that sensual perfume tempting his mind to return to the harem, rousing his body to crackling fire. His treacherous imagination teased him with flashes of bare thighs and breasts with long, tight nipples, and wet, creamy pussy in all colors, just waiting to be taken.

The results Damon eventually got were vague as dreams tended to be, but he didn’t dare extend his contact to solicit clarification; his body was urging him to return to the harem and slake his lust. An urge he had to resist. He couldn’t risk revealing his presence, not this early in the game.

The heavy throb of his loins greeted him at his return. His balls ached, close to bursting. Not at all his usual response to a fishing expedition, but nothing about the contact had been normal. Pure need shot through him, jolting his body to steel hardness.

Not a believer in mortification of the flesh, Damon took himself in hand, wishing he’d gone after that pretty artist. She seemed to know what to do with a man. He stroked his shaft, imagining her slender fingers doing the same. Her touch would be firm, the way it had been when she measured him. She’d try to wrap her hand around him—and fail.

His cock swelled even more at the thought of her touching him. He closed his eyes, blocking out the featureless ceiling, focusing on his fantasy.

She hadn’t seemed the type to cavil at sex. If he’d tried, he probably could have talked her into a quick romp behind the bushes. The risk of exposure might even have been an added inducement, a dash of spice to the adventure.

He trailed callused fingers along his length, the rough sensation no comparison to soft, slender hands.

Maybe her brown eyes would darken, the interest he’d seen in them taking on heat.
Oh, yeah.
That clear skin blushing pink. He’d bet she was silky all over. He’d have loved to rub his cock between her breasts and over her smooth belly.

Damon groaned, imagining what it would have felt like to stroke her with the sensitive head of his cock. He pumped his shaft slowly, letting the pressure build. He should have gone after her. She’d been willing enough, wanting him to chase her. So what if all they could’ve had together was a one-night stand? It would have been infinitely better than this.

He cupped his balls with his free hand. She’d had talented fingers, light and sensitive, oh so feminine, and she’d known how to use them. The way she’d explored him . . .

Remembering how she’d sat at his feet, her lips glossy and red as her hand masturbated him, he growled, need coiling in his balls and drawing them tight. If they’d been alone, he probably would have unzipped himself right then and there. Learned if her lips were as soft as they looked, against his cock. Given her what she wanted before she could change her mind.

He sped his strokes, his hips lunging off the bed.

She’d have been hot and snug, so wet he’d be deep inside her in one quick thrust. He could almost feel her long legs around his hips, holding him close. She’d buck under him and he’d ride her hard and quick, storm her defenses until she could only scream her satisfaction.

Yes!
Holding that image in his mind’s eye, Damon let the tension erupt from his swollen balls, his release boiling up his cock in a wave of fiery pleasure.

A good night’s sleep did little to clarify the results of Damon’s fishing expedition. He knew he’d managed to enter his master thief’s dreams last night, but the images he’d gotten still left him puzzled. He’d asked what she intended to steal. Her answer had been vivid; yet he couldn’t see how it related to the Oriental art exhibit.

In her dream, she’d been a mermaid with a mermaid’s traditional nudity, swimming among water lilies under a blue sky. Damon set his jaw against a flash of awareness. Just remembering that part made him hard. There’d been a bridge, then the pond had become the pool around a fountain—the same one in the park near the museum.

Strangely, he hadn’t been able to bring her face into focus. Most women whose minds he’d touched retained their own features when they dreamed, perhaps somewhat idealized or overly critical, but still recognizable as theirs. He supposed it would have been too much to expect that the same would apply to his master thief; nothing about this mission had been simple or straightforward.

Pondering the images from his fishing expedition, he ran a search of the museum’s inventory on its website.
Mermaid
pulled up several pages worth of art.
Lilies
had fewer. The description of one included a bridge. A quick click showed him water lilies that matched his thief’s dream.

Damon grinned.
Eureka.
He called his FBI contact.

Reynard Suder, the special agent in charge handling extra security for the Oriental exhibit’s opening night, was in a better position to coordinate with museum security and catch Damon’s thief. With all the senior diplomats expected to make an appearance, someone high up had twisted enough arms to garner an FBI presence.

The man scoffed at Damon’s suspicions after Damon finished relating what he suspected. “Hit the museum with all the increased security? Why would anyone do that?”

Damon frowned at Suder’s response. This wouldn’t be the first time his master thief timed her heist to coincide with a big opening. Despite his explanation, the FBI special agent remained skeptical, although he did promise to brief his team on the situation.

“Then you won’t mind if I stand watch over the east side?” Just because the other man didn’t put stock in his suspicions didn’t mean Damon could do nothing.

Suder snorted, making his opinion of Damon’s intentions clear. “Be my guest. Just don’t set off any alarms.”

Dabbing her cheeks dry, Rory admired the wrinkles on her papery skin and the faded blue of her round eyes. The liver spots were the perfect finishing touch.

She had to admit she was getting slightly worn around the edges. If nothing else, meeting that Adonis in the park yesterday showed her it was high time to blow off some steam. After this job, maybe she should find some sand and surf somewhere and make like a beach bunny. She hadn’t gone blond lately because it was so eye-catching, but it wouldn’t be a problem on vacation.

The door finally closed behind the last matron, leaving the ladies’ room to Rory. A beep from her watch told her the museum security had just finished its hourly patrol. Satisfied that everything was going according to plan, she pressed a button beside the dark dial, activating the program she’d inserted into the server of the closed-circuit cameras. For the next half hour, the guards would be blind in one wing. Not that they were likely to be paying attention to it, what with the added security for the opening of the new exhibit—exactly as she’d planned.

Reversing her shawl with its glittery threads for the dark underside, she Changed from her old lady persona to an Oriental look chosen in honor of her diversion, then entered the empty corridor. Navigating the serpentine halls took only a matter of minutes. She removed a framed painting from a back room and swapped it for one on display, the one she’d been commissioned to steal. Returning to the back room, she freed her target from its frame and rolled it up, reducing it to a narrow tube of rather stiff fabric, with a small smile of satisfaction.

Slipping the canvas into her hollow cane, Rory debated whether to sneak out into the darkness or return to the cocktail party. Leaving now would be easier and she really wasn’t in this line of work for the adrenaline; she enjoyed the thrill but it was the challenge more than anything else that kept her coming back.

She ghosted toward a fire escape, intent on a quick departure and her bed. As she neared the glassed-in walkway that led to the gray door, a passing car lit the grounds below to reveal a familiar figure.

It was him!

Rory’s core clenched in instinctive response.

She froze at the edge of the walkway, careful to stay out of sight. It took a while for her night vision to adjust, but when it did, she saw she hadn’t been mistaken.

Broad shoulders. That long, wavy hair. His chest was hidden by a dark jacket, but there was no way she could forget that confident stance.

It was the Adonis from the park. He of the delicious hard-on. He stood in the shadows, watchful and unmoving. He didn’t appear to be waiting for someone. There was no fidgeting, no impatience, just bone-deep equanimity. He was on guard—not just cautious but a sentry.

Strange. She hadn’t taken him for simple muscle.

Rory wasn’t surprised the museum had taken extraordinary measures. She’d chosen this time to go after this particular commission specifically because of the distraction the grand opening of the Oriental art exhibit would provide through its high-level international connections. There were even Feds around the exhibit, trying their best to be inconspicuous. She just hadn’t expected her Adonis to be one of them.

Her watch vibrated: five minutes left in her window. After that, the security cameras would be back online.

Rory hurried back to the wing of the Oriental art exhibit. Reversing her shawl and Changing back into the old lady persona she’d assumed for the festivities, she entered the ladies’ room to freshen up, leaning on her cane for a touch of realism.

Her departure would have to wait until the communal egress.

Damon watched the museum patrons trickle out of the building, chattering in excited tones. Limousines lined up by the dozen to pick up their diplomatic charges, then drove off with a sedate flutter of tiny flags. As he stood in the shadows, the museum’s interior lights went out, one after another, in slow progression. So far, nothing. Had he been wrong? He’d thought he’d sensed her presence earlier but hadn’t seen anything suspicious. No one had sneaked in or out through the darkness.

Now, he didn’t pick up anything unusual, just general relief at reaching the end of another workweek. He fought back his frustration with his current assignment. Normally, he was a weapon at the end of a long string; the Old Man aimed him at a target and loosed him. None of this chasing after chimeras with little to show for it at the end of the day.

Part of the FBI detail came to the parking lot, got into different cars, and drove off—all without seeing him. From the way they’d borne themselves, nothing out of the ordinary had happened at the opening. Had she changed her mind?

Damon was about to call it a night when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Caller ID showed it was Suder. “Yeah?”

“You were right. The Monet was the target.” The FBI special agent’s grudging admission did little to console Damon.

Damn, she’d slipped through his fingers!

CHAPTER TWO

Uniformed guards sat before the monitors, backs ramrod straight, obviously aware they’d failed in their duty. Suder and another agent stood by their shoulders; judging by their formal wear, they’d been on-site the whole time.

Damon ignored them, keeping his eyes on a particular screen. The video on fast-forward barely changed, save for the regular appearances of patrolling guards. “Well?”

“We can’t even tell when it was taken,” Suder admitted, his heavy features curdled with disgust.

The assistant curator wrung her hands, her tension an irritating ache like a dentist’s drill in Damon’s teeth. “All I know is when I went past it before six, to help with preparations, it was there. On my way back to my office, to get my things, another painting was in its place.” She gave him a sidelong look, clearly uncertain as to why he’d been called in.

Meeting her gaze, Damon sent her a thin smile, tilting his head to emphasize his unconventionally long hair and rugged attire, playing up the differences between him and the other men in the room.

The woman’s eyes widened, then darted away as a dull flush spread across her cheeks. At least her tension eased enough that Damon could ignore it.

Seemingly oblivious to the byplay, Suder had security show two segments of video: one with the curator approaching quickly, her brown pageboy setting off an abstracted face; the other of her back, her shoulders stooped with weariness. He tapped the monitors, indicating a rectangle hanging on the wall in each video. “That’s the Monet and this is the place-holder.” The replacement was the exact size and shape of the original—it even had an identical frame—which was partly why the swap had gone unnoticed by security. From the angle of the camera, the viewer couldn’t tell much about the painting inside.

Damon shook his head in silent admiration. His master thief’s attention to detail was astounding. She’d be perfect for their needs, if only they could acquire her. He shot a look of inquiry at Suder, who shook his head once, a brusque right-left movement redolent of frustration.