Always a Thief (7 page)

Some of those actions, particularly before she had met him, certainly painted him in a bad light. He was a criminal, there seemed no doubt of that. He had, as his own brother had said bitterly, looted Europe for the better part of ten years. And he was on the side of the angels now only because the choice was preferable to going to prison.

She
knew
that, all of it. But from the night they had met weeks ago, Morgan had been conscious of a nagging certainty that there was much, much more to the man than he allowed the world to see. She had told herself more than once it was only her own attraction to him that made her feel that, but instincts she had learned to trust told her that wasn't it.

So what was it? What really went on behind those vivid eyes, that charming smile?

The real question, she thought, wasn't who Quinn was when he wasn't being a cat burglar; the question was, who was this man with the dual identity, brilliant mind, and a reputation that was both internationally infamous and highly respected? Who was he really, at the core of himself?

She thought that was a mystery well worth pondering.

“Morgana?”

She blinked, realizing only then that her silence had spanned several minutes. “Hmm?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

Morgan found herself smiling a little, because he sounded so aggrieved. “Yes, I heard what you said.”

“And?”

“And—I'm not painting you with noble colors. Or gilding you, for that matter. I just happen to believe you aren't after this other thief only because he shot you, or only because Interpol thinks you're the ace up their sleeve.”

“Morgan—”

“What do you know about Nightshade that I haven't already been told?”

He paused before he answered, this time for several minutes, and when he finally did speak his voice was unusually flat and clipped. “I don't know how much you've been told. But Nightshade has been active about eight years—maybe more, but that long at least. Mostly here in the States, a few times in Europe. He's very, very good. And if somebody gets in his way, they're dead.”

Morgan didn't realize she had shivered until Quinn released her hand to take his jacket off and drape it around her shoulders. She didn't protest, but said softly, “It isn't that cold out here. But the way you sounded . . .”

His hands remained on her shoulders, long fingers flexing just a bit. “You'll have to forgive me, Morgana. I don't care too much for murderers.”

Enveloped in the warmth of his jacket, surrounded by the familiar scent of him, and very aware of his touch, Morgan struggled to keep her attention on the conversation. “Especially when one of them shoots you?”

“Especially then.”

She shook her head a little, baffled and intrigued by a man who could cheerfully admit to having been the world's most infamous thief for a decade and yet speak of another thief's penchant for violence with chilling loathing in his voice. No wonder she couldn't convince herself Quinn was an evil man; how could she, when his own words had, more than once, shown him to possess very definite principles—even if she hadn't quite figured out what they were.

“Who are you, Alex?” she asked quietly.

His hands tightened on her shoulders, drawing her a step closer, and his sensual mouth curved in a slight, curiously self-mocking smile. “I'm Quinn. No matter who else, or what else, I'm Quinn. Never forget that, Morgana.”

She watched her hands lift to his broad chest, her fingers probing to feel him through the crisp white shirt. They were very close, so close she felt enclosed by him.

He had kissed her before, once as a teasing ploy to distract her so that he could filch her necklace and again in the hulk of an abandoned building when they had narrowly escaped with their lives. After that, even during the days and nights he'd spent in her apartment recovering from his wound, he had been careful not to allow desire to spark something between them, and when she had indicated her own willingness he had simply left, removing himself and the problem of his response to her.

She thought he honestly believed he would be bad for her, and that was why he turned mocking or reminded her of just who and what he was whenever she got too close. And he was probably right, she reminded herself. He would no doubt be
very
bad for her, and she'd have only herself to blame if she was crazy enough to let herself fall for a thief.

She thought she was crazy enough. And knowing that did nothing to prevent her from responding when he pulled her suddenly into his arms. When his hard, warm mouth closed over hers, she gave a little purr of guileless pleasure and let herself enjoy it.

Quinn hadn't planned on this when he brought Morgan out here to talk—but then, his plans never seemed to turn out the way he intended when she was around. She had the knack of making him forget all his good intentions.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions
.

An apt proverb, he thought, and then he forgot to think at all, because she was warm and responsive, and he had wanted to hold her like this for a long, long time.

He also wanted more, a lot more, and if there'd been a bed—hell, even a thin rug—nearby, he very likely would have forgotten everything else except the woman in his arms. But there was no bed or rug, just a wet, foggy terrace outside a ballroom where a party was in full swing, and where he was supposed to be looking for a ruthless thief—

“Excuse me.” The voice was brusque rather than apologetic, and too determined to ignore.

Quinn lifted his head slowly, gazing down at Morgan's sleepy eyes and dazed expression, and if he hadn't been related by blood to the man who'd interrupted them, he probably would have committed a very satisfying murder.

“Go away,” Quinn said, his rough voice not yet under control.

“No,” Jared replied with wonderful simplicity. He stood as if rooted to the terrace.

“You're a sorry bastard, you know that?”

“I'm sure you think so. Especially right now.”

“What I think is that the goddamned leash is getting a bit tight, Jared.”

“It can get tighter.”

“And I can break the chain. I have before.”

The tense exchange recalled Morgan to a sense of her surroundings. She pushed herself back away from him, blinking, absolutely appalled to realize that she had totally forgotten the presence of a hundred people partying just yards away.

Her only solace was the knowledge that Quinn had been as involved as she—but that was little comfort.

“I—I'll just go back inside,” she murmured, startled by the husky sound of her voice. “Oh—your jacket.” She swung the dinner jacket from around her shoulders and handed it to Quinn, then more or less fled into the house.

He didn't follow her.

Morgan automatically began to make her way back to the ballroom, but she was met in the short hallway by a petite blonde with fierce green eyes, who immediately took her arm and led her toward the powder room instead.

“A bit damp out, I guess,” Storm Tremaine drawled.

“It's stopped raining,” Morgan said, experimenting with her voice and relieved to find it nearly normal.

“Really? I never would have known.”

Morgan was baffled by that lazy comment until she got a look at herself in the powder-room mirror. “Oh, God,” she moaned.

“Yeah, I thought you might like to pull yourself together before the cream of San Francisco society got an eyeful,” Storm said, sitting down in a boudoir chair before the tile vanity while her friend claimed the other chair. They were, thankfully, alone in the spacious room. “Where's your purse?”

“I don't know. I think it was on that little table just inside the ballroom. I think.” Morgan was attempting to tuck unruly strands of her long black hair back into its former elegant style, unsure if it had been the dampness outside or Quinn's fingers that had wrought such damage.

“Here, then.” Storm handed over a small hairbrush and several pins. “Your makeup looks okay. Except for—”

“I know,” Morgan muttered, all too aware that her lipstick was a bit smeared. Nobody looking at her could doubt she had just been thoroughly kissed. “Dammit, this stuff wasn't supposed to smear. For
any
reason.”

Propping an elbow on the vanity as she watched her friend, Storm said, “I guess the manufacturers never tested it against passionate cat burglars.”

“How did you know who he was? I mean—” Morgan stopped herself with a sigh as she realized. “Wolfe, of course.” Since Storm was engaged to Wolfe Nickerson, there were likely few secrets between them.

“Of course. He introduced us just before you got waltzed out onto the terrace. So your Quinn is Alexander Brandon, huh?”

“So he says.” Having done what she could with her hair, Morgan used a tissue and Storm's lipstick to repair the rest of the damage to her pride.

“And he's gone public, so to speak. It's an interesting ploy, I admit, especially if he's so sure the thief he's after also wears a blameless public face.”

Morgan returned the lipstick and, very carefully, said, “Tell me something, friend. Is there anybody who
doesn't
know what Quinn's up to?”

“Outside our own little circle, I certainly hope so.” Storm smiled slightly. “Wolfe said you'd probably hit me with something when I told you just how much I do know, but I'm counting on your sweet disposition.”

“Oh, yeah? I wouldn't count on that if I were you. I'm not in a real good mood right now.”

Solemnly, Storm said, “Then I'll have to risk your wrath, I suppose.”

“Just spit it out, will you?”

“I don't really work for Ace Security,” Storm told her in that solemn voice. “I'm with Interpol.”

Morgan didn't have to look in the mirror to know her mouth had fallen open in shock. “Interpol? Like Jared?”

“Uh-huh. He's more or less my boss, at least on this assignment. I hope this room isn't bugged,” she added thoughtfully, glancing around.

“Why would it be bugged?”

“No reason I can think of.” Apologetically, Storm added, “They teach us to be paranoid.”

Morgan was torn between fascination and irritation; fascination because her rather ordinary world had grown in the last few months to include internationally famous cat burglars and Interpol agents, and irritated because those around her had taken their own sweet time letting her in on their plans.

Amused, Storm said, “Don't blow up, now. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't know Quinn was in on this until just before he was shot, and I had no idea that all the guys knew him.”

Suddenly curious, Morgan said, “Quinn told me that Max and Wolfe didn't know about his burgling until recently. Did Wolfe tell you how he found out?”

“Umm. Caught him with his hand in a safe in London about a year ago.”

Morgan winced. “That must have been quite an encounter.”

“The word Wolfe used was
tense
.”

“I can imagine.” Morgan sighed. “I wonder how Max found out.”

“No idea. And Jared's so furious on the subject I haven't dared ask him. Can't really blame him, I suppose. Nice thing, for an international cop to find out his own brother's an international thief. A bit awkward.”

“To say the least,” Morgan murmured, remembering how Jared had told her not to “get any fool romantic notions about nobility” into her head concerning Quinn's current association with Interpol.

“A bit awkward for you too,” Storm said quietly.

Awkward? Morgan considered the word and found that her friend had picked a good one.

As the director of the exhibit of an utterly priceless collection of gems and artworks that had just gone on public display, Morgan had access to something that any thief would have sold more than his soul to possess. Any thief.

It was easy enough to say the collection was safe from Quinn, that he was walking the straight and narrow now, bound to help catch a thief he clearly despised. Easy enough to let his charm sway her, his desire ignite hers. Easy enough to gaze into his beguiling green eyes and convince herself that she saw something in him the world would find surprising—if not downright inconceivable.

Easy enough to tell herself she wasn't a fool.

Morgan looked at her reflection in the mirror, seeing a woman who was once again elegant but whose lips still bore the faintly smudged appearance of someone who had been kissed with hungry passion.

“Awkward,” she said. “Yes, you could say that.”

CHAPTER

SIX

“D
id anybody ever tell you your timing is lousy?”
Quinn asked, shrugging into his jacket. His voice was back to normal, light and rather careless. The earlier biting tone was completely gone.

“Only you,” Jared replied, his own voice calm now. “But I could say the same thing about your timing. Alex, there are a hundred people in that house, and if your theory is correct one of them is Nightshade. So what the hell are you doing necking on the terrace?”

“We weren't necking,” Quinn replied somewhat indignantly. “We hadn't gotten that far—thanks to you.”

Jared let out a short laugh, but it didn't sound very amused. “For once in your life, will you get serious?”

“I'm completely serious.” Quinn stood up and smoothed his jacket, buttoning it neatly. When he spoke again, his voice was more sober. “I had to talk to Morgan, you know that. This is the first time she's seen me socially, and if I hadn't told her who I was supposed to be, God only knows what might have happened. She tends to be a bit impulsive, you know.”

“Yes, I do know that.”

Quinn shrugged. “So, since I didn't know how she'd react, it seemed more prudent to bring her out here.”

Jared didn't bother to point out that they hadn't been talking very much when he'd interrupted them. “Well, do you think you could put your love life on hold long enough to get some work done? You can't really study all the guests if you're out here on the terrace.”

“The night is young,” Quinn reminded him lightly.

He wouldn't have willingly admitted it, but Jared knew only too well that he had about as much hope of controlling Quinn as any man had of controlling the wind. That did not, however, stop him from trying. “You aren't planning on doing a little night hunting after the party, are you?”

“That depends on what I find here.”

“Alex, it's too risky for you to play both parts all the time, and you know it.” Jared's voice had roughened.

Quinn's voice remained light. “I know my limits—and the risks. I also have burned in my mind that one good glimpse I got of Nightshade just before he shot me, and if I see anyone tonight who even
seems
to move the same way he did, I won't let him out of my sight.”

Jared didn't speak immediately, and when he did it was to make a serious comment. “We did have a few women on the list; if you're so sure Nightshade's a man, at least that narrows the possibilities.”

“I'm sure, though I couldn't tell you exactly why. His posture, the way he moved, something. Hell, maybe I caught a whiff of aftershave just before he fired. Anyway, all I can do for the moment is look for anything familiar and listen in case the bastard gives himself away somehow.”

“The chances of that have to be slim to none.”

“Think positive,” Quinn advised. “It's always worked for me. Now, don't you think we'd better return to the party before the wrong person notices something odd?”

Jared waited until Quinn took several steps away from him before saying, “Alex?”

Quinn half turned to look back at him. “Yeah?”

“That's a snappy shade of lipstick you're wearing. Better suited to a brunette, though.”

With a low laugh, Quinn produced a snowy handkerchief and removed the evidence of his interlude with Morgan. Then he half saluted Jared and went back into the house.

Jared waited for several minutes just so they wouldn't reappear inside at the same time. And if anyone had been on the damp, chilly terrace to hear him speak, they might have been surprised at what he muttered to himself.

“I wonder when all this is going to blow up in my face.”

Morgan caught glimpses of Quinn throughout the next couple of hours, but she took care to keep herself too busy to watch him. Since she never lacked for dancing partners and was well known to most of the guests, it was easy enough to look and act as if she was enjoying the party and had nothing more serious on her mind than who to dance with next or whether or not she wanted to try a champagne cocktail.

The appearance was, to say the least, deceptive. Morgan did quite a lot of thinking while she danced and smiled. Ever since she had faced up to a few unnerving things in the powder room, she had been thinking more seriously than she could ever remember doing in her life.

And it occurred to her at some point during the evening that the interlude with Quinn out on the terrace might have more than one explanation. Yes, he had wanted to talk to her privately, no doubt because he had to make certain she understood why he'd suddenly appeared in public. But there might have been another motive in his devious mind.

As a collector, he could be expected to visit the
Mysteries Past
exhibit, but it would certainly look a bit odd if he began haunting the museum—something he probably wanted to do in order to remain close to the trap's bait. However, if he made it obvious that he was drawn to the museum by something other than the lure of the Bannister collection—her, for instance—then no one would be very surprised to find him there, even frequently or at odd hours.

Morgan didn't want to accept that possibility, but it fit too logically to be denied.

The son of a bitch intended to use her.

And choosing a damp, foggy terrace as the setting for his first move had also been part of the plan. He'd been safe in starting something when and where he had. No matter how passionate the interlude had become, it was highly unlikely that anything serious would have happened; the surroundings had been too cold, far too wet, and hideously uncomfortable, as well as lacking in privacy.

He'd known they would be interrupted—could easily have arranged it beforehand with Jared, even down to the taut exchange of hostilities.

Morgan told herself that it was just speculation, there was no proof he meant to make her a part of his cover—but when he cut in neatly to take her away from the gallery owner she'd been dancing with, her suspicions grew. And they grew even more when he managed to hold her far closer than she had allowed during their first dance, so that her hands were on his shoulders and his were on her back.

“You've been ignoring me, Morgana,” he reproved, smiling down at her.

He was an intriguing, charming, conniving
scoundrel,
Morgan decided with a building anger that was welcome. Worse, he was a heartless thief who would steal a necklace right off a woman's neck while he kissed her—and if there was anything lower than that, she didn't know what it could be.

The anger felt so good that Morgan wrapped herself in it, and it was such strong armor that she was able to return his smile with perfect ease, undisturbed by their closeness or by the touch of his warm hands on her bare back. “Oh, since I haven't been told how well I'm supposed to know you, I thought it best. We
have
just met tonight, right?”

“Yes—but it must have been love at first sight,” he said soulfully.

“I see.” Morgan allowed her arms to slip up around his neck, turning the dance into something far more intimate than even he had intended. She veiled her eyes with her lashes, fixing them on his neat tie, and made her smile seductive. “You should have told me.” She thought her voice was seductive as well, but there must have been something there to give her away, because Quinn didn't buy the act.

He was silent for a moment or so while they danced, then cleared his throat and said in a matter-of-fact voice, “You're mad as hell, aren't you?”

Her lashes lifted as she met his wary eyes, and she knew her own were probably, as he'd once observed, spitting rage just like a cat's. In a silken tone, she said, “I passed mad as hell about an hour ago. You don't want to know what I am now.”

“I'm rather glad you aren't armed, I know that much,” he murmured.

She let him feel several long fingernails gently caress the sensitive nape of his neck. “Don't be too sure I'm not armed.”

“I've said it before, I know, but you look magnificent when you're angry, Morgana.” He smiled at her, this one seemingly genuine, amused—and a bit sheepish. And his deep voice was unusually sincere when he went on. “If you like, I'll stop right here in front of God and San Francisco and apologize on bended knee. I'm a cad and a louse, and I should have asked for your help instead of trying to use you. I'm sorry.”

It was a totally disarming apology, and Morgan wasn't surprised to feel her rage begin to drain away. Irritably, she said, “Well, why didn't you?”

“I thought you'd say no,” he replied simply.

Still angry and glad of it, she said, “Being asked is a damned sight better than being used.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Good. Then you'll know why I'm pissed.” Quite deliberately, Morgan freed herself from his embrace and walked off the dance floor.

This time Storm met her in the powder room, and the blonde was obviously highly entertained. “Okay, you clearly won that round,” she said with a laugh. “Public rejection, and with flair too.”

Morgan laughed despite herself as she sat down before the vanity. “He deserved it, the rotten louse. He thinks he can pull
my
strings, I'll be happy to prove him wrong.”

Storm, whom no one had ever accused of being slow on the uptake, pursed her lips as she sat down beside her friend and said, “So the earlier scene out on the terrace was more . . . um . . . contrived than it seemed?”

“A lot more contrived. Guess who's just fallen head-over-heels in love with the director of the
Mysteries Past
exhibit?”

“Ah. To give him an excuse to hang around the museum, I gather.”

“That was his plan.”

Storm grinned. “Which you've now derailed.”

Morgan smiled slowly. “Not necessarily.”

It only took a moment for Storm to get it, and she began to laugh. “You're going to make him work for it.”

“Let's just say he can play the lovelorn swain if he wants an excuse to hang around the museum in the daytime. I just don't plan to be too terribly receptive.”

Still smiling, Storm said, “Nice way to make your point without interfering while he keeps an eye on the museum.”

“I thought so.”

Storm eyed her thoughtfully. “Uh-huh. Just doing your job while not getting in the way of his?”

“Exactly.”

“Manipulating the master manipulator?”

“You don't think it can be done?”

“I think,” Storm replied slowly, “that you'd better be careful, Morgan. Very, very careful.”

She studied the photograph briefly before handing it back to him. “So, that's all you want? That one piece?”

“That's all.”

“The entire Bannister collection to choose from, and you pick this?”

“Is it a problem?”

Amused, she shook her head. “No, it isn't a problem. I don't usually get hired to penetrate layers of sophisticated security for something like this, but what the hell. You want, I deliver. That's the deal. Provided you agree to the price, of course.”

“The price is fine. Half now and half on delivery is also fine. Your reputation precedes you; my research indicates you're trustworthy and that you can be counted on to have complete loyalty to your employer. For the duration, and for a price.”

Unoffended, she smiled. “That's right.”

“I'll expect to hear from you as soon as possible.”

“You will. I'd just as soon do what I came here to do and get out of this city. There are far too many thieves skulking around for my taste.”

“The pot calling the kettle black.”

She laughed. “I'm no thief. I'm an artist.”

“As far as I'm concerned, that remains to be seen.”

“You'll see,” she said. “Everyone will see.”

Morgan quite deliberately stayed away from the museum on Sunday, then came to work on Monday morning as usual. She chided herself for it later, but the truth was that she looked for Quinn at the museum for most of the day. It wasn't easy, considering the crush of people eager to view the
Mysteries Past
exhibit, which to no one's surprise was proving to be very popular and highly profitable for the museum, but she looked for him nevertheless.

And never mind that she was being an idiot.

She wanted to believe in him, that was the problem. Maybe as a salve to her conscience, or maybe just because she needed to believe she saw something in him that most others would have found surprising if not impossible.

Something good.

If he'd been dark, Morgan thought vaguely, brooding or sardonic, it might have been easier to believe the worst of him. But he was fair and handsome, even his voice was beautiful, and how was a woman supposed to
know
?

All she had were her instincts, and they told her there was much more to Quinn than met the eye.

So she looked for him and didn't pretend to herself that she wasn't eager to see him again. She had even dressed with more care than usual, choosing a slim, calf-length black skirt that she wore with a full-sleeved white blouse and a really beautiful, hand-beaded vest done in opulent gold, black, and hints of rust. The outfit was completed with black pumps, and she wore her long black hair swept up in an elegant French twist.

Morgan had told herself that she had dressed so carefully only because, now that
Mysteries Past
was open, the director of the exhibit had a responsibility to look her best—but she didn't believe herself. She had dressed with Quinn in mind, and she knew it.

She wanted to look . . . sophisticated and cultured. And tall.

And if it occurred to her that
sexy
might have been added to a description of the appearance she was trying to achieve, she ignored the realization. She looked for Quinn all day, searching the crowd of faces for the one imprinted in her mind. She thought she was being subtle about it, a happy delusion shattered when Storm emerged from the computer room somewhere around three in the afternoon.

“You know, I really wouldn't expect to see him here for at least another hour or so,” the petite blonde drawled as she joined Morgan near the guards' desk in the museum's lobby. Her little blond cat, Bear, rode her shoulder as usual, so exact a feline replica of Storm that he seemed an eerie familiar.