Part 8 (1/2)
Forgetting to keep smiling, she frowned up at him. ”What? You couldn't have been. Leo's always planned to throw a party the night of the Mysteries Past Mysteries Past opening, and he sent out invitations more than a month ago-in fact, more than two months ago. How could you possibly-” opening, and he sent out invitations more than a month ago-in fact, more than two months ago. How could you possibly-”
Quinn shook his head slightly, then guided her away from the center of the room. Not many of the guests seemed to take note of them, but Morgan caught a glimpse of Max Bannister watching from the other side of the room, his gray eyes unreadable.
Now that she knew Quinn was-supposedly, anyway-helping Interpol catch another thief, Morgan didn't feel quite so troubled about her previous encounters with the cat burglar, and after having nursed him back to health when he'd been shot, she could hardly look on him as a stranger. But she didn't trust him.
Yeah, you're willing to take him into your bed, but you don't trust him. That's smart.
That's just smart as h.e.l.l.
He led her from the crowded ballroom without giving her a chance to protest, finding his way easily down a short hallway and out onto a slightly chilly, deserted terrace. Leo hadn't opened the French doors of the ballroom, probably because it had been raining when the party began; the flagstone terrace was still wet, and a heavy fog was creeping in over the garden. Still, if a guest did did happen to wander out, the party's host was prepared: There were j.a.panese-type lanterns hung to provide light for the terrace and garden, along with scattered tables and chairs-very wet at the moment. happen to wander out, the party's host was prepared: There were j.a.panese-type lanterns hung to provide light for the terrace and garden, along with scattered tables and chairs-very wet at the moment.
Everything gleamed from the rain, and the incoming fog made the garden an eerie sight. It was very quiet on the terrace, unnaturally so, with the thick mist providing its usual m.u.f.fling effect; both the music from the ballroom and the sounds of the ocean could only just be heard.
Morgan a.s.sumed that Quinn wanted to talk to her without the greater chance of being overheard inside, so she made no effort to protest or to ask him why he'd brought her out here.
Still holding one of her hands, Quinn half sat on the stone bal.u.s.trade edging the terrace and laughed softly as if some private joke amused him greatly. ”Tell me something, Morgana. Have you ever stopped to think that I might be . . . more than Quinn?”
”What do you mean?”
His wide, powerful shoulders lifted in a shrug, and those vivid eyes remained on her face. ”Well, Quinn is a creature of the night. His name's a pseudonym, a nickname-”
”An alias,” she supplied helpfully.
He let out a low laugh. ”All right, an alias. My point is that he moves in the shadows, his face masked to the world-most of the world, anyway-and few know very much about him. But it isn't always night, Morgana. Masks tend to look a bit peculiar in the daylight, and Quinn would hardly have a pa.s.sport or driver's license-to say nothing of a dinner jacket. So who do you think I am when I'm not Quinn?”
Oddly enough, that question hadn't even occurred to Morgan. ”You're . . . Alex,” she answered a bit helplessly.
”Yes, but who is Alex?”
”How could I know that?”
”How could you, indeed. After all, Alex Brandon only arrived here yesterday. From England. I'm a collector.”
The sheer audacity of him had the usual effect on Morgan; she didn't know whether to laugh or hit him with something. So Alexander Brandon was supposed to be a collector? ”Tell me you're kidding,” she begged.
He laughed again, the sound still soft. ”Afraid not. My daytime persona, you see, is quite well established. Alexander Brandon has a rather nice house in London, which was left to him by his father, as well as apartments in Paris and New York. He has a dual citizens.h.i.+p-British and American-and, in fact, attended college here in the States. He came into a trust fund at twenty-one and manages a number of investments, also inherited, so he doesn't really have to work unless he wants to. And he seldom wants to. However, he travels quite a bit. And he collects artworks-particularly gems.”
Morgan had the feeling her mouth was hanging open.
With a smothered sound that might have been another laugh, Quinn went on carelessly. ”His family name is quite well respected. So well, in fact, that you might find it on most any list of socially and financially powerful families-on either side of the Atlantic. And Leo Ca.s.sady sent him an invitation to this party more than two months ago-which he accepted.”
”Of all the gall,” Morgan said wonderingly.
Knowing she wasn't talking about Leo, Quinn sighed mournfully. ”Yes, I know. I'm beyond redemption.”
Frowning at him, she said, ”Is that how Max knows you? From this blameless other life you created for yourself, I mean? And Wolfe?”
”We have encountered one another a few times over the years. Though neither of them knew I was Quinn until fairly recently,” Quinn murmured.
”That must have been a shock for them,” she said.
”You could say that, yes.”
Morgan was still frowning. ”So . . . now you're openly here in San Francisco, as Alexander Brandon, scion of a n.o.ble family and well known as a collector of rare and precious gems.”
”Exactly.”
”Where are you staying?”
”I have a suite at the Imperial.”
It was one of the newer and more luxurious hotels to grace n.o.b Hill, a fact that shouldn't have surprised Morgan. If Quinn was playing the part of a rich collector, then he'd naturally stay at the best hotel in town. But she couldn't help wondering . . .
”Is Interpol paying the bills?” she asked bluntly.
”No. I am.”
”You are? Wait a minute, now. You're spending your own money-quite probably ill-gotten gains-to maintain this cover of yours so that you can help Interpol catch a thief so they won't put you in prison?”
Quinn tugged at her hand slightly so that she took a step closer to him; she was standing almost between his knees. ”You put things so colorfully-but, yes, that's the gist of it. I don't know why that should surprise you, Morgana.”
”Well, it does.” She brooded over the question, hardly aware of their closeness. ”It's an awfully elaborate situation for someone who's supposedly just trying to keep his a.s.s out of prison. Unless . . . Has this other thief done something to you? You personally?”
Quinn's voice was dry. ”Aside from putting a bullet in me, you mean?”
Morgan had a flash of memory-Quinn lying in her bed unconscious, that awful wound high on his chest-and something inside her tightened in remembered pain. With an effort, she managed to push the memory away. It reminded her, though, that here was another question she should have asked-and hadn't hadn't-simply because she'd been so preoccupied with the vexing reality of Quinn's effect on her.
”So he is the one who shot you? Is that why you're doing this? Because he shot you?”
Quinn was holding her hand against his thigh and looked down at it for a moment before he met her eyes. In the soft glow of the lanterns, the light diffused by the mist curling around them, he looked unusually serious. ”That would be reason enough for most people.”
”What else?”
”Does there have to be another reason?”
Morgan nodded. ”For you? Yes, I think so. You've tried your best to convince me you're out for n.o.body except Quinn-but some of what I'm seeing doesn't add up. If you're as selfish and self-involved as you say, why not just go through the motions to satisfy Interpol? Why put yourself-and your own money-on the line if you don't have to?”
”Who says I don't have to? Interpol can be a harsh taskmaster, sweet.”
”Maybe so, but I have a feeling you have better motives than just saving your own skin.”
”Don't paint me with n.o.ble colors, Morgana,” he said softly. ”In the first storm, they'll wash off. And you'll be disappointed at what's underneath.”
It held echoes of something he'd tried to tell her before, a warning not to get involved with him on an intimate level, and though Morgan appreciated the spirit of the warning, she was not a woman prepared to allow others to make up her mind for her. She had come to certain conclusions about Quinn's character, and those conclusions would be confirmed-or disproved-by his own actions and behavior.
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 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. 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?