Part 8 (2/2)
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 ident.i.ty, 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 n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 s.h.i.+rt. 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 very bad for her, and she'd have only herself to blame if she was crazy enough to let herself fall for a thief. 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 h.e.l.l 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-h.e.l.l, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you know that?”
”I'm sure you think so. Especially right now.”
”What I think is that the G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 pet.i.te 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, G.o.d,” 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 s.p.a.cious 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. n.o.body looking at her could doubt she had just been thoroughly kissed. ”Dammit, this stuff wasn't supposed to smear. For any any reason.” reason.”
Propping an elbow on the vanity as she watched her friend, Storm said, ”I guess the manufacturers never tested it against pa.s.sionate 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.
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