by Kay Hooper
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
“Did 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 n
o,” 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?”
