As he led her out onto the dance floor, Morgan told herself she certainly didn't want to make a scene. That was why she wasn't resisting him, of course. And it was also why she fixed a pleasantly noncommittal smile on her face despite the fact that her heart was going like a trip-hammer.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a low, fierce voice.
“I'm dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room,” he replied, suiting action to words as he drew her into his arms and began moving to the music, which was slow and dreamy.
Morgan refused to be flattered, and she kept her arms too stiff to allow him to pull her as close as he obviously wanted to. She was wearing a nearly backless black evening gown, and the sudden remembrance of just how much of her bare skin was showing made her feel self-conscious for the first time.
Not that she wanted him to know that, of course.
“Would you please shed your Don Juan suit and get serious?” she requested.
He chuckled softly, dancing with grace and without effort. “That was the bald truth, sweet.”
“Yeah, right.” Morgan sighed and couldn't help glancing around somewhat nervously, even though she kept the polite smile pasted to her lips and made sure her voice was low enough to escape being overheard. “Look, there are a dozen private guards watching over Leo Cassady's collection, and at least one cop here as a guest. Surely you aren't thinking—”
“You're the one who isn't thinking, Morgana.” His voice was low as well, but casual and unconcerned. “I prefer the secrecy of darkness and the anonymity of a mask, remember? Besides that, it would be rude in the extreme; I would never think of relieving our host of his valuables. No, I am simply here as a guest—an invited guest. Alexander Brandon at your service, ma'am. My friends call me Alex.”
As she danced automatically and gazed up at him, Morgan reminded herself of several things. First, Quinn was only a nickname, a pseudonym for a faceless thief that had been coined years before. Alexander was certainly his real first name—she believed that much since he'd been practically on his deathbed when he'd admitted it—but since he and Jared Chavalier were brothers, the name of Brandon was undoubtedly no more than a cover for whatever he was up to.
Second, if Quinn was here in Leo Cassady's home by invitation, someone must have vouched for him. Max, perhaps? He was really the only one who could have, she thought. Maxim Bannister was probably the only man Leo would trust enough to admit a stranger to his home.
And, third, Morgan reminded herself of just how tangled this entire situation had become. The Mysteries Past exhibit had opened to the public today, Saturday, and it had been a rousing success. But the priceless collection was bait for a trap to catch a very dangerous thief, and Quinn was supposedly helping.
Supposedly.
“You dance divinely, Morgana,” Quinn said with his usual beguiling charm, smiling down at her. “I knew you would. But if you'd only relax just a bit—” His hand exerted a slight pressure at her waist in an attempt to draw her closer.
“No,” she said, resisting successfully without losing the rhythm of the dance.
His smile twisted a bit, though his wicked green eyes were alight with amusement. “So reluctant to trust me? I only want to obey the spirit of this dance and hold you closer.”
Morgan refused to be seduced. It was almost impossible, but she refused. “Never mind the spirit. You're holding me close enough.”
Those roguish eyes dropped to briefly examine the low-cut neckline of her black evening gown, and he said wistfully, “Not nearly close enough to suit me.”
For her entire adult life—and most of her teens—Morgan had fought almost constantly against the tendency of people, especially men, to assume that her generous bust was undoubtedly matched by an I.Q. in the low two digits, and so she tended to bristle whenever any man called attention to her measurements either by word or by look.
Any man except Quinn, that is. He had the peculiar knack of saying things that were utterly outrageous and yet made her want to giggle, and she always felt that his interest was as sincerely admiring of nature's generous beauty as it was—almost comically—lustful.
She even heard herself muttering, “See, I knew you were a boob man.”
“I certainly am now,” he responded, equally blunt and a little amused.
“Well, you'll just have to suffer,” she told him in the most severe tone she could manage.
He sighed. “I've been suffering since the night we met, Morgana.”
“Tough,” she said.
“You're a hard woman. I've said that before, haven't I?”
He'd been wearing a towel and a bandage at the time. Morgan shoved the memory away. “Look, I just want to know what you're doing here. And don't say dancing with me.”
“All right, I won't,” he said affably. “What I'm doing here is attending a party to celebrate the opening of the Mysteries Past exhibit.”
Morgan gritted her teeth but kept smiling. “I'm in no mood to fence with you. Did Max get you into the house?”
“I've been on the guest list for this party since the beginning, sweet.”
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 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 hell.
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 happen to wander out, the party's host was prepared: There were Japanese-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 muffling effect; both the music from the ballroom and the sounds of the ocean could only just be heard.
Morgan assumed 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 balustrade 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 passport 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 citizenship—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 Cassady 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 noble 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 Nob 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 ass 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—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 nobody 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 noble 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 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 li
ttle, 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.