Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [11]
He's a thief.
She remembered too well how that hard body felt against hers and how his beguiling mouth had seduced hers until she hadn't cared who or what he was. She remembered his murmured words, when he'd told her that he thought she was going to break his heart.
He's just a damned thief.
She also remembered the mocking gift of a concubine ring.
It was that last memory that steadied her. Calmly, she said, “Look, if you really have to shave, there's an electric razor around here somewhere. I'll get it for you. But you have to go back to bed.”
After an instant, he nodded slightly and took a step toward her. He would have fallen if she hadn't quickly slid an arm around his waist and put her shoulder under his good one.
“Dammit, you tried to do too much,” she muttered as he leaned on her heavily.
“I think you're right.” He sounded definitely weakened. “If you could help me to the bed . . .”
Halfway across the room, Morgan got the distinct feeling that he wasn't quite as frail as he seemed, but she didn't try to call his bluff. What else could she expect, after all? she asked herself somewhat wryly as she helped him those last few steps. His humorous, mischievous, and careless nature had been obvious from the first time she'd met him, and she doubted very much if he had a sincere bone in his body; he was perfectly capable of pretending weakness simply because he enjoyed leaning on her.
She batted his amazingly limp but wonderfully accurate hand away from her right breast and more or less dumped him on the bed.
Quinn grimaced as his shoulder was jolted, but he was also laughing softly. “All right, but you can't blame me for trying,” he said guilelessly.
Hands on her hips, Morgan glared down at him. Damn the man, it was so hard to stay mad at him. “Next time you get out of that bed, you'd better make sure you can get back under your own steam. I meant what I said about calling Max.”
Quinn eased himself farther up on the bed, then glanced down at the towel still wrapped around him. “I suppose you wouldn't want to help me—”
“No. Like you said, there are some things a man should do for himself. I'll go find the razor.” He was laughing at her again when she left the room, but Morgan didn't yell at him. She didn't even turn around to look at him, because he would have seen her smiling completely against her will.
Even if he was on the side of the angels this time, she told herself, he was still a thief and a scoundrel. Charming, but still a scoundrel. She needed to remember that.
She really, really needed to remember that.
When she returned to the bedroom a few minutes later, he was propped up on the pillows, the covers drawn up to his waist, sipping the coffee she'd brought him. The towel was crumpled up on the floor by the bed.
She retrieved it and returned it to the bathroom. Silently. She unwound the cord from the electric razor, plugged it into an outlet by the nightstand, and set the razor within easy reach for him. Silently. Then she gave him his pills and waited until he swallowed them.
He eyed her somewhat warily, then said, “You aren't mad at me, are you, Morgana?”
It cost her, but she managed to remain at least outwardly unmoved by his wistfulness. “No, but you're walking a fine edge,” she warned him mildly.
He was silent for a moment, then set his coffee cup on the nightstand and nodded gravely. For once, his green eyes were perfectly serious. “I know—I can't help pushing. And . . . I hate having to depend on anyone else. For anything.”
Morgan could feel her resolve weakening. As dangerous to her composure as he was in his playful, amusing mode, this—apparent—painful honesty was devastating. She had the sudden conviction that unless she was very, very careful, Quinn would steal far more from her than she could afford to lose.