Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [26]
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