Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [28]
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