Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [29]
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 little, 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