Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [30]
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.
An apt proverb, he thought, and then he forgot to think at all, because she was warm and responsive, and he had wanted to hold her like this for a long, long time.
He also wanted more, a lot more, and if there'd been a bed—hell, even a thin rug—nearby, he very likely would have forgotten everything else except the woman in his arms. But there was no bed or rug, just a wet, foggy terrace outside a ballroom where a party was in full swing, and where he was supposed to be looking for a ruthless thief—
“Excuse me.” The voice was brusque rather than apologetic, and too determined to ignore.
Quinn lifted his head slowly, gazing down at Morgan's sleepy eyes and dazed expression, and if he hadn't been related by blood to the man who'd interrupted them, he probably would have committed a very satisfying murder.
“Go away,” Quinn said, his rough voice not yet under control.
“No,” Jared replied with wonderful simplicity. He stood as if rooted to the terrace.
“You're a sorry bastard, you know that?”
“I'm sure you think so. Especially right now.”
“What I think is that the goddamned leash is getting a bit tight, Jared.”
“It can get tighter.”
“And I can break the chain. I have before.”
The tense exchange recalled Morgan to a sense of her surroundings. She pushed herself back away from him, blinking, absolutely appalled to realize that she had totally forgotten the presence of a hundred people partying just yards away.
Her only solace was the knowledge that Quinn had been as involved as she—but that was little comfort.
“I—I'll just go back inside,” she murmured, startled by the husky sound of her voice. “Oh—your jacket.” She swung the dinner jacket from around her shoulders and handed it to Quinn, then more or less fled into the house.
He didn't follow her.
Morgan automatically began to make her way back to the ballroom, but she was met in the short hallway by a petite blonde with fierce green eyes, who immediately took her arm and led her toward the powder room instead.
“A bit damp out, I guess,” Storm Tremaine drawled.
“It's stopped raining,” Morgan said, experimenting with her voice and relieved to find it nearly normal.
“Really? I never would have known.”
Morgan was baffled by that lazy comment until she got a look at herself in the powder-room mirror. “Oh, God,” she moaned.
“Yeah, I thought you might like to pull yourself together before the cream of San Francisco society got an eyeful,” Storm said, sitting down in a boudoir chair before the tile vanity while her friend claimed the other chair. They were, thankfully, alone in the spacious room. “Where's your purse?”
“I don't know. I think it was on that little table just inside the ballroom. I think.” Morgan was attempting to tuck unruly strands of her long black hair back into its former elegant style, unsure if it had been the dampness outside or Quinn's fingers that had wrought such damage.
“Here, then.” Storm handed over a small hairbrush and several pins. “Your makeup looks okay. Except for—”
“I know,” Morgan muttered, all too aware that her lipstick was a bit smeared. Nobody looking