Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [43]
“And was he mollified by this reminder?”
Quinn smiled. “No. He seemed to feel that Nightshade might be suspicious enough to avoid the trap and find his own way in.”
“Why would he be suspicious?”
“Because of me, I'm afraid.” He sighed. “Morgana, thieves don't normally follow one another in the dead of night. But I followed him the night he was casing the museum, the night he shot me. He has to wonder about that. He knows he didn't kill me, because no unexplained shootings have been reported in the city, so he knows I may still be a potential problem.”
“But he doesn't know who you are,” Morgan said slowly.
“I'm an unanswered question all the way around—and a man like Nightshade hates unanswered questions.”
She frowned a little as she studied his face. “You know, every time you talk about Nightshade, I get the feeling there's more to this. You say you don't know much about him . . . but I think you do.”
“Morgana, you are full of questions today.”
“Is that a warning?”
“It's an observation.”
It may have been only that, but Morgan decided to drop the subject anyway. Quinn had already been more forthcoming than she had expected, and she preferred to quit while she was ahead. In any case, they arrived at the restaurant just then, and a number of speculations filled her mind.
She didn't comment until he had parked the car and come around to open her door. “So Tony's is the best restaurant this side of Naples, huh?”
“I think so,” Quinn replied innocently as he closed her car door and took her arm.
“And I suppose the fact that it tends to be a kind of hangout for art collectors and dealers as well as museum people is a coincidence?”
He sent her a glance, amusement in his green eyes. “No, is it? Fancy that.”
“You can be maddening, you know that?”
“Watch your step, Morgana,” he murmured, probably referring to the uneven flagstone steps leading up to the restaurant's front door.
Though it was just after seven in the evening, the place was already three-quarters full; many of the museums in the area closed at six, and this was, as Morgan had said, a favorite place to unwind as well as dine. The food was not only excellent, it was also served generously and priced reasonably, and the casual but efficient waitresses knew your name by the third visit.
Or, in Quinn's case, the second.
“I ate lunch here Saturday,” he told Morgan, after the friendly waitress had conducted them to a window booth and asked “Mr. Brandon” if he wanted coffee as usual.
Morgan—who was also known to the waitress and who had ordered coffee as well—accepted that somewhat ruefully with a nod and then glanced around casually, curious to see if she could spot whoever it was that Quinn wanted to keep an eye on.
The one glance told her it would be impossible. There were more than a dozen people scattered about the room who were in some way involved in the art world either as collectors, patrons, or employees of the various museums, galleries, and shops in the area. Even Leo Cassady, their host for the party the other night, and Ken Dugan, head curator of the museum housing the Mysteries Past exhibit, were present, both with attractive female companions.
“Give up?” Quinn murmured.
Morgan unfolded her napkin and placed it over her lap, making a production out of it. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she told him politely.
“You mean you weren't trying to guess who it is I'm keeping an eye on?” He smiled wickedly. “Nice try, sweet, but you should never try to play poker with a cardsharp.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
She scowled at him. “Thanks for yet another warning. Obviously, you could look as innocent as a lamb with both sleeves full of aces.”
Leaning back to allow the waitress to place his coffee before him, Quinn said, “I didn't know lambs had sleeves.”
“You know what I mean. Your sleeves full of aces.” Morgan reached for the sugar and poured a liberal amount into her coffee, then added a generous measure of cream.
Quinn watched her with a slightly pained expression on his handsome face. “American coffee is filled with flavor; why do you