Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [45]
“It seems to be your plan.”
Morgan trusted his solemn tone about as much as she trusted her own ability to fly without a plane. “Uh-huh. So if that takes care of the public show, what about the private one?”
“Morgana, I'm surprised at you. As if I would put on any kind of show with you in private.”
“So you're going to be completely honest with me in private?”
“I'm going to be . . . completely Alex.”
Morgan stared at him for a long moment, silently admitting just which of them was the master manipulator. Then she said mildly, “Well, it ought to be interesting. I guess I get you until midnight, huh? Until you turn into Quinn?”
“Actually, that's pretty literal,” he admitted. “Jared and I split the duty. I go on at midnight.”
“Back into the darkness. Skulking.”
“It could be much worse, you know,” he said in a soothing tone. “I could be dull.” He reached across the table and touched the back of her hand very lightly, his index finger tracing an intricate pattern.
Morgan watched what he was doing for a moment, using every ounce of her self-control to preserve a detached expression even though she had the suspicion all her bones were melting. She had to slide her hand away from him before she dared to meet his eyes, and she was rather proud when her voice emerged dryly.
“Alex, do you know the definition of scoundrel?”
His green eyes were brightly amused. “A villain with a smile?”
“Close enough,” Morgan replied with a sigh, and leaned back to allow the waitress to deliver their meal.
It was nearly two in the morning when Quinn moved ghostlike along the dark, silent building until he reached a side door. There was no lock to bar his way, and within seconds he was passing along a dim hallway, still making no more noise than a shadow. He paused outside a heavily carved set of doors and studied the faint strip of light visible at the floor, then smiled to himself and entered the room.
The faint light came from only two sources: a cheerful fire burning in the rock fireplace and a reading lamp on the opposite side of the study. Still, it was easy for Quinn to see the room's waiting occupant.
“You're late.” His host turned away from a tall window to frown at him.
Quinn removed his black ski mask and the supple black gloves he wore and tucked them into his belt. “There's quite a bit of security in this neighborhood, so I had to be careful,” he responded calmly.
The other man didn't cross the room or even move away from the window; he merely stood there, one hand on the back of the chair beside him, and looked at Quinn. “Did you get it?”
Silently, Quinn opened a chamois pouch at his belt and removed a smaller velvet bag, which he tossed to his host. “As you Yanks say—it was a piece of cake.” Subtly different from what Morgan was accustomed to hearing from him, his voice was more rapid than lazy, the words a bit more clipped, the pronunciation more British than American.
A brilliant cascade of diamonds flowed into the other man's hand as he upended the velvet bag, and he stared down at the necklace without blinking for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “The Carstairs diamonds.”
“Get out your loupe and satisfy yourself the necklace is genuine,” Quinn advised him. “I don't want there to be any question.”
His host left the window finally to cross the room to an antique desk, and he removed a jeweler's loupe from the center drawer. He turned on the desk lamp to provide more light, and under that studied the necklace thoroughly.
“Well?” Quinn asked when the other man straightened.
“It's genuine.”
“Terrific.” Quinn's deep voice held a faint trace of mockery, as if the other man's taciturnity amused him. “So, are we ready to talk about the Bannister collection now?”
“I told you, I don't like the setup.”
“Neither do I.” Quinn sat casually on the arm of a leather wingback chair and gave his host a very direct look. “The exhibit has the best security money can buy—which shouldn't surprise either one of us. But we both know that even