Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [51]
Morgan couldn't help laughing, but she responded seriously to what she sensed was a serious point of his. “That experience made me wary—but not especially bitter. Noticing someone's looks is an automatic thing, after all, so I can hardly blame people for noticing mine. Obviously it's a problem only when they can't get past appearances.” She paused, then added, “But you must admit that in me the . . . inner and outer woman are more contradictory than usual.”
Quinn looked thoughtful. “As far as first impressions go, that may be true. But—trust me—it's a fleeting moment. Once you begin speaking, your wit and intelligence are obvious.”
“If you say so.”
Smiling, he said, “I'm sure at least a few of the men you've known in the years since college have proven me right.”
“A few, I guess. Max is one. And Wolfe. Neither one of them has ever made me feel like an ornament.”
“And me? Have I ever made you feel that way?”
“No.” Wryly, she added, “Neither one of you. Although Alex has come closer than Quinn. The Don Juan bit.”
“Sorry about that. If it helps, it was only . . .”
“You playing a part?”
“More or less.”
“Yeah, I got that. Do us both a favor and quit it, okay?”
“I'll see what I can do.”
She doubted him, but Morgan was a bit surprised, over the next few days, to find that Alex really did seem to have shed his Don Juan persona. He turned up at the museum every day, usually in late afternoon, and somehow always ended up taking her for drinks and dinner, once to a movie. He continued to be a pleasant, amusing companion—and a perfect gentleman.
The question was, what was he up to?
It wasn't until late Friday evening that Morgan began to get an inkling. Her evening with Alex had ended a bit earlier than usual because he'd had “a few chores to take care of.” So she was home, brooding.
She sat there on her comfortable couch, still wearing her work outfit of skirt and sweater but shoeless, her feet drawn up on the cushions, and scowled at the muted television. Slowly but inexorably, a fine, pure fury grew to fill her. It felt wonderful. Her mind was clear, her senses sharp, and for the first time in several days she knew she was looking directly at something he'd done his level best to distract her from seeing.
Damn him! That lousy, rotten, no-good thief had done it to her again. With all the skilled legerdemain of a master magician, he had convinced her that an illusion was real; she had been so intrigued—and seduced—by Alex that she had paid little attention to the nighttime activities of Quinn.
Oh, she'd asked the occasional mild question, but she hadn't really thought about the matter. And she should have. She really should have.
Characteristically, once anger took hold of her, Morgan didn't stop to think about what she was doing. She found a pair of black Reeboks and laced them swiftly onto her stockinged feet, caught up her purse, and left the apartment without even remembering to turn off the television.
Instead of rushing openly to the museum, she crossed the street and kept to the shadows, moving with all the stealth she could summon. She hung the strap of her shoulder bag to cross her chest so she was able to keep her hands free, but she was so intent on finding Quinn that she didn't follow her usual custom of keeping one cautious hand on her can of pepper spray.
It was easy enough to approach the museum without making her presence known, but once there she had to figure out where Quinn would be keeping watch. None of her archaeological or administrative skills covered the problem of possible vantage points for cat burglars, so all she could depend on was her common sense—and that extra sense she could occasionally tap into in order to feel him.
He was certainly close, she knew that much. Because she could feel him. Perhaps oddly, concentrating harder