Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [54]
Quinn straightened up and stared down at her, his face still curiously hard. In the subdued lighting of the living-room lamps, his green eyes were shuttered. He was dressed in his Quinn costume, black material from neck to toe, and as she looked up at him he dropped her keys onto the coffee table, then unbuckled his compact tool belt from around his waist and dropped it there as well.
He glanced at the television, which was still on and turned low, then looked at her again and said merely, “I'll get some ice for your ankle.”
Alone in the quiet living room, Morgan managed to unwrap herself from the blanket so that her arms were free. She found her shoulder bag still attached to her and wrestled the strap off over her head; from the weight, she knew the only thing missing from it was her keys, so her attacker had obviously not attempted to rob her. She sort of slung the bag onto the coffee table, and it landed on top of Quinn's tool belt.
A glance at the clock on her VCR told her it was just after one A.M., which surprised her. How could so much happen in so little time?
Listening to the rattle of ice cubes in her kitchen, she cautiously leaned forward and opened the blanket the rest of the way to expose her legs, and winced at the sight of her right ankle. Even through her (somewhat mangled) hose, the swelling and discoloration were obvious. When she very gingerly moved it, the pain was hot and swift, but at least she could move it, so nothing was permanently harmed. Her head was clear once more, and she wasn't so queasy now, which was definitely a relief.
When Quinn returned to the room, he had her ice bag in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “You left the coffee on,” he told her as he handed the cup to her.
“I was in a temper,” she admitted, avoiding his eyes. Her voice was her own again, another thing to be thankful for. She hated sounding like a wimp.
Without immediately commenting on what she said, he got one of the decorative pillows from the other end of the couch and gently lifted her leg so that her foot and ankle were propped up. He eased the ice bag down on her swollen ankle, then left the room again, but only long enough to get a second cup of coffee from the kitchen.
When he came back, he startled her by sitting on the edge of the cushion at her thigh so that they were facing each other. He was sort of leaning sideways over her legs, one elbow and forearm resting on the back of the couch—either deliberately or accidentally blocking her in. The pressure of his hip against her leg distracted her from the heavenly relief of the ice bag on her ankle, and she wondered what spell he had used to make her body respond to him with such instant hunger.
Quinn took a sip of his coffee, then set the cup on the table and looked at her with those veiled eyes. In a carefully measured tone, he said, “Do you mind telling me what the hell you were doing out there tonight? And do you realize how close you came to getting yourself killed?”
“That wasn't the plan.”
“Oh, you had a plan?”
“Don't be sarcastic, Alex—it doesn't suit you.”
“And lying in a crumpled heap on a fire escape doesn't suit you.” His voice was losing its measured precision; it was rougher now, harder. “What made you do it, Morgana? Why the hell were you on that fire escape?”
“I was looking for you, obviously. I don't know anyone else who might be found on the roof of a deserted building in the middle of the night.”
Quinn refused to recognize her stab at self-mocking humor. “Why were you looking for me?”
“I told you, I was in a temper.”
“About what?”
“About you.”
The hard immobility of his face changed when he frowned. “About me? Why? What had I done?”
Morgan took refuge in her coffee. She couldn't hide, but at least it gave her a moment to think. Not that it helped; when she answered him, the words were blurted out with little grace and far too much pain.
“You said wouldn't use me again. That you needed me on your side. Remember?”
He