Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [57]
And then there was him.
Quinn.
After tonight, she was more certain than ever that Morgan West was his weakness, his point of vulnerability. On the one hand, that was good: With his attention mostly focused on her, he was more apt to make a mistake—or at the very least be less attentive, less aware.
It could cripple him, that distraction.
On the other hand, his interest in her kept him close to the exhibit and those involved with it. He was on the inside, keenly aware of what was going on.
You had to admire the son of a bitch. He was having his cake and sleeping with her too.
What she had assumed was an unlucky break—encountering Morgan on that fire escape—had instead confirmed something she had guessed weeks ago. Those two could somehow sense each other, and after tonight it was doubtful that Quinn would let Morgan get too far away from him.
Good. That was good.
The more he was distracted from his work, the better for her. Sort of disappointing, not going up against Quinn at his best, but there would be other chances for that.
Lots of other chances.
She turned away from the window and put the binoculars away in her backpack. For now, this was the job she'd been hired to do, and anything that made it easier or simpler for her was all to the good.
Even love.
She heard herself laughing, and wasn't surprised.
“Who did he kill?” Morgan asked slowly.
“Her name was Joanne. Joanne Brent. She was attending a party at a house in London and, apparently, wandered into her host's library very late looking for something to read. She surprised Nightshade at work—and he killed her. Left a dead rose on her body.”
“That's awful,” Morgan whispered.
“Yes.” His voice was stony. “She was twenty-two.”
Morgan searched his hard, handsome features, suddenly afraid of a ghost. “You . . . loved her.” It wasn't a question.
He shook his head slightly, that look of rigid control softening a bit. “Not the way you mean. I never had a sister, but Joanne was the nearest thing. Until I came here to the States to attend college, we lived near each other in England. She was still a kid when I graduated—eight years younger—and after that I traveled quite a bit, so we didn't see each other often. When she was killed, I hadn't seen her in nearly six months.”
“Did she know you were Quinn?”
“No. I trusted her, but . . .”
Perceptively, Morgan said, “You didn't tell her because she would have worried?”
“Something like that.”
After a moment, Morgan nodded and said slowly, “You don't need me to point out that revenge tends to punish the one looking for it more than the target.”
Quinn smiled, but his eyes were suddenly as hard and cold as emeralds. “I don't want revenge, Morgana. I want justice.”
“What kind of justice?”
“The best kind. A man like Nightshade has spent his life collecting beautiful things, most of which he's secreted away so that his are the only eyes to see them. He sits in the middle of his treasures and gloats because he owns what no other man can claim.” Quinn smiled again. “So I'm going to take all that away from him. I'm going to put him in prison, surrounded by bare concrete walls and men who have very little appreciation for beauty. And I'm going to make damned sure he rots there.”
Morgan couldn't help shivering a little, but she tried to lighten the moment. “Sounds like a plan.”
He looked at her for a moment, then smiled a much more genuine smile. “So it does.”
She glanced down at the coffee cup she was cradling between her hands, absently aware that it was cooling, then returned her gaze to his face. “Your plan. You decided you could catch Nightshade, and you talked everybody else—Jared, Max, and Wolfe—into going along.”
Thoughtfully, Quinn said, “I think Max convinced Wolfe. I was never very good with him. We always had . . . communications problems.”
“He doesn't like thieves,” Morgan reminded dryly.
“There is that, of course. And he's a bit hidebound about people who bend the law now and then. I always thought Max was as well, but he surprised me.”
“You,” Morgan said, “are a