Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [6]
It occurred to Morgan that Max had been amazingly incurious about all this, and she felt heat rise in her face. Clearing her throat, she murmured, “I . . . uh . . . sort of ran into him a few times, and he . . . more or less . . . saved my life. Twice, probably.”
“Did he?”
She nodded. “So I owe him. Giving up my bed for a few days isn't much of a price to pay.”
Max was watching her steadily. “No, if he saved your life I'd say it was a bargain.”
“You won't—” She cleared her throat again, and said with difficulty, “I overheard something I probably shouldn't have at the museum, Max. The night you got back to town after your honeymoon.”
“I thought you might have.” He smiled slightly. “I saw your name in the museum's security log when I signed out, Morgan. I had a hunch you'd overheard Jared and me talking and had figured out what we were planning.”
“Yeah, well . . . after Quinn saved my life, I . . . warned him. About Mysteries Past being bait for a trap.”
“I see.”
“I'm sorry, Max, but—”
“It's all right,” he soothed, but before he could say more, the doctor emerged from the bedroom with positive news.
“Constitution of an ox,” he said, gratefully accepting the coffee Morgan offered. “And an unusually high tolerance for pain. He's also a quick healer, unless I miss my guess. Probably be on his feet in a day or two.” He looked at Max and added, “He wants to see you, and I doubt he'll rest until he does.”
Max set his cup on the counter, gave Morgan a slight, reassuring smile, and left the kitchen as the doctor was beginning to give her brisk instructions on how to care for the patient during the coming days.
When he entered the lamplit bedroom, Max stood for a silent moment studying Quinn. His upper body was slightly raised on two pillows, the covers drawn just above his waist so that much of his broad chest and the heavily bandaged shoulder was clearly visible. His eyes were closed, but they opened as Max looked at him, clear and alert despite the pain he was undoubtedly in.
Curiously, he didn't look incongruous in Morgan's bed. She hadn't gone overboard with frills in decorating her bedroom, since she wasn't a frilly woman, but it was quite definitely a feminine room; despite that, Quinn seemed to fit among the floral sheets and ruffled pillow shams without sacrificing any of his maleness. It was an interesting trait.
After a minute or so, Max reached behind him to push the door shut. Quinn watched silently as the big, dark man moved gracefully over to the window and stood looking out on the dimly lighted street below.
“I gather Morgan doesn't know,” he said quietly.
“No, she doesn't,” Quinn responded, his voice subtly different from the careless one Morgan was accustomed to hearing.
“What kind of game are you playing with her?” Max asked, still without turning.
There had been no particular inflection in that deep voice, but Quinn shifted restlessly on the bed nonetheless, grimacing slightly as his wound throbbed a protest. “You must know it isn't a game.” There was an inflection in his voice: defensive, maybe even defiant. “I don't have the time or the emotional energy for games.”
“Then keep her out of it.” This time, the tone was Max Bannister's boardroom voice, the sound of an authority rarely challenged and even more rarely defeated. But a quiet challenge came from the bed.
“I can't,” Quinn said.
Max stiffened just a little. “In some ways, Morgan's fragile. And she always roots for the underdog. You could break her heart.” His voice was flat.
Quinn said even more quietly, “I think she might break mine.”
“Stop it. Now, before . . . either of you has to pay too high a price.”
“You think I haven't tried?” Quinn laughed, a low, harsh sound. “I have.” He cleared his throat, and went on with a stony control that did nothing to diminish the meaning of what he was saying. “I've tried to stay away from her. You'll never know how hard I've tried. I don't even remember deciding to come here tonight. I just . . . came. To