Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [65]
Jared shrugged. “Didn't see any reason to disturb you two with another seemingly useless puzzle piece.”
“I appreciate that.” Storm smiled. “Wolfe also appreciates it.”
“Wolfe wouldn't appreciate it if I handed him winning lottery numbers.”
“Actually, I would,” Wolfe said as he came into the room. “Nothing personal, you understand, but money is money.” He closed the door behind him.
“Right,” Jared murmured.
“Find anything?” Storm asked her fiancé.
“Nah. Keane called. I guess Jared filled you in?”
“Just now. And there's more.”
Jared told Wolfe about Morgan's ordeal the night before, and the news immediately brought a scowl to Wolfe's face.
“I don't like this,” he announced.
“Morgan's all right. This time, anyway.” Jared frowned. “But something Alex said last night has been bugging me. It didn't hit me until hours later. He said that maybe Nightshade had gotten suspicious of him and was watching him.”
The three of them looked at one another for a moment, then Wolfe said slowly, “Which means not only that Alex knows who Nightshade is, but that Nightshade may well know that Alex Brandon and Quinn are one and the same.”
“Anybody else just feel the bottom drop out of their stomach?” Storm asked.
Completely in sync for once, both Wolfe and Jared raised a hand.
The room was bright when Morgan finally opened her eyes, and for a moment or so she lay there on her stomach in the middle of the bed, her body warm beneath the covers, just blinking drowsily. She felt wonderful. Different, though. So relaxed and content she wanted to purr like a cat sprawled in the sunlight. Every inch of her skin seemed heated in a strange new way, and she had the odd notion that she could feel her heart beating throughout her entire body.
She didn't want to move, reluctant to do anything that might change the blissful sense of fulfillment she felt. But she wasn't a woman who could be still for long unless she was sleeping, and the drowsiness left her. Gradually, she focused on the clock on her nightstand. Twelve. Twelve noon.
Frowning, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, staring at the clock. Noon? She hadn't slept this late in years, why on earth would she— Then she remembered.
It all came back to her in a rush, and she twisted quickly to look around her bedroom, ignoring a few twinges from muscles protesting the sudden movement. The room was empty except for her. But . . . those clothes on the storage chest at the foot of her bed; weren't they his? Black sweater and pants, folded neatly . . . Yes, she thought they were his.
Morgan pushed herself upright and only then heard quiet music from the other side of the apartment. She didn't hear a sign of Quinn, but she was certain he was still here. She could feel his nearness, as usual. After a moment, she slid to the edge of the bed, another twinge in her ankle reminding her of last night's injury. It didn't look too bad, she decided, just a bit puffy and wearing spectacular colors; when she stood up cautiously, it held her weight with only slight pain.
When she went into the bathroom, she realized Quinn had recently taken a shower; the air was still damp, and so was a towel he had draped over the shower-curtain rod. She thought he'd probably used the electric razor she had provided for him when he'd stayed here before.
She took her own shower, letting the hot water clear her mind even as it soothed her sore body. She'd noticed a few more (faint) bruises that had resulted from her struggle on the fire escape, and between that and her unusually active night, she was definitely a little stiff.
The hot water certainly helped, so she lingered there, washing her hair and smiling to herself when she remembered his fingers tangled in it. When she finally got out of the tub and wrapped her hair in a towel, she felt much better. She rummaged in the vanity cabinets underneath the sink and found a bottle of body lotion in the scent of the perfume she usually wore, and rubbed some of that into her skin. She knew it was the rubbing rather than the lotion that made her