Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [66]
Morgan wrapped a towel around herself and unwrapped her hair to begin drying it, and as her blow-dryer roared she thought about that. A lover. Was that what Quinn would be? She didn't know, she really didn't. The timing of all this, considering the circumstances, was hardly the best, and even if it had been, Quinn was not what anyone would choose to call predictable.
Or conventional. Given who and what he was, it was entirely possible that this interlude with her was no more than that—a respite in the middle of a tense situation to let him unwind and seek a purely sexual release of stress.
That was a depressing possibility, she decided, but one she had to consider at least logical and perhaps likely. He was, after all, an unusually handsome and charming man somewhere in his thirties—and though the mysterious Quinn might not have wished to risk possible exposure of his identity with a sex life, his daytime persona of Alex had undoubtedly enjoyed the company of eager females over the years. The evidence of that was clear; he'd been a skilled and sensitive lover, and that required both experience and a thorough knowledge of a woman's body and what would please her.
Morgan was hardly shocked by these realizations. In fact, she wasn't particularly surprised by them. She was a rational woman, and she'd had weeks since meeting Quinn to consider the matter. She had, in fact, thought about him and what involvement with him might mean to the point that she was reasonably sure she had considered every possibility.
Not that it helped, really. It might have been possible in the last weeks to detach her emotions enough to contemplate the possible consequences of taking a very famous and very enigmatic cat burglar into her bed, but once it had happened, her detachment was gone. Only emotions were left, and all those told her was what she felt.
She loved him. Beyond reason or rationality, beyond common sense or consequences, she loved him.
And that was what she had to endure, no matter what the future brought.
By the time her hair was dry, Morgan had more or less decided to play this new turn in their relationship by ear. What other choice did she have? Her life was clearly defined and spread out before him; there were no mysteries, no hidden facts, no false names—no lies. Who and what she was were obvious to him. Who and what he was, on the other hand, were still somewhat nebulous. The only thing she knew for certain was that what he was doing was dangerous.
So, at least until Quinn's trap for Nightshade was sprung, her instincts told her to accept whatever he offered and be as patient as she could. Once that was over and he could tell her the truth, then perhaps there would be a discussion about some kind of future for them. Or perhaps not.
Perhaps Quinn would return to Europe and the life he enjoyed and knew so well. Without her.
There was, in any case, absolutely nothing she could do to either make him love her or make him stay with her. She had a better chance of catching lightning in a bottle than she had of capturing him and, besides that, the last thing she would have chosen would be to see him trapped. Whatever he did in the end had to be his own decision, without pressure from her.
She returned to the bedroom, still thoughtful, and briefly debated before pulling a gold silk robe from her closet. It was one of those garments a single woman might buy for herself but then not wear simply because it was designed for a man to look at, something rich and elegant that caressed the body in a touch of pure sensuality.
Well, she acknowledged silently, there was pressure . . . and then there was pressure. After all, no woman worth the name would just stand by and let the man she loved make up his mind about things without at least reminding him of a few advantages a sensible and rational woman could provide. That was certainly fair.
Even Quinn would probably agree.
CHAPTER
TWELVE