Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [86]
“That's a fine greeting,” she whispered in return.
Unmasked but wearing the remainder of his cat-burglar costume, he scowled at her. “Morgana, dammit, you're supposed to be safely in bed.”
“I had to come,” she insisted, still whispering. “Alex, I just figured out—”
“Shhh!”
He was so still and silent that Morgan could hear the dripping of the fog-wet ivy climbing the wall beside them. She couldn't hear anything from the house, but he must have, because the tension she could feel in him increased. Then his gloved hands lifted quickly to frame her face, and he gazed at her with such intensity that his green eyes were like a cat's in the dark, alight and vibrant.
“Sweetheart, listen to me. There's no time—he'll be in the study in just a minute. I want you to stay here, right here, and don't move. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“Morgan, promise me. No matter what you see or hear, no matter what you think is happening in that room, you stay here and don't make a sound until you're absolutely sure he's gone. Promise.”
“All right, I promise. But, Alex—”
He kissed her, briefly but with such overwhelming hunger that she felt her knees buckle. “I love you,” he whispered against her lips.
Morgan found herself leaning back among wet ivy, shaken and momentarily confused, wondering if she had really heard him say that. She fought to clear her mind, suddenly more afraid than she'd ever been before, because she had the cold idea that he wouldn't have said it unless he thought he might not get another chance.
Her promise kept her silent, and by the time she could gather her thoughts, he had swiftly and skillfully opened the French doors and gone into the house. He'd left the door just barely ajar; she'd be able to hear what went on in the study. From her position she could see him as he moved draperies aside to the right of the door and reached up a gloved finger to punch numbers on a keypad.
The security system, she realized vaguely. He knew the codes? Well, of course he did. He was Quinn.
Then he moved away from the doors, and Morgan shifted around carefully until she could—just barely—see into the room. With the lamplight in there, and the darkness of the foggy terrace, she knew she was invisible to anyone in the room, but she was wary enough to keep her body back and just peer around the edge.
Quinn, his expression perfectly calm and that inner tension she had felt completely hidden, was standing by a fireplace where a dying fire crackled softly. He was still wearing his gloves, and the black ski mask was tucked into his belt. He looked across the room when the hall door opened and another man walked in, and he said with faint impatience, “You're late. If your man did his job, all the guards in the museum should be passing out in another hour.”
Morgan was a bit startled by his voice; it wasn't the one she was accustomed to hearing from him. Quicker, sharper, faintly accented, and subtly vicious, it was the voice of a man who could easily be a world-famous criminal.
Leo Cassady, also dressed all in black, walked to his desk and bent forward to study a set of plans laid out there. His handsome face was hard and expressionless. “We have plenty of time,” he said flatly. “The gas cartridges are set to fire at one-thirty, and we can be at the museum long before then.”
“I don't want to take any chances,” Quinn insisted. “We have to cut the power in case one of the guards realizes he's being gassed and gets to the alarm. Even though we've been tripping alarms and shorting out electrical systems all over the city for a week, that's no guarantee Ace will automatically assume there's another glitch in one of their systems.”
So that's why so many museums have been having problems, Morgan realized.
“We have plenty of time,” Leo repeated. Then, head still bent over the plans, he said, “Tell me something, Alex.”
“If I can.”
“Why don't you carry a gun?”
Quinn laughed shortly. “For two very good reasons. Because armed robbery carries a stiffer