Always a Thief Part 19

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. 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. 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.

Without vanity, Morgan knew she looked good in in the deceptively simple robe. The color suited her, and the s.h.i.+mmering material clung to her body in all the right places. She couldn't help smiling a little as she tied the belt at her waist, remembering last night's sweats.h.i.+rt and pants-and the fuzzy slippers. Talk about from the ridiculous to the sublime! the deceptively simple robe. The color suited her, and the s.h.i.+mmering material clung to her body in all the right places. She couldn't help smiling a little as she tied the belt at her waist, remembering last night's sweats.h.i.+rt and pants-and the fuzzy slippers. Talk about from the ridiculous to the sublime!

Barefoot, she padded out into the living room. Empty, with music videos playing quietly on the television. She continued on to the kitchen and there found Quinn, his back to her, busy preparing what looked like an appetizing brunch of pancakes with fruit. Since he'd helped in the kitchen while recovering from his wound, Morgan wasn't surprised by his skill. And he was wearing jeans and a white s.h.i.+rt, some of his own clothes that had been left behind here weeks ago.

She knew very well that his still being here today was a good sign; she had half expected him to leave before she awakened. But Morgan refused to let herself attach too much importance to that. One step at a time, that's the way to go One step at a time, that's the way to go.

"Hi," she greeted him casually.

He looked over his shoulder at her, mouth opening to say something that never got said. Instead, he stared at her for a moment, brilliant green eyes scanning her from bare toes to gleaming hair, then turned a dial on the griddle, set the spatula on the counter beside it, and came to her.

Somewhat breathlessly a few moments later, she said, "I always forget how big you are until I'm standing close to you. Why is that?"

"I have no idea." He nuzzled the side of her neck, inhaling slowly. "You smell wonderful."

Her arms up around his neck-and her feet off the floor since he'd lifted her-Morgan murmured something wordless in response and wondered vaguely how his body could feel so hard and yet so pleasur-able against hers. He had both his arms tightly wrapped around her so that she was certain there wasn't a square inch of her front not pressed to his, and since her silk robe was whisper-thin, it felt like only the slight barrier of his clothing separated them.

Then he lifted his head suddenly and frowned, and Morgan felt herself being lowered back to her feet.

"I was enjoying myself," she protested.

He smiled slightly, but the frown remained in his eyes. One hand gently brushed her hair back away from her neck. "Sweetheart, did I do this?"

She didn't feel pain when he touched her very lightly just below her ear, but she knew he was looking at a faint bruise because she'd seen it in the mirror. "No, I think our friend on the fire escape did it. If he hadn't been wearing gloves, you could probably get his thumbprint off me. It was when he was holding that cloth over my face."

Quinn nodded slightly, an expression she couldn't read flaring in his eyes. He lowered his head and kissed her, still as hungry as before but brief. "I heard the shower, so I thought you'd be ready for breakfast."

Morgan smiled at him. "I'm starving. But you turned the griddle up instead of down, and the pancakes are burning."

Swearing rather creatively, he released her and hastily went back to the counter to pry smoldering pancakes off the griddle. Morgan turned on the exhaust fan over the stove, hoping to avoid having the smoke detector outside her bedroom door go off, then opened the kitchen window for good measure. A cool breeze wafted in obediently, and the smoke dissipated before it could do any harm.

"I'm glad I made extra batter," he commented ruefully as he dumped blackened pancakes into the trash can. "I must have known you'd come in here looking like Helen of Troy when she launched all those s.h.i.+ps."

"You sweet-talker, you," Morgan said.

Stirring his batter, Quinn sent her a smile. "Tell me something, Morgana. Do you believe anything I say?"

"'Bout half," she conceded mildly as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "I'd consider myself in serious need of therapy if I believed more than that."

He chuckled, but then sent her another glance, this one more sober. "Regrets?"

Remembering what he'd said about what could happen if they became lovers without trust, she shook her head and smiled at him. "No, no regrets. I knew what I was doing."

For a moment he concentrated on his cooking, expertly flipping the golden pancakes. Then, softly, he said, "We were both reckless."

Having realized this discussion would take place, Morgan was ready for it and responded calmly. "If you mean birth control, it's all right. My doctor put me on the pill a couple of years ago for an irregular cycle."

He looked at her, very direct. "You don't have to worry about anything else."

"Neither do you." Leaning back against the counter, she conjured a rather regretful smile. "It's become a dangerous world, hasn't it? Even in the bedroom."

Quinn leaned over and kissed her, gently this time. "It always was, sweetheart. The only difference is that now the dangers aren't so obvious-and too often tend to be potentially fatal."

"Yeah. Sometimes it's the pits being a grown-up," Morgan observed. But then, being a naturally optimistic woman, her absent attention fixed on him as he turned the pancakes onto two plates, and her gaze wandered over his broad shoulders, down his back to his lean waist, and then to his narrow hips and long legs. He looked awfully good in jeans, she reflected. Only half aware of making the sound, she sighed. "Then again . . . sometimes it's not bad at all."

Her thoughts must have been obvious from her voice, because he smiled without looking at her and murmured, "You're a wicked woman, Morgana."

Somewhat dryly, she said, "No, just human." Then she refilled their coffee cups and helped him transfer the food to her small kitchen table.

It wasn't until later, when they were finished with the meal and had cleaned up the kitchen, that Morgan somewhat cautiously turned their casual conversation in a more serious direction. "Alex . . . you aren't going to tell me who Nightshade is?"

He had followed her into the living room, and when she asked the question he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. "We've talked about this, Morgana. If you came face-to- face with a man you knew was Nightshade, could you trust yourself not to react to that knowledge?"

"I suppose not." She looked up at him steadily. "But I would like to know how badly I screwed things up by climbing that fire escape last night."

He hesitated only an instant. "Hardly at all-if I can persuade Nightshade that you were going up there to visit Alex Brandon, with no idea I'm also Quinn." I can persuade Nightshade that you were going up there to visit Alex Brandon, with no idea I'm also Quinn."

"Why would I think I could find Alex on a rooftop somewhere around midnight?"

"Help me think of a reason, will you? The last thing I want is for Nightshade to start wondering if you know I'm Quinn. Because, once he does that, he might also wonder why a woman of well-known honesty and integrity such as yourself would be keeping quiet about that."

"And smell a trap?"

"I would, in his place."

Morgan bit her bottom lip for a moment, then eased back away from him and went to sit down-in the chair rather than on the couch. She had trouble thinking clearly when he touched her, and she wanted to think about this.

Quinn sat down at the end of the couch nearest her chair, watching her gravely.

"Alex . . . he he knows you're Quinn. I mean, he knows that Alex Brandon is Quinn." There was a faint question in her voice, even though she was sure she was right about this. knows you're Quinn. I mean, he knows that Alex Brandon is Quinn." There was a faint question in her voice, even though she was sure she was right about this.

"He knows."

"Then I don't understand. He knows you're Quinn, and you know he's Nightshade-and you're both wanted by the police in several countries. You're both eyeing Mysteries Past Mysteries Past because the Bannister collection is something any thief would want-and each of you knows about the other's interest in it. How does that add up to a trap?" because the Bannister collection is something any thief would want-and each of you knows about the other's interest in it. How does that add up to a trap?"

Quinn hesitated, then sighed. "Actually, it's more like a sting. I knew that Nightshade would be at least a little reluctant to go after the Bannister collection on his own, no matter how badly he wants it."

"Why?"

"For one thing, he isn't technically adept. At least not at the level required to breach a cutting-edge security system."

Morgan was beginning to feel a little queasy. "Which you knew going in."

"Yes."

"Alex, are you telling me that you-that Nightshade needs a partner in order to go after the Bannister collection? And that you're it?"

"Yes."

Morgan put her elbows on her knees and covered her face with both hands.

Quinn cleared his throat. "Needless to say, the others don't know about that part. Not even Jared."

"Oh, needless to say,"she mumbled through her fingers. She dropped her hands and stared at him. "Because if they did did know, they'd kill you." know, they'd kill you."

"That was why I didn't tell them."

"Jesus, Alex."

"Morgana, it'll work. It's already working. It's well known that state-of-the-art electronic security systems are favorites of mine. My specialty, as it were. Nightshade might be able to get inside the museum-but not inside the exhibit. Not without me and the knowledge and skills I can provide. I've spent quite a bit of time and considerable effort convincing him of that fact."

Morgan tried to keep her mind on the logistics of the situation and off her anxiety. "Okay. But why couldn't Quinn go after the collection alone? I mean, why would Quinn need Nightshade?"

"Several reasons," he answered willingly enough. "As you pointed out yourself, the States are . . . unfamiliar ground to Quinn. Even a thief who apparently acts alone has to have contacts: inside sources or informants with reliable information, trustworthy people to provide supplies and equipment, some quick and safe means of transportation once the job is done. All my contacts are in Europe-and I'd have a h.e.l.l of a time transporting the collection back there. But I came here anyway because, as you say, the Bannister collection is irresistible.

"So . . . when I stumble across another thief while casing the museum, I make it a point to follow him until I know who he is. He's naturally upset that I was able to find him, but I make it clear I don't particularly care who he is and that I have no intention of either exposing him or horning in on his territory. No, I'm going to go back to Europe-but I want very badly to take one piece of the Bannister collection with me."

"The Bolling?" she guessed.

Quinn smiled slightly. "Are you kidding? That b.l.o.o.d.y thing's got a curse on it. Every time it's been stolen in its long and colorful history, it's brought disaster to the thief."

Startled, she said, "I didn't know that was the curse."

"Oh, yes, and it's well doc.u.mented. The diamond came into the hands of the Bannisters somewhere around 1500-legitimately. A gentleman named Edward Bannister found the uncut and unpolished stone lying in a streambed in India. Just lying right out in the open."

"Talk about luck," Morgan said, perfectly aware that Quinn was deliberately trying to distract her. What she wasn't certain of was whether she was going to let him get away with it.

"Yeah. Anyway, he had the stone polished-not faceted-and gave it as a betrothal present to his bride. The first attempt to steal it actually occurred during their honeymoon, and the would-be thief broke his neck trying to escape out a window. Rumor has it that Edward stood over the body wearing nothing but a sheet grabbed in haste from the connubial bed and promptly declared to all present that the diamond was obviously fated to belong to his family and would henceforth be considered an amulet. Then he christened the stone the Bolling diamond."

"Why Bolling?"

Quinn smiled. "Well, Edward couldn't call it the Bannister diamond, because he already had one with that moniker. So he had to think of something else. And it seems he possessed a somewhat ironic sense of humor. The thief who broke his neck trying to steal the stone went by the name of Thomas Bolling."

"And the stone he couldn't steal would forever wear his name. That is ironic. And it's a strange kind of fame."

"Thomas Bolling would probably be pleased; from all accounts, he was both stupid and somewhat depraved and likely would have pa.s.sed through history unknown if not for his encounter with that pretty yellow diamond."

Morgan eyed Quinn. "Are you sure sure you aren't making this up? It spins very readily off your silver tongue." you aren't making this up? It spins very readily off your silver tongue."

"I swear. Ask Max."

"Mmm. Okay, so then what happened?"

"Well, by uttering what he most likely thought would be a warning that would ward off superst.i.tious thieves at least, old Edward appears to have laid a solid foundation for the curse. Maybe fate was listening. Or maybe there simply followed a very long string of amazingly unlucky thieves. In any case, the Bolling diamond began to build quite a reputation. In those days, the stone probably weighed at least a hundred carats and likely more, so it was quite a target. And later on, when it was faceted and eventually set into the pendant, it was so breathtaking that few could resist the lure of it.

"During the next four hundred years, there were dozens of attempts to steal it, some of them remarkably ingenious. But n.o.body could successfully get it away from the Bannister family. Without exception, all the thieves died-most in decidedly painful ways. A few were caught and died in prison, but all of them died because of that stone."

Morgan s.h.i.+vered a little. She had never been a superst.i.tious woman, but the story definitely unnerved her. No doubt because she was in love with a jewel thief. She cleared her throat and said a bit fiercely, "You stay away from that thing."

He smiled and moved suddenly, sliding off the couch and onto his knees in front of her chair. Before she could do anything, his hands were on her knees, easing them apart. She caught her breath as warm fingers stroked her outer thighs, then slid upward very slowly, under the silk of her robe, until they could cup her bottom and pull her toward him.

"I'm not going to steal the Bolling, Morgana," he murmured, his eyes heavy-lidded and intense. He kissed the side of her neck, then her throat when her head fell back against the chair cus.h.i.+on. His lips trailed slowly down along the V of silky flesh exposed by the robe's lapels, and his voice grew hoa.r.s.e. "It's the Talisman emerald I'm after."

Morgan slid her fingers into his thick pale-gold hair and tugged gently, frowning at him a bit dazedly when he looked at her. He was distracting her, dammit. "You're after after?"

"I mean-it's the Talisman emerald that Nightshade thinks thinks I'm after. Can we talk about this later?" He caught her lower lip delicately between his teeth, nibbling, then he was kissing her with unhidden hunger. I'm after. Can we talk about this later?" He caught her lower lip delicately between his teeth, nibbling, then he was kissing her with unhidden hunger.

He got one hand between them long enough to tug at the belt of her robe, and she felt the garment open up as if it had been designed to slip over heated flesh. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were crushed against his chest, and the feeling of his clothing against her naked skin maddened her.

She wanted him now, right now, that primitive need overwhelming everything else with a suddenness that was dimly terrifying. She didn't realize her hands were tugging at his s.h.i.+rt until she had to lean back a bit to cope with his b.u.t.tons, and then the tautness of his face and the blazing need in his eyes told her that he was as impatient for her as she was for him.

Quinn helped her to get his s.h.i.+rt off and tossed it aside. He unfastened his jeans and pushed them and his shorts down only as far as necessary, and Morgan heard herself cry out in an incoherent sound of pleasure when she felt him inside her.

When the peak came, it was as swift and sharp as the ascent had been. Quinn wrapped his arms around her and held her tight against him, both of them shuddering under the force of the waves of ecstasy that tore through them-and left them with barely the strength to remain upright.

Morgan kept her face buried in the curve of his neck, breathing in the heady male scent of him while her pounding heart slowly returned to its normal steady beat. She didn't want to move or open her eyes. All she wanted to do was hold him like this while he held her and luxuriate in the sensations.

It gradually occurred to her, however, that their positions, while amazingly erotic, were hardly comfortable now that pa.s.sion was temporarily spent. In fact, being Morgan, she was suddenly tempted to giggle. A chair in her living room, for heaven's sake, and in the middle of the day. Even with the carpet, his knees were probably giving him h.e.l.l, and she'd never felt so astonished at herself in her entire life.

He lifted his head suddenly and looked at her, smiling but with fierce eyes. "If you laugh, I swear I'll strangle you," he told her in a voice that was still husky.

Either she had given herself away somehow, she thought, or else the connection between them was growing stronger.

She cleared her throat and tried to stop smiling. "I'm sorry, but I can't help it. I'm not amused because this is funny, I'm just sort of . . . startled. What happened? I mean, one minute we were having a perfectly rational conversation, and the next minute we were . . ."

"Yes, we were. We certainly were." He kissed her, then eased away and pulled his jeans up, zipping them but not bothering to fasten the snap. "Let's do it again."

"Wait a minute." Trying to think clearly because something was bothering her, she tapped the middle of his chest with her index finger in a useless bid to get his full attention. "What you told me about your-your sting. You're over here just to catch Nightshade, that's the plan, right?"

"Mmmm," he agreed, nuzzling her neck.