Always a Thief by Kay Hooper Page A

wet, and hideously uncomfortable, as well as lacking in privacy.
    He'd known they would be interrupted—could easily have arranged it beforehand with Jared, even down to the taut exchange of hostilities.
    Morgan told herself that it was just speculation, there was no proof he meant to make her a part of his cover—but when he cut in neatly to take her away from the gallery owner she'd been dancing with, her suspicions grew. And they grew even more when he managed to hold her far closer than she had allowed during their first dance, so that her hands were on his shoulders and his were on her back.
    “You've been ignoring me, Morgana,” he reproved, smiling down at her.
    He was an intriguing, charming, conniving
scoundrel,
Morgan decided with a building anger that was welcome. Worse, he was a heartless thief who would steal a necklace right off a woman's neck while he kissed her—and if there was anything lower than that, she didn't know what it could be.
    The anger felt so good that Morgan wrapped herself in it, and it was such strong armor that she was able to return his smile with perfect ease, undisturbed by their closeness or by the touch of his warm hands on her bare back. “Oh, since I haven't been told how well I'm supposed to know you, I thought it best. We
have
just met tonight, right?”
    “Yes—but it must have been love at first sight,” he said soulfully.
    “I see.” Morgan allowed her arms to slip up around his neck, turning the dance into something far more intimate than even he had intended. She veiled her eyes with her lashes, fixing them on his neat tie, and made her smile seductive. “You should have told me.” She thought her voice was seductive as well, but there must have been something there to give her away, because Quinn didn't buy the act.
    He was silent for a moment or so while they danced, then cleared his throat and said in a matter-of-fact voice, “You're mad as hell, aren't you?”
    Her lashes lifted as she met his wary eyes, and she knew her own were probably, as he'd once observed, spitting rage just like a cat's. In a silken tone, she said, “I passed mad as hell about an hour ago. You don't want to know what I am now.”
    “I'm rather glad you aren't armed, I know that much,” he murmured.
    She let him feel several long fingernails gently caress the sensitive nape of his neck. “Don't be too sure I'm not armed.”
    “I've said it before, I know, but you look magnificent when you're angry, Morgana.” He smiled at her, this one seemingly genuine, amused—and a bit sheepish. And his deep voice was unusually sincere when he went on. “If you like, I'll stop right here in front of God and San Francisco and apologize on bended knee. I'm a cad and a louse, and I should have asked for your help instead of trying to use you. I'm sorry.”
    It was a totally disarming apology, and Morgan wasn't surprised to feel her rage begin to drain away. Irritably, she said, “Well, why didn't you?”
    “I thought you'd say no,” he replied simply.
    Still angry and glad of it, she said, “Being asked is a damned sight better than being used.”
    “Yes. I know.”
    “Good. Then you'll know why I'm pissed.” Quite deliberately, Morgan freed herself from his embrace and walked off the dance floor.
    This time Storm met her in the powder room, and the blonde was obviously highly entertained. “Okay, you clearly won that round,” she said with a laugh. “Public rejection, and with flair too.”
    Morgan laughed despite herself as she sat down before the vanity. “He deserved it, the rotten louse. He thinks he can pull
my
strings, I'll be happy to prove him wrong.”
    Storm, whom no one had ever accused of being slow on the uptake, pursed her lips as she sat down beside her friend and said, “So the earlier scene out on the terrace was more . . . um . . . contrived than it seemed?”
    “A lot more contrived. Guess who's just fallen head-over-heels in love with the director of the
Mysteries