Free Always a Thief by Kay Hooper Page B

that at least half the female eyes in the crowded ballroom were fixed on him.
    The other half just hadn't seen him yet.
    “Oh, Christ,” she murmured.
    Quinn lifted her drink from her hand and set it on a nearby table. “As I believe I told you once before, Morgana—not nearly,” he said nonchalantly.
    As he led her out onto the dance floor, Morgan told herself she certainly didn't want to make a scene. That was why she wasn't resisting him, of course. And it was also why she fixed a pleasantly noncommittal smile on her face despite the fact that her heart was going like a trip-hammer.
    “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a low, fierce voice.
    “I'm dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room,” he replied, suiting action to words as he drew her into his arms and began moving to the music, which was slow and dreamy.
    Morgan refused to be flattered, and she kept her arms too stiff to allow him to pull her as close as he obviously wanted to. She was wearing a nearly backless black evening gown, and the sudden remembrance of just how much of her bare skin was showing made her feel self-conscious for the first time.
    Not that she wanted
him
to know that, of course.
    “Would you please shed your Don Juan suit and get serious?” she requested.
    He chuckled softly, dancing with grace and without effort. “That was the bald truth, sweet.”
    “Yeah, right.” Morgan sighed and couldn't help glancing around somewhat nervously, even though she kept the polite smile pasted to her lips and made sure her voice was low enough to escape being overheard. “Look, there are a dozen private guards watching over Leo Cassady's collection, and at least one cop here as a guest. Surely you aren't thinking—”
    “You're the one who isn't thinking, Morgana.” His voice was low as well, but casual and unconcerned. “I prefer the secrecy of darkness and the anonymity of a mask, remember? Besides that, it would be rude in the extreme; I would never think of relieving our host of his valuables. No, I am simply here as a guest—an invited guest. Alexander Brandon at your service, ma'am. My friends call me Alex.”
    As she danced automatically and gazed up at him, Morgan reminded herself of several things. First,
Quinn
was only a nickname, a pseudonym for a faceless thief that had been coined years before. Alexander was certainly his real first name—she believed that much since he'd been practically on his deathbed when he'd admitted it—but since he and Jared Chavalier were brothers, the name of Brandon was undoubtedly no more than a cover for whatever he was up to.
    Second, if Quinn was here in Leo Cassady's home by invitation, someone must have vouched for him. Max, perhaps? He was really the only one who could have, she thought. Maxim Bannister was probably the only man Leo would trust enough to admit a stranger to his home.
    And, third, Morgan reminded herself of just
how tangled this entire situation had become. The
Mysteries Past
exhibit had opened to the public today, Saturday, and it had been a rousing success. But the priceless collection was bait for a trap to catch a very dangerous thief, and Quinn was supposedly helping.
    Supposedly.
    “You dance divinely, Morgana,” Quinn said with his usual beguiling charm, smiling down at her. “I knew you would. But if you'd only relax just a bit—” His hand exerted a slight pressure at her waist in an attempt to draw her closer.
    “No,” she said, resisting successfully without losing the rhythm of the dance.
    His smile twisted a bit, though his wicked green eyes were alight with amusement. “So reluctant to trust me? I only want to obey the spirit of this dance and hold you closer.”
    Morgan refused to be seduced. It was almost impossible, but she refused. “Never mind the spirit. You're holding me close enough.”
    Those roguish eyes dropped to briefly examine the low-cut neckline of her black evening gown, and he said wistfully, “Not nearly close enough