Always a Thief Read Free

but first-aid training took over as she felt for the carotid pulse in his neck. His heart was beating, but faintly and the rhythm was all wrong; he was going into shock.
    He was far too heavy for her to move.
Keep him warm and elevate his legs,
she told herself with a calm inner voice that came from God-knew-where. She dragged a heavy blanket from her bed and covered him, then lifted his legs carefully until they rested across a low hassock.
    She didn't want to look at the wound but knew she had to, and Quinn's last mumbled words kept ringing hauntingly in her ears. She couldn't call a doctor, because doctors had to report violent wounds to the police, and the police wanted Quinn in the worst way.
    Even so, Morgan knew with absolute certainty that Quinn alive and in jail would forever be her choice over Quinn dead and still an enigma to the police; if she had to make that decision, it was already made.
    She used her sewing scissors and carefully cut his sweater open far enough to expose the wound. She didn't know much about this kind of thing, but she was certain she was looking at a bullet wound. One glance was enough; she made a thick pad of several clean cloths and pressed it gently over the sluggishly bleeding wound, fighting a queasy feeling. But that cool inner voice remained calm inside her head.
    Not so bad. The bleeding's nearly stopped. Unless there's an exit wound
. . . She slipped a hand under his shoulder and didn't know whether she should be relieved that the bullet was still lodged in his body.
It isn't near the heart or lung. I think
.
    “Damn you,” she muttered, hardly aware of speaking aloud. “Don't you die on me, Quinn. Damn you, don't die.”
    Those absurdly long lashes of his lifted and, even now, a gleam of amusement lurked in the darkened green eyes. “If you're going to swear at me,” he said in a voice little more than a whisper, “then . . . at least use my first name.”
    “I don't know it,” she snapped, holding on to her ferocity because she suspected it was the only thing that kept her from falling apart.
    “Alex,” he murmured with the ghost of a laugh.
    Morgan didn't feel any sense of triumph at all, even though she was certain he wasn't lying to her. Alex was his name, his real name, and that knowledge put her several jumps ahead of just about everybody who was chasing Quinn. But she didn't feel any elation because he'd trusted her with the information. She was very much afraid that it might well be along the lines of a deathbed confession. Her voice held steady and grim.
    “You die on me,
Alex,
and I'll hunt your ghost to the ends of the earth.”
    His eyes closed, but a faint chuckle escaped him. “I can save you . . . the search. You're quite . . . likely to find me . . . in the neighborhood . . . of perdition's flame . . . Morgana.”
    She tasted blood and realized she'd bitten her bottom lip. “I have to get a doctor for you—”
    “No. The police. I can't . . . let them put me away . . . not now . . . I'm too close.”
    She didn't know what he was talking about. “Listen to me. You're in shock. You've lost a lot of blood. You have a bullet in you, and it has to come out.” When his eyes opened again, she was even more alarmed by the feverish glitter stirring there. Quickly, she said, “Max. I'll call Max. He'll be able to get a doctor here quietly, without the police having to know.”
    It didn't strike her until much later how wonderfully ironic her solution was: a wounded cat burglar bleeding in her living room, and the only man who might be able to help him was the man who owned a priceless collection that would soon bait a trap designed to catch that cat burglar.
    Ironic? It was insane.
    Quinn looked at her for a long minute, and then a sigh escaped him. Relief, acceptance, regret, or something else—she wasn't sure what it was. But the smile that briefly curved his lips was a strange one, twisted with something other than pain.
    “All right. Call