“Wow! Kara Lennox’s BLOND JUSTICE series has it all—smart, determined heroines, ya-gotta-love-’em macho heroes, taut suspense and romance that will steam your glasses while it melts your heart. Each book is a winner; together they’re pure magic.”

—Bestselling author Merline Lovelace

Dear Reader,

I often write about heroines who are slightly offbeat, but Brenna Thompson, my debutante-in-denial, takes the cake. Perhaps that’s because she’s a lot like me—petite, unconventional, creative. I even gave her my hair (which is currently in blond spikes), my former downtown loft and my love for silver charms. (Unlike Brenna, however, I’m not an heiress, darn it.)

Who better to match up with Brenna than uptight FBI special agent Heath Packer, who would never dream of breaking the rules. Or would he? I’ll just tell you that Heath isn’t all he first appears to be.

I hope you have fun with Brenna and Heath as they continue the search for con man Marvin Carter, which began in Hometown Honey (HAR #1068). This story will take you on a wild romp from Cottonwood, Texas, to New Orleans, Dallas and finally New York. I don’t want to give too much away, but vengeance is sweet, and it involves an ice sculpture and an empty elevator shaft.

All my best,

Downtown Debutante

Kara Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Texas native Kara Lennox has been an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has made her happier than writing romance novels.

When not writing, Kara indulges in an ever-changing array of weird hobbies. (Her latest passions are treasure hunting and creating mosaics.) She loves to hear from readers. You can visit her Web page and drop her a note at www.karalennox.com.

Books by Kara Lennox

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

934—VIXEN IN DISGUISE*

942—PLAIN JANE’S PLAN*

951—SASSY CINDERELLA*

974—FORTUNE’S TWINS

990—THE MILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR

1052—THE FORGOTTEN COWBOY

1068—HOMETOWN HONEY†

My gratitude to FBI Special Agent

Jennifer Coffindaffer for her help with researching

FBI procedures. Any mistakes are mine.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Prologue

Brenna Thompson drew herself deeper into the down comforter, trying to reclaim the blessed relief of sleep. But instead of drifting back down, she awoke with a jolt and smacked into hard reality. She was stranded in Cottonwood, Texas, without a dime to her name, her entire future hanging by a thread.

And someone was banging on her door at the Kountry Kozy Bed & Breakfast.

Wearing only a teddy, she slid out of bed and stumbled to the door. “I told you to take the key,” she said grumpily, opening the door, expecting to see Cindy, her new roommate. “What time is it, any—” She stopped as her bleary eyes struggled to focus. Standing in the hallway was a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit, a blindingly white shirt and a shimmering blue silk tie. He was at least a foot taller than Brenna’s own five foot three, and she had to strain her neck to meet his cool, blue-eyed gaze. Another man stood behind the first, but he was in shadow—like he was trying to be in the background.

In a purely instinctual gesture, she slammed the door in his face. My God, she was almost naked. A stranger in a suit had seen her almost naked. Her whole body flushed, then broke out in goose bumps.

The knock came again, softer this time, but firm.

“Uh, just a minute!” She didn’t have a robe. She wasn’t a robe-wearing sort of person. But she spied a robe belonging to Sonya, her other roommate, lying at the foot of her bed. The white silk garment trailed the floor, the sleeves hanging almost to Brenna’s fingertips—Sonya was tall—but at least it sort of covered her.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door again. “Yes?”

Still there. Still just as tall, just as imposing, just as—handsome. Not her type, she thought quickly. But there was a certain commanding presence about this stranger that made her stomach swoop and her palms itch.

“Brenna Thompson?”

Deep voice. It made all her hair follicles stand at attention.

“Yes, that’s me.” He didn’t smile, and a frisson of alarm wiggled through her body. “Is something wrong? Oh, my God, did something happen to someone in my family?”

He hesitated fractionally. “No. I’m Special Agent Heath Packer with the FBI. This is Special Agent Pete LaJolla.”

The other man stepped closer and nodded a greeting. They both looked as if they expected to enter.

Brenna glanced over her shoulder. The room was a complete wreck. Every available surface was covered with clothes and girlie stuff, not to mention baby things belonging to Cindy’s little boy. Even fastidious Sonya’s bed was unmade. Sonya was used to servants doing that sort of thing for her.

Special Agent No. 1 didn’t wait for her consent. He eased past her into the room, his observant gaze taking everything in.

“If you’d given me some warning, I could have tidied up,” she groused, pulling the robe more tightly around her. She hadn’t realized how thin the fabric was.

Mustering her manners, Brenna cleared off a cosmetics case and a pair of shoes from the room’s only chair. “Here, sit down. You’re making me nervous. And…Agent LaJolla, was it?” She brushed some clothes off Sonya’s twin bed. La Jolla nodded and sat gingerly on the bed while Brenna retreated to her own bed. She sat cross-legged on it, drawing the covers over her legs both for warmth and modesty.

“I assume you know why we’re here,” Packer said, easing his tall frame into the wingback chair. He looked even more masculine, surrounded by chintz and lace and cabbage roses.

“Something to do with Marvin Carter, I would guess. Does this mean someone is finally taking our case seriously? That other FBI guy in Louisiana—Del Roy or whatever his name was—he could hardly be bothered.” Indignation welled up in Brenna’s chest. “Big deal, three dumb blondes lost their life savings. Like, who cares? But I guess that suitcase full of cash caught your attention.” Brenna, Cindy and Sonya, all of them victims of the same con man, had tracked him to Louisiana and flushed him out, with no help from the FBI. As a result, they recovered Cindy’s money—$300,000 in cash—though Marvin himself got away.

While LaJolla studied his fingernails in a bored manner, Packer studied Brenna, and she could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, carefully calculating his answer. “We’d like to hear the facts of the case from you firsthand. And, if you don’t mind…” He pulled a microcassette recorder from his jacket pocket and set it on the tiny table next to the chair. He also brought out a notebook and pen.

“No, I don’t mind.” After he made a few preliminary comments for the tape—date, time, location and who was present—she told him her story, from beginning to end. She started with how the famous art agent “Seneca Dealy” had found her at a neighborhood art fair and had promised to pluck her from obscurity and make her a jeweler to the stars. “He said everything I wanted to hear,” Brenna said. “Starving artists thrive on praise and high hopes, you know.”

“And did you also have a sexual relationship with this Seneca?”

“I’m sure you know I did,” she said testily, her face burning. She wasn’t some virginal prude, easily embarrassed, but neither was she eager to dwell on her stupidity where Marvin was concerned. “I don’t see how the details of that could be any use to you.”

“His behavior is very important,” Packer countered. “I need to know the exact details of how this guy operates.”

“Fine.” She took a deep breath and gave the agent what he’d asked for—exact details. “He’s very good in bed. He always wears a condom. He prefers Trojans. Is that what you want to know?”

LaJolla was trying not to laugh, but Packer dutifully took down every word. “Interesting to know about the condoms. He takes risks in some areas, not in others. Go on.”

She sighed, her anger evaporating. “He wasn’t all bad,” she admitted. “As an artist, sometimes I lack confidence in my abilities. He boosted my self-esteem. Because of him, I got the courage to submit my designs to a committee that runs the IJC show. You know what that is?”

“I’m not familiar with IJC.”

“International Jewelry Consortium. They run the most exclusive jewelry and gem show in the country. Only a select few dealers and designers are invited to exhibit. And they chose me.” She still felt pride glowing inside her every time she thought about that phone call where they’d told her she was in the show. It was the career break she’d been working toward for five years.

“Congratulations,” Packer said politely, though she knew he had no idea what a big deal it was.

“I worked like crazy to get some very special pieces ready for the show,” she continued. “I had some fabulous stones left to me by my grandmother. Anyway, I woke up one morning and everything was gone. Everything. My checking account was empty and so was my trust fund.”

“How did he get to a trust fund?” LaJolla said, speaking up for the first time. “Don’t those have pretty strict security?”

“Well, it wasn’t a real trust fund. I just called it that. It was an account my father put money into every month for my support, because he thought I couldn’t take care of myself. But I never touched it.” She’d planned to donate it to charity someday. See, Dad? I didn’t need your old money after all.

“But you did accept the money,” said Packer.

“Why do you care about that, anyway? It’s gone, that’s what matters.”

“Just trying to get a complete picture,” he said mildly.

She told him the rest of the story—how Sonya, a debutante from Houston, had tracked her down after Marvin wiped her out, and how the two of them had followed a trail of clues to Cottonwood, where they found Cindy. The three spurned and destitute women—The Blondes, or The Blond Posse, as some people in Cottonwood affectionately called them—had pledged to bring Marvin to justice. The last time they’d seen him, he’d been running naked down the main street of a small Louisiana town—humiliated, but free.

When the story wound down, Packer shut off the recorder and packed up as if ready to leave. “So what are you going to do?” Brenna asked.

“We have to check out a few things,” Agent Packer said noncommittally. “We’ll be back in touch.” A look passed between the two agents.

Brenna was pretty sure she knew what it meant. We’ll be back in touch—when hell freezes over. “So I’ll never hear from you again. No one was murdered, no one was kidnapped. Why would the FBI waste its time?”

“Ms. Thompson, I assure you,” Packer said. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”

As he walked out of the room without a backward glance, Brenna pondered his parting shot. Had it been a promise…or a threat?

HEATH PACKER CLIMBED behind the wheel of his dark blue Chrysler LeBaron while Pete LaJolla, a bit out of breath from the short walk, slid into the passenger seat.

“You gonna tell me what that was about? I thought we were going to arrest her.”

Heath started the engine. He made one circuit around Cottonwood’s town square, marveling at the quaintness of it all as he processed what he’d just learned about Brenna Thompson. “She doesn’t know she’s a suspect.”

“Yeah, so?”

LaJolla was an okay guy, but not the brightest bulb in the marquee. “She thinks she got away with her crime. She thinks her parents would be too embarrassed to turn her in.”

“So…if she thinks she’s gotten away with her crime…she’ll get careless?”

Packer nodded. “And she’ll lead us to the Picasso.”

“You think this Marvin person has the painting? Who the hell is Marvin Carter, anyway? And what’s all this about a suitcase full of money?”

“Guess we better find out.”

Brenna Thompson had been a surprise in more ways than one. It wasn’t just her attire, or lack of it, that had thrown Heath off balance. He smiled now as he thought about how she’d looked when she’d opened the door, fuzzy from sleep, her platinum-frosted hair sticking out at odd angles from her head, mascara rings under her eyes. And that body. Small as she was, she had enough curves to inspire a roller-coaster designer. And in that tiny slip of silk she’d been wearing, he’d gotten an eyeful.

But even fully clothed—well, if you could call wearing a transparent robe fully clothed—there’d been a certain quality about her that surprised the hell out of him.

She was cute. Okay, cute and sexy as hell. And what a mouth. Not just the pink, pouty lips, but what had come through them. She seemed as open and honest and unpretentious as a daisy. Certainly not like any fugitive felon he’d ever seen.

“She was kind of hot, huh?” LaJolla commented. Then he watched Heath carefully for a reaction.

Damn. This was an important case. The Thompsons were influential people. If he solved it, if he recovered the stolen painting, maybe he could put the past behind him. Focusing on Brenna Thompson’s sexy mouth wasn’t the place to start.

Heath turned into the alley behind the empty office they’d been using as a surveillance base. “I don’t think she’s anything special.”

Chapter One

It was November, and Heath Packer was sweating. It was only about seventy degrees, a temperature that would have been heaven in any other part of the country. But here in New Orleans, the air was still and the humidity hovering at a hundred percent. Plus, Heath was trapped in a car. Not even the tinted windows totally protected him from the sun’s warming rays.

He’d been surprised when Brenna and Sonya had taken off in the middle of the night. He and LaJolla had gamely followed them all the way to southern Louisiana, where the two women had checked into the humble Magnolia Guest House. He could only assume this trip had something to do with Marvin Carter.

Heath’s research into the Marvin Carter case had yielded lots of fascinating information about Brenna. Since no one else at the Bureau was much interested in Carter—as Brenna had indicated—Heath had taken over the case and combined it with the Thompson case. All indications were that Marvin Carter and Brenna Thompson were partners, while Sonya Patterson and Cindy Lefler Rheems were mere patsies. However, Heath had yet to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

“You haven’t done much surveillance in a warm climate,” observed Grif Hodges, an agent out of New Orleans who’d been brought in on the case, since it was now in their backyard. Mercifully, the humorless LaJolla had gone back to Dallas.

Grif, a New Orleans native, had on gym shorts and a T-shirt. Heath was stuck in his regulation dress shirt and suit pants, his jacket and tie ready in case he had to do anything official.

They’d been parked on this street for an hour, watching Brenna’s room.

Finally, just as Heath was forced to crack the windows or suffocate, the women emerged. Sonya, as always, was dressed to the nines in a silk blouse, a coordinating jacket, slim black pants and spike heels. But it was Brenna who drew his eye. She wore overalls with a pink tank top underneath. Yet even in such shapeless clothing, there was no disguising her full breasts or rounded bottom. As she locked the door, she laughed at something Sonya said.

Heath’s mouth went dry. Who could believe such a perky pixie of a woman could have pulled off a world-class heist? But the evidence couldn’t be more clear.

As the two women headed off on foot toward the French Quarter, Brenna’s gaze swept the street. Heath’s heart almost stopped beating when her eyes fixed on his car, and for a moment he was sure she’d spotted him. But then she looked away and they continued down the sidewalk.

The agents prepared to follow Sonya and Brenna on foot, but the women turned into a tiny café at the end of the block.

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Grif offered. “You see if you can get into their room.”

Adrenaline pumping, Heath quickly located the Magnolia’s manager. The blue-haired lady who ran the guest house took one look at his credentials and had no problem letting him into Brenna’s room.

“I’ll let myself out and lock the door when I’m done,” Heath said in a no-nonsense tone when Madame Blue Hair lingered in the doorway, looking worried.

“What do I tell them if they complain that someone was in their room?” she asked.

“They will never know I was here,” Heath assured her, shooing her out the door. “And I know you won’t tell them, will you?”

The room was small and spartan, with twin beds, a small table and chairs, a battered oak dresser and a noisy window air-conditioning unit. It looked as if each of the women had claimed a bed. The one by the far wall had only one open suitcase on it, a fancy brocade one, partially unpacked. Two matching suitcases were stacked in a corner.

The second bed was covered with wadded-up clothes. A plain black suitcase, also open, overflowed with what looked to be garments selected and rejected. Heath noticed the cream-colored silky tab of fabric peeking out. He couldn’t resist pulling it out, recognizing it as the garment Brenna had been wearing when he’d first confronted her. It was so delicate that he could ball it up and make it disappear inside his fist.

He put it back where he’d found it. He wasn’t here to entertain fantasies. He went through Brenna’s suitcase first, finding nothing but clothing, shoes and toiletries. Next he checked the dresser drawers. The ones on Sonya’s side were filled with neatly folded clothes. Brenna’s were empty. Likewise the closet featured several color-coordinated outfits, dainty sweater sets and tailored pants with designer labels. No clothes that could possibly belong to Brenna.

He checked the bathroom. One set of cosmetics lined up precisely, all the same brand, all looking as if they had just been pulled from the department store display case. On the other side of the sink, mismatched drugstore makeup and toiletries spilled from three different zipper cases.

He checked everywhere. Nothing incriminating. No phone numbers or addresses or mysterious business cards that might explain Brenna’s presence in New Orleans. Definitely no stolen oil paintings.

He went back to Brenna’s suitcase and felt all around the inside. A suspicious thickness caught his attention. He realized there was a hidden zipper that had escaped his notice during the first inspection. He unzipped the secret compartment and reached inside.

Holy cow. Cash, enough to choke a rhinoceros. Now, this was interesting. Brenna had told him that Marvin Carter had stripped her clean, that she was destitute. He quickly counted it. Close to twelve thousand dollars.

He heard footsteps just outside and hastily returned the cash to its hiding place. When someone fitted a key into the door, he did the only thing he could think of—he darted into the closet. This search wasn’t precisely illegal, because the manager had let him in. But it wasn’t a hundred percent defensible, either. Besides, he didn’t want to tip his hand yet. If Brenna knew she was under surveillance, she would never lead him to Marvin Carter and the stolen painting.

The door opened, and he expected to hear the women’s voices. Instead he heard a man say a curt, “Thanks,” and the door closed again. What the hell?

Heath opened the closet door a crack. A wide-shouldered man in a leather jacket had his back to Heath. He was looking around the room, not touching anything. Could Heath possibly be this lucky? Had Marvin Carter just dropped into his lap? If he could capture both him and Brenna, surely one of them would flip on the other.

But when the man turned, Heath could see he looked nothing like the photos he’d seen of Marvin. This guy had shaggy blond hair, a square chin and chiseled cheekbones, nothing like Marvin’s soft features and trim, dark hair.

Unlike Heath, the newcomer spent little time on Brenna’s things, focusing instead on Sonya’s suitcase. He methodically checked the contents, then put everything back just as he found it.

A noise at the door startled the intruder, and he froze. Another key scraped in the lock. This place was Grand Central Station.

Suddenly the blond man wrenched open the closet door and lunged inside, closing the door just as Brenna and Sonya entered.

“I can’t believe you forgot the money,” Sonya was saying. “How embarrassing.”

“I got used to you paying for everything with your Visa,” said Brenna. “At least they didn’t make us wash dishes.”

“Yeah, well, we better return pretty quick with some cash. I didn’t like the way that waiter was looking at us.”

Right about then, the blond man realized he was not alone in the closet. But he displayed unbelievable control, because he didn’t make any noise except for a slightly audible intake of breath.

“Who the hell are you?” Heath whispered, pretty sure the women couldn’t hear him over the drone of the air conditioner.

“I was about to ask the same thing,” the blond man said.

“Wait,” said Sonya. “I’m going to hang this jacket up. I don’t need it.” And she swung open the closet door.

She opened her mouth to scream, but she stopped herself as her shocked gaze locked on the other man. “John-Michael McPhee, what are you doing in my closet?”

Brenna joined her at the closet door, equally surprised. “Agent Packer?”

Heath was going to have to do some fast talking to get himself out of this one. He exchanged a glance with the other man as they both stepped out of the closet. And for one brief moment, he felt they were in sync. Neither of them was supposed to be here, and they’d both been caught. And unless Heath missed his guess, McPhee had some law enforcement training.

He sensed an ally.

And speaking of allies, where was Grif? If he’d been keeping his eye on the women, he would know by now Heath was caught in here. Then he saw a face at the window. Grif caught his eye, smiled and waved, then disappeared. Apparently Grif had read the situation accurately, saw there was no immediate danger and had decided not to interfere.

“Your mother sent me to find you, Sonya,” McPhee began. “You’re supposed to be at Elizabeth Arden.”

Sonya sank onto her bed and folded her arms. “I’m not a child. I can come and go as I please.”

“Not when your mom’s footing the bill, you can’t. She got the Visa statement. There were charges from all over Texas and Louisiana. She was afraid you’d been kidnapped.”

“That does not explain why you broke into my hotel room.”

Brenna pointed at Heath. “And it doesn’t explain what he’s doing here.” She fastened her icy blue eyes on him. “I bet you’re not even FBI.”

Heath quickly produced his Bureau identification, which Brenna inspected thoroughly, as if she would know real credentials from fake ones. “I saw this guy coming into your room,” he improvised. “At first I thought he was your runaway fiancé. I came in thinking I would make an arrest.”

He glanced over at the other man, who amazingly did not contradict him.

“So you’ve been following me,” Brenna said on a rising note.

Heath saw no way out of this. “Yes, I was following you. I thought you might be protecting your fiancé. It’s a perfectly natural assumption. Romeo con men often inspire loyalty in their victims.”

“So you feel you were perfectly justified entering our room without our permission,” Brenna said, looking at first one man, then the other. “We could have you arrested,” she said, jabbing her finger into McPhee’s chest. Then she turned back to Heath. She almost jabbed him, too, then stopped at the last minute, as if she’d thought better of it. “And you. Unless you have a search warrant, I could have your badge.”

The last thing Heath needed was someone trying to get him fired. After his troubles in Baltimore, he was already skating on thin ice. Supervisory Special Agent Fleming Ketcher would have kittens if he knew Heath had been caught in an iffy search.

McPhee, obviously not intimidated by Brenna’s bravado, ignored her and sat on the bed next to Sonya. “I was worried about you, that’s all,” he said, his voice soft. “I really did believe someone might have kidnapped you.”

Sonya was unaffected by his attempt to mollify. “The only person you care about is yourself. If anything happened to me, you’d look pretty bad.”

“Sonya, you know that’s not true. Tell me what’s going on.”

She considered her reply for several long seconds. “Brenna’s an old friend, a sorority sister.” Brenna’s eyebrows flew up, but she said nothing. “Pretty soon I’m going to be an old stodgy married woman,” Sonya continued. “Mother had the wedding under control. I just wanted to have some fun, get it out of my system.”

Sonya was lying through her teeth. It sounded like she hadn’t admitted to anyone she’d been snookered by a con man. In fact, it appeared as if this John-Michael McPhee—a family friend?—and Sonya’s mother believed she was still engaged to Marvin.

Heath wasn’t going to rain on her parade. That was for her to sort out with her family. His concern was Brenna, the depth of whose involvement in Marvin’s various schemes was yet to be determined.

McPhee seemed to be evaluating Sonya’s explanation. But it was hard to tell whether he believed her or not. Finally he said, “Sonya, you need to come home. Your mother’s not well.”

Sonya rolled her eyes. “Mother’s never well. She’s the biggest hypochondriac I’ve ever known.”

“She’s not kidding around this time. She’s in the hospital. She’s…she’s had a heart attack.”

Brenna’s hand went to her mouth in alarm, while Sonya went white as a marble statue. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “Is she okay? John-Michael, tell me the truth.”

“She’s stable. But you need to come home. Now.”

She nodded. “I’ll get packed. Would you wait for me outside, please? I’ll only be a minute.”

McPhee hesitated, then nodded. He stood, gave Heath a skeptical look, then held out his hand. “John-Michael McPhee. Thanks for not shooting me.”

Heath took the proffered hand. “Heath Packer. I usually ask questions first, then shoot.”

As Sonya threw clothes into her suitcase, McPhee headed for the exit. Brenna opened the door for him, giving him an unmistakable warning look. Then she transferred her attention to Heath. “You, too.”

“I need to talk—”

“Get a warrant.”

“Oooookay.” At least she wasn’t on the phone to his boss. Yet. Fleming Ketcher would not find this situation amusing.

ONCE THE INTERLOPING MEN were safely outside and the door closed, Brenna turned to Sonya. “Who is that gorgeous guy?”

Sonya continued packing without looking at Brenna, her movements sharp and ultraefficient. “He’s my bodyguard.”

Brenna couldn’t help it. She laughed. “You have a bodyguard?”

“It’s my mother’s idea. I’ve told you she’s a bit over-protective. After what happened to my father, can you blame her?”

Brenna sobered at the reminder. “So your mother doesn’t know about Marvin being a con man?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. All this time she thought I was chilling out at a spa. I didn’t think she’d worry. I mean, she never looks at her Visa bill. She has a financial manager who pays her bills.”

“You’ll have to tell her now.”

“I suppose.” Sonya looked up, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Brenna, she was so happy. Planning this wedding was the high point of her life. Since I became engaged, she’s talked of nothing but creating the perfect ceremony for the perfect princess bride. I couldn’t take that away from her.”

As flawed as Sonya’s logic was, Brenna understood. After all, she hadn’t told her own parents that her wealthy, suave art-agent fiancé was a big phony. It was a very tough thing, admitting not just that you were a fool, but a destitute one. But at least Brenna’s family hadn’t gotten to the wedding-plan stage.

“I’m sorry to leave you like this,” Sonya said. “I think you should give up the hunt for now. It’s not safe, and Marvin could be dangerous. Or…you could hook up with the FBI agent.”

Brenna snorted. “Yeah, right. He thinks I’m protecting Marvin. Of all the stupid assumptions.”

“He had to make sure,” Sonya said. “He was probably going by the statistics. After all, it would be easy for a naive woman to convince herself there’d been some mistake, that the love of her life hadn’t really stolen from her, that the FBI was in error. Agent Packer has no way of knowing you aren’t one of those women.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him. He sneaked into our room! He was probably looking through our underwear.”

Sonya’s face hardened. “John-Michael is the one who broke in. Agent Packer was just trying to protect us.”

Brenna supposed that was marginally true, at least if she could believe Packer’s story.

“Promise me you won’t try to catch Marvin on your own,” Sonya said. “I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

Under the circumstances, Brenna had no choice. “I promise. Don’t give me another thought. You just go home and take care of your mother.”

Sonya zipped up her last suitcase. “I feel so guilty, making her worry.” She bit her lip. “I probably caused her heart attack.”

“You didn’t know she was ill. Don’t do this to yourself, Sonya.” Brenna went to Sonya and hugged her. Other than coming from wealthy families, the two women didn’t have a lot in common. They never would have sought each other out as friends under ordinary circumstances. But over the past few weeks, they’d shared a lot.

“With Cindy on her honeymoon and me going home,” Sonya said, “I guess The Blond Posse is officially disbanded.”

“I have a feeling we’ll see each other again.” Brenna helped Sonya carry her suitcases out. The bodyguard loaded them all in the trunk of his rental SUV as if they weighed nothing. Packer was nowhere to be seen, the traitor.

At the last minute Brenna took Sonya aside. “How well do you know this guy?”

“Way better than I ever wanted to. We grew up together, though he’s a few years older than me. But Mother hired him as my bodyguard when I was eighteen.”

“I could think of worse fates.” The bodyguard wasn’t hard to look at, but it was Heath Packer who’d caused Brenna’s hormones to jump up and take notice.

“Ugh. Please.” Sonya gave a very un-Sonya-like sneer. Then she gave Brenna a quick parting hug, climbed into the bodyguard’s SUV and was whisked away.

Brenna felt a wave of loneliness. What was she going to do now? Sit back and let the FBI go after Marvin? Yeah, like they’d been so effective up until now. That jerk Packer was wasting his time suspecting her, instead of going after the real criminal.

She supposed she better pay her restaurant check before Willie-the-Cajun-Waiter-from-Hell came after her with his coffee pot.

She returned to her room, pulled a twenty from her stash—at least neither of the room-breakers had found her money—and headed back to the restaurant.

“Hey, Willie,” she called to their surly waiter. “I got the cash.” She waved her twenty at him. “I told you I was good for it.”

Now Willie was all smiles. “Oh, not to worry, miss. Your bill was paid in full.”

“Oh.” Had Sonya—no, the SUV had driven down the street in the opposite direction. Then, somehow, without even seeing him, Brenna knew. She felt a tickle at the back of her neck and turned to see Heath Packer in a booth, eating a bowl of gumbo.

She marched over to the booth and slid in across from him. “So, you’re still here. I suppose you expect me to slobber in gratitude for paying our bill.”

He looked up from his gumbo. “A simple thanks would do.”

She slapped her twenty on the table. “Here. I refuse to be beholden to you.”

“Now there’s no need—”

“How dare you think I’m so stupid that I would protect a guy who totally humiliated me and wiped me out, not to mention the damage he’s done to my reputation? If I don’t show up at that IJC show with my jewelry, my career is over!”

“I have to go with the information I have,” Heath said in an infuriatingly reasonable tone. “Agent Delacroix told me what happened in Faring, Louisiana. Your warning allowed Marvin Carter to escape.”

“That was an accident. He wasn’t supposed to see Cindy peeking in his window. Oh, why am I trying to explain anything to you?” Brenna stole a package of saltines from Heath and opened it.

“Didn’t you just have lunch?” he asked.

“I have a fast metabolism.”

Heath focused on his gumbo for a few minutes. He ate his way around the okra, she noticed. Obviously not a Southern boy.

“So what brought you to New Orleans?” he finally asked after a long, awkward silence.

“Internet sleuthing.” Brenna’s pride over how clever she and Sonya had been warred with her desire not to talk to Packer. Pride won out. “Sonya’s first contact with Marvin was in a chat room, so we figured he might use that MO again. Sure enough, we spotted him in a singles chat room. Different name, but using the same tired lines. He was flirting with a woman called ‘FrenchQuarterChic.’ Before we could learn more, they both dropped off. I discovered he’d downloaded maps of New Orleans from my computer.”

Packer gave Brenna a nod. “Good work.”

“She’s here, all right. And so is he.”

“It’s a pretty big city.”

“I know. But I figure he might try to fence some of the stolen jewelry here. There are a ton of estate jewelers on Royal Street. I looked in the Yellow Pages.”

HEATH HAD TO HAND IT to Brenna. She had a sharp mind. That was a pretty good story she’d cooked up—improbable, but barely believable. She also had quite an appetite. She polished off the last saltine from the cellophane packet, then started eyeing his cornbread muffin.

He pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser and set the muffin on it, pushing it toward her. “Jeez. I’d hate to see you if you missed a meal.”

She dug into the muffin without so much as a thanks.

“So what are your plans?” Heath asked casually.

“I don’t have any. I promised Sonya I wouldn’t track down Marvin Carter on my own. She thinks it might be dangerous, and she doesn’t want to worry about me.”

“And I’m sure you wouldn’t want to worry your old sorority sister.”

Brenna surprised him by laughing. “That was pretty funny. Me, in a sorority. I wonder if Mr. Beefcake Bodyguard bought it?”

“You thought he was good-looking?”

She gave him a sideways look. “Oh, yeah.”

And just what the hell had prompted him to ask a stupid question like that? Heath reminded himself to stick to business. Whom Ms. Brenna Thompson found attractive or unattractive was not his concern.

“Why does Sonya need a bodyguard?” he asked.

“She doesn’t. But her mom’s overprotective because Sonya’s father was murdered when she was ten. Sonya’s all her mother has left.”

A nasty thought occurred to Heath. Had Brenna befriended Sonya to get close to the wealthy Mrs. Patterson? Looking at her now, nibbling at his muffin, he found it hard to suspect her. But that was his job, after all.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t the two of us work together?” This was the plan he and Grif had hastily come up with, now that she was on to their surveillance. Heath would pretend to be her teammate. Since she didn’t know Grif existed, he would continue to observe from a discreet distance to see if Brenna made contact with anyone when she thought no one was looking. Even now, Grif was seated at the opposite end of the restaurant, nursing a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper.

Heath hoped Brenna would make her move soon. Fleming Ketcher was pushing him to make the arrest, and was only marginally convinced that Heath’s plan to give her some line was a better idea.

“I don’t want to work with you,” Brenna said. “I don’t like you. You’re sneaky, and you think I’m a liar, or stupid, or both.”

“I don’t think you’re any of those things.” It was partly the truth. He didn’t think she was stupid. “I’m prepared to believe you really don’t know where Marvin is, and that you’re not protecting him.”

“Well, gee, thanks.”

He needed to convince her they were on the same side. “Listen, Brenna. Even if you don’t like me, I have resources you don’t. I have access to databases and a crime lab. And I can offer you some measure of protection.”

“But why do you need me?” she asked, not unreasonably.

“You can identify both the stolen jewelry and Marvin. All I have are the rough drawings you provided, and a couple of blurry photographs of the perp.”

He could see she was mulling over his words. On second thought, she was mulling over his gumbo. “Do you want something else to eat?”

She waved at Willie the waiter. “Can I have a bowl of that gumbo, please? Large.”

Chapter Two

If this was what FBI agents did all day, Brenna thought, she wondered why she hadn’t applied to the Bureau. She and Heath had spent all afternoon hitting every jewelry store in the French Quarter, checking out the inventory for any sign of Brenna’s stolen pieces, then showing Marvin’s photo to the proprietors asking if anyone had seen him.

No one had.

Still, Brenna was in her element. She lingered over some of the gaudy estate pieces, trying on rings that cost more than she made in a year, imagining how she might reinterpret the designs in her own style.

She also enjoyed watching Heath in his macho FBI role. The suit, the badge, the subtle bulge of his gun in its shoulder holster had seemed a bit out of place in Cottonwood, Texas. But here in New Orleans, the costume afforded him respect. People took him seriously. They listened when he spoke. Some were decidedly afraid of him. And the women, especially, responded to him in an obviously sexual way, even the senior citizens.

She sighed. Respect was one thing she’d never really gotten in her life. As the youngest of six kids, she was the one always craning her neck, looking up to her big brothers and sisters.

Marvin had sensed that lack in her life. He’d known exactly what to say, how to look at her, how to listen to her, to make her believe he valued her as a person and recognized her intelligence and talent.

Intelligence. Right. She’d been a real smart one, letting a weasel into the chicken house.

“Brenna, let’s go,” Heath said impatiently. “We have a lot more shops to check in the French Quarter alone.”

Brenna realized she’d been lost in thought as she gazed at an aquamarine brooch in the shape of a dragonfly. She could do dragonflies, she realized, sleek, modern critters that would look as if they’d lit for an instant on a scarf or jacket lapel, shimmering with pavé diamonds.

She shook her head to clear it. “Sorry. Can we stop and get something to eat?”

“Two lunches weren’t enough?”

“It’s almost four o’clock. Teatime. Come on, I’ll treat,” she said as they cut through the colorfully named Pirate’s Alley to Jackson Square, where the living mosaic of sidewalk artists, musicians and mimes took Brenna’s breath away.

Heath seemed not to notice any of it. Not even a child doing an energetic soft-shoe dance while another little boy played the banjo could coax a smile out of the stoic agent.

Brenna tossed a few coins into the kids’ banjo case. Then she spotted the Café du Monde, which she’d just read about in a brochure at the Magnolia Guest House.

“This way.” She could already smell the rich coffee and chicory, not to mention the beignets.

“How are you going to treat?” Heath asked. “I thought you were broke.”

“I have a little bit of money,” she hedged. She didn’t want to tell him about the twelve thousand dollars in the lining of her suitcase. With Cindy eloping to Italy for her honeymoon, she would never be able to prove where she’d gotten so much cash.

They lucked out and found a table near the edge of the café, where people-watching was at its best. Brenna dug into her order of beignets, which were light-as-a-cloud, doughnutlike pastries drowning in powdered sugar. They melted in her mouth—she’d never tasted anything so exquisite. She polished hers off in no time, washing them down with the rich coffee, then noticed Heath had only taken a couple of bites of his.

“Don’t you like the beignets?”

He made a face. “Too sweet.”

“There’s no such thing as too sweet.” She batted her eyelashes at him, which had the desired effect. He pushed his plate toward her.

“Go for it.”

“Thanks.” As she savored the last few bites of pure fat and carbs, she pondered her new partner. She was grateful he’d joined forces with her. The prospect of abandoning her pursuit of Marvin had depressed her. But Heath Packer wasn’t nearly as much fun as Sonya and Cindy had been. At least with Sonya she could dish about men and clothes and makeup. And Cindy had been just plain fun, with her baby and her puppy and her straightforward way of talking and looking at things.

Heath hardly said a word. He was always at attention, those blue eyes of his darting around on constant alert, as if bad guys were going to accost them at any second.

They would have a lot more fun if he would loosen up a little.

“So where are you from?” she asked. “I know you’re not from Texas because of the way you talk, but I can’t quite place the accent.”

“Most recently from Baltimore.”

“What brought you to Dallas? That’s where you work out of, right? Dallas?”

“I was transferred there.”

“Why? Was it something you requested, or does the FBI move people around arbitrarily?”

“It was a mutual decision.”

Brenna’s nose quivered. She sensed a story there. “I bet there’s a woman involved.”

He looked at her sharply. “What makes you say that?”

“Men don’t just move halfway across the country for no reason. So, you’re running to something or away from something. I doubt it’s anything work related, since you appear to be conscientious about your job. So it must be a woman.”

He gave her a look that said she was out of her tree, but he neither confirmed nor denied.

“Okay, I won’t pry. I’ve never been to Baltimore. Is it nice?”

“Yeah, it’s a nice city. Pretty harbor. Nice old row houses. Fancy ballpark.”

“But not your hometown.”

“What makes you say that?”

“There’s no passion in your voice. If you’d been born and raised there, you’d either love it or hate it.”

He took his time responding, but he finally did. “St. Louis.”

Brenna snapped her fingers. “Of course. You’ve got a midwestern accent, which to me sounds like no accent at all. I spent four years in Kansas City, at the Art Institute. I should have guessed.”

“You went to the Kansas City Art Institute?” He seemed surprised.

“I not only went there, I graduated,” she said proudly. It was her one tangible success, her single piece of evidence that she wasn’t a complete screwup. Her parents hadn’t come to her graduation. They hadn’t understood what a big deal it was. They thought art school was insignificant compared to law school or business school.

She and Heath lapsed into another silence, and Brenna flipped through a jewelry magazine she’d picked up at one of the stores they’d visited. Suddenly she stopped turning pages. Her heartbeat accelerated. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Heath looked around, his right hand reaching inside his jacket for his gun.

“Back down, there, Mr. FBI man. It’s not a physical threat. Take a look at this.” She turned the magazine around and showed him the ad that had so captured her attention.

“Synthetic emeralds by mail?”

“Not that ad, this one.” She tapped impatiently on the one she meant. “Big gem-and-bead show. This weekend, right here in New Orleans. If I were wanting to unload some hot jewelry fast, that’s where I’d do it.”

“You think Marvin will be there?”

“I’d bet on it. It’s one of those shows where anybody with the money for a booth can exhibit anything they want.”

“We’ll go, then. The doors open this evening.” He paused, regarding her thoughtfully. “How come you didn’t know about this show before? You’re in the business.”

She shrugged. “There are so many shows these days I can’t keep track. Besides, once I got accepted to the IJC show, I totally forgot about everything else. I needed all the time I had to get ready for New York. I get a ton of jewelry-trade magazines, but I haven’t cracked one in weeks.”

“Guess Marvin blew your chances to make a big splash in New York, huh?”

She sighed. “I’ve been thinking about it. If I pull out of the show, they’ll probably never invite me to come back. The IJC is run by a bunch of snobs—cream-of-the-crop designers who want to protect their own positions as top dogs. On the other hand, if I show up with a less-than-stellar collection, they’ll also never ask me back.”

“So there’s no way out?”

“I have to find the stolen jewelry.” The more she talked, the more depressed she felt about her situation. “Let’s keep working the stores. Somebody, somewhere in this town knows Marvin.”

HEATH DIDN’T KNOW what to think about Brenna. Her parents hadn’t mentioned anything about a degree from the Kansas City Art Institute, and it hadn’t shown up on a background check. That was a pretty decent school. The way the elder Thompsons had presented Brenna, she’d sounded like a dabbler, a hobbyist. But she didn’t strike him as that way now.

Then again, what did he know about the jewelry trade?

Fueled by caffeine and sugar, Heath and Brenna visited several more jewelers. But Brenna’s enthusiasm waned as afternoon wore into evening. No one recognized Marvin, and there was no sign of the stolen loot.

“Are you ready to go back to your hotel?” Heath asked.

“Yeah. My feet are killing me. Where are you staying? Somewhere fancy? Our tax dollars at work?”

“Actually, I’m in the room next door to yours.” But he would probably spend most of the night in his car, alternating shifts with Grif—who was, speak of the devil, sitting down at a table uncomfortably close, his ubiquitous newspaper in hand. Brenna’s back was to Grif, so he grinned and waved at Heath.

Heath suppressed his urge to grin back. Grif was a good guy, fresh out of the academy and still having fun with the job. Heath sighed quietly, remembering when he was like that.

“Gee, and I was going to offer to let you sleep in Sonya’s bed,” Brenna said breezily. “Without Sonya, I mean. Since she’s gone. We could have split the cost of the room.”

Heath’s breath caught in his throat. Share a room with Brenna? Oh, yeah, that would be a smart move.

“Why would you offer me a place to sleep? I thought you didn’t like me.”

She batted her eyelashes in that flirty way she had that was starting to drive him crazy. “Well, I would like to know whether you wear that tie to bed.”

He knew she was flirting to throw him off balance. He clearly wasn’t her type. Her father had said she usually dated “long-haired artistic hippie types.”

“I don’t think the Bureau would go for me sharing a room with a…with a crime victim and potential witness.” Damn, he’d almost used the word suspect.

“Probably just as well you have your own room.” She grinned. “Staying with me, you’d be overwhelmed by my potent sexuality.”

She probably had no idea how close to the truth she was.

BRENNA STOPPED OFF at her room to change clothes. The weather in Cottonwood, Texas, had been briskly cool when she and Sonya had taken off last night, but it had degenerated into a muggy eighty degrees in southern Louisiana, unusually warm for November even in New Orleans. Her tank top was damp. She thought about taking a shower, then decided she was too hungry. She’d been ravenous the past few days, even for her.

Heath had suggested she go incognito to the jewelry show, in case Marvin was actually there. The last thing they wanted to do was spook him. She didn’t really think Marvin would be dumb enough to show his face at such a public event when he knew he was wanted. He would con someone else—perhaps Miss FrenchQuarterChic—to sell his stuff. Still, after donning a black denim miniskirt and a purple crop top, she tucked her frosted hair into a baseball cap and put on a pair of nonprescription glasses with pale purple lenses, which she sometimes used as eye protection when working with her jewelry. She slid her feet into a pair of platform sandals and freshened her strawberry lip gloss, then left the room.

Heath was waiting for her. Still in his suit. She thought his eyes shone with a strange light when he first looked at her, but then it disappeared—if it was ever there.

“Oh, you look real unobtrusive,” she said. “Only maybe four out of five people would guess you were a cop in the first thirty seconds.”

He arched one eyebrow at her. “And I suppose you dressed to blend in? Good Lord, have you never heard of a neutral color?”

“I don’t own neutral colors. And I’ve never been the kind to blend. You don’t think the hat and glasses are enough? As long as Marvin doesn’t get a close look at me, I should be fine.”

Heath looked doubtful about that, but he didn’t make her change. They set out toward the New Orleans Convention Center, which was on the river just west of the French Quarter and fortunately only a few blocks from their guest house.

“Where should we go for dinner?” Brenna asked brightly.

“You’re hungry again?”

“Those beignets were mostly air. Anyway, you must be starving. Hey, how about that place?” She pointed to a dimly lit bar with a corner doorway that looked as if it hadn’t changed for fifty years. Smoky jazz filtered out into the street.

“Big Daddy’s Oyster Bar?”

“It looks like the sort of place that’s not written up in the tourist guides.”

“There’s probably a reason it’s not written up,” Heath said dubiously.

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure? This place is just overflowing with local color.”

They entered the dark, smoky bar, which listed every kind of oyster dish imaginable on a chalkboard menu as well as boiled crawfish, fried catfish and a bunch of dishes Brenna didn’t even recognize.

“Just have a seat any ol’ place,” the bartender yelled at them. He was an enormous man with a huge belly who could easily have been Big Daddy. “Cherie’ll be around to get your order.”

Brenna led the way to a cozy booth in a corner, where they had a view of the street as darkness fell. A blues trio played in the back, the smoky strains of bass and guitar wafting through the bar, just loud enough that they could still converse easily.

A beautiful woman with toffee-colored skin and a dress short enough to get her arrested sauntered up to their table. Her hair was done up in an elaborate style that resembled a pineapple. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have the oyster variety platter and a cold Beck’s, if you have one,” Brenna said decisively.

The waitress looked at Heath. She licked her lips unconsciously. “How about you, Mr. Cop?”

Heath looked startled, but Brenna just laughed. “Told ya.”

“I’ll have the étouffée and a Pepsi.”

Brenna snorted. “Pepsi?”

“Can’t drink on the job, huh?” the waitress said. “You must not be a New Orleans cop, then.” She sauntered away, hips swaying.

“You really know how to have fun,” Brenna grumbled.

HER COMMENT shouldn’t have stung, but it did. Heath used to know how to have fun. He used to have a reputation as laid-back, always ready with a smart comment. He’d shared a great relationship with his fellow agents back in Baltimore. They’d played together in a summer softball league, invited each other over for backyard barbecues.

He’d never been a renegade, exactly, but he hadn’t been as worried about the rules as he was now. He’d been the guy people could count on, the one everyone wanted guarding their backs. He’d had a solid reputation for being cool under pressure and closing cases others had given up on.

That was BCA. Before Christine’s Arrest.

Now it felt like he was constantly walking on a fragile spiderweb. One false move, and he would break through and plunge into the abyss, or wherever it was that ex-FBI agents went. That, or he would become hopelessly entangled.

He’d made up his mind as soon as he’d learned that his transfer to Dallas was going through—he wasn’t going to make that false move. His image at the Bureau was in tatters, and there was only one way to rebuild it, and that was one brick at a time. One arrest, then another. One case solved, then another, and no controversy.

Brenna Thompson was walking controversy. Her irreverence appealed to the old Heath, but that was someone he could no longer afford to be.

He should arrest her and be done with it, he thought for the zillionth time since he’d met her. But that would be too easy. He needed Brenna, Marvin and the Picasso.

He had no illusions about what would happen tonight. Brenna wasn’t about to knowingly lead him to her accomplice. But she might be planning to make contact, to get a message to Marvin somehow. Heath would be there when she did.

Grif strolled past the restaurant’s window for the third time and paused to study the menu posted near the door. The guy was not exactly subtle. Brenna was very observant, and she was going to spot him if he wasn’t more careful.

The food arrived, along with Brenna’s beer in a frosty mug. Heath’s mouth watered. He loved a cold beer as much as the next guy, and it sure would go down good with the spicy shrimp-and-rice dish in front of him. But he could not afford to muddle his thinking or take the edge off his reflexes, even for a moment.

The oyster platter, on the other hand, didn’t tempt him in the slightest. He had to look away as Brenna slid the raw ones into her mouth and practically swallowed them whole.

“They’re aphrodisiacs, you know,” she said lightly.

“That’s an old-wives’ tale.”

“Care to test it out? There’s plenty here to share.”

“I’ll stick to my own meal, thanks.” It was pretty good, he had to admit, though his experience with Cajun cuisine was somewhat limited. As for Brenna’s flirtation, he didn’t take it seriously. “Anyway, I don’t need oysters.” The words popped out, seemingly of their own accord. He saw he’d at least surprised Brenna, if not shocked her. He’d shocked himself, though he tried real hard not to show it. What had made him say something like that?

How about the truth? All right, so the little blond thief made him hot and bothered like no woman had since he’d outgrown watching the Playboy Channel. That didn’t mean he had to act on it. He would just keep his lips zipped from now on—and his pants zipped forever as far as she was concerned.

Brenna polished off her oysters. He wasn’t surprised when she wanted dessert. She ordered bread pudding with two spoons and insisted he try a bite. It did smell pretty good, so he dished a little bit onto his spoon, topped off with a smidge of whipped cream and tasted it.

It was heaven, a heady concoction drowning in butter, brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg, studded with pecans and topped with a brandy rum sauce. One bite enveloped all of his senses at once. He was even aware of the sound of Brenna licking her lips.

“Too sweet, right?” she said.

“Not this time.” He took another bite, then another. Oh, he could get addicted to this in a hurry. Well, hell, this was one sin he could commit without worrying about what Ketcher would think.

By the time they left Big Daddy’s Oyster Bar, Heath wished he’d been a bit more circumspect. If he had to suddenly chase a suspect, he wouldn’t be able to run half a block.

It was a few more blocks to the convention center, right on the Mississippi River, and Heath was glad for the walk. Once they entered the modern building, crowded with tourists, he felt more at home. Here there were several men in suits. They looked like they might be gem dealers. No one gave him a second look.

Brenna, however, always got a second and sometimes a third or fourth look. Aw, hell, she’d stand out even if she wore a nun’s habit. It wasn’t how she looked so much as the energy she gave off. She was pure charisma in a pint-size package.

“You’re looking forward to this,” he observed as they took the elevator up to the third-floor exhibit hall.

“I love looking at jewelry.”

“I hadn’t guessed.” This afternoon he’d almost had to bodily drag her out of several stores. She’d wanted to try on everything, study how it was made, ask questions about the stones. She could tell almost to the year when each piece had been made just by the cut of the gem and the style and color of the setting.

“Remember,” he said, “there’s no time for browsing or trying stuff on. The ad said there would be hundreds of exhibitors. We need to look through every display for the stolen jewelry. Keep an eye out for Marvin, too. If you see him—”

“I know. Don’t confront him. Keep my distance. Leave it to you. Believe me, I learned my lesson in Faring. I’m not going to risk losing him again.”

They had to pay a cover charge at the door of the exhibit hall. When they entered, Heath was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of jewelry displayed. He’d never seen so much shiny stuff in one place.

“We need a plan,” he said quickly as Brenna immediately darted to the first booth that caught her eye. “Down one row, up another. Let’s cover as much territory as we can. Maybe we should split up.” If she was planning to meet Marvin, this might be the place. He wanted to give her every opportunity to carry out her plan.

“If we conduct ourselves like generals inspecting the troops, we’ll stand out,” she said. “We have to amble. We should stick together. You might not recognize my jewelry from the drawings.”

Heath was surprised Brenna didn’t jump at the chance to split up. If she were truly trying to meet up with Marvin or get a message to him, she would want to get rid of Heath. Once again, he entertained the possibility that he was wrong about her. But how could he be, when the evidence was so condemning?

Evidence could be faked, he reminded himself. He knew Marvin was clever. He could have…No. Heath wasn’t going there. Christine had been funny and sexy and very, very lovable. Those qualities had blinded him to the secret life she’d been leading, when the facts had been right in front of him. He wouldn’t, couldn’t make the same mistake with Brenna. Criminals could be cute and sexy and funny.

They spent close to three hours wending their way down one aisle and another. He had to give Brenna credit, she didn’t dawdle. She occasionally asked a question of any exhibitor who seemed to favor contemporary designs, claiming she was looking for a particular kind of sapphire ring to complement an outfit. The ring she described was one of the most distinctive pieces that had been stolen, she’d told Heath earlier, and she was hoping someone might have seen it.

But no one took the bait.

“I think maybe we should quit for the evening,” Brenna said suddenly. “I’m not feeling very well.”

“I’m not surprised, after all those oysters.” But she did look a bit pale, he noted, and a thin sheen of perspiration shimmered on her upper lip.

“Seriously. I need to go back to the Magnolia and lie down or something. We can get an early start in the morning.”

“Okay.” He was dead on his feet, too. Anyway, it was almost closing time, and most of the exhibitors were securing their spaces for the night.

Brenna headed for the exit. But she’d only taken a few steps when she skidded to a stop. “Oh, my God.”

“What? Are you going to be sick?” Heath asked, alarmed.

“Probably. But that’s not—” She made a beeline for a nearby exhibitor called French Quarter Chic.

Oh, hell. The lady from the chat room. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the sign himself.

MANNING THE BOOTH was a trashy-looking bleached blonde in her late forties with a seventies Farrah Fawcett hairdo. She was chatting with an older man in a cowboy hat, showing him various diamond engagement rings while the much-younger woman at his side squealed and simpered.

Heath cast around for Grif. Where was he?

Brenna rapidly scanned the showcases, then gasped and grabbed Heath’s arm. “That’s my necklace!” Then, before Heath could even react, she added, “I’m definitely going to be sick.” And she bolted for the exit.

Chapter Three

The bleached blonde, whose name tag identified her as Alice Smith, stopped midsentence. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’d like to see the opal necklace,” he said, indicating the piece Brenna had pointed to. It did resemble one of the sketched designs Brenna had provided when she’d first filed the theft complaint. But did it have Brenna’s jeweler’s mark? That would be the key to identifying the piece.

“The show is about to close for the night,” Alice said, “and I’ve really got to help this gentleman here. Maybe you could come back tomorrow?”

“I won’t be able to do that,” he said firmly, finding it highly odd that the woman wouldn’t do anything possible to close the sale tonight. He’d seen how eager these exhibitors were to part customers from their cash. “I’d just like to take a quick look at the necklace.”

“I can only wait on one customer at a time,” she said curtly. “For security reasons.” She picked up a can of cola from the table and took a quick gulp from it, then returned her attention to the man in the cowboy hat.

Something didn’t feel right here.

Mr. Cowboy Hat stepped aside. “You go ahead and help this gentleman,” he said to Alice. “Delia and I want to talk a bit in private.” He handed the ring he’d been looking at back to Alice and walked away.

Hesitating, Alice extracted the pendant from the case and displayed it against her manicured hand, tilting it this way and that to catch the light in a practiced gesture. “You probably just cost me a sale, you know. That guy was about to pull out his platinum American Express.”

“Sorry.”

He looked closely at the pendant, which featured a round, flat fire opal the size of a nickel, encased in a disc of gold and platinum. It had a sort of Art Deco feel to it, but modern, too. Very clean lines.

“Where did this come from?” he asked casually.

“An estate sale in Florida. I’ve had it for a few months, but it needed repairs. This is the first I’ve shown it. Several people have said they might come back for it, so if you’re interested…”

Heath held out his hand. “May I?”

The woman handed it across the table to him. He casually flipped over the pendant. He didn’t see Brenna’s mark. He examined the piece with his jeweler’s loupe. No sign of her name. No mark of any kind.

“Do you know who the designer is?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you have a receipt for it?”

Alice’s face hardened. “What’s this about?”

“The woman who was with me a moment ago thinks the necklace might be stolen. From her.”

Alice’s face melted into an expression of sympathy and her demeanor changed abruptly. “That’s awful. Oh, I hope it’s not true. I have the receipt in my office at home, I’m sure. I could get it for you. The outfit I bought it from is a respectable company that runs estate sales all over northern Florida. I can’t imagine they would deal in stolen merchandise. When did the theft occur?”

“Only a few weeks ago.”

Alice smiled. “Well then, it couldn’t be the same piece. If you want to give me your fax number, I can fax the receipt to you.” She handed Heath a card.

AliceSmith224@coolmail.com.

“Do you go by FrenchQuarterChic on the Internet?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, hard and swift. She held her hand out, obviously wanting her necklace back. “I really need to get going. I have to pick up my grandkid at the babysitter’s before it gets too late.”

Heath handed back the necklace. Could it be a coincidence? Maybe Brenna had been mistaken. Her mark wasn’t anywhere on the pendant. He decided the only way to sort this out was to bring Brenna herself back here to take a closer look at the piece.

Where the hell was Grif? When he really needed the guy, he was MIA.

He flashed his badge at Alice, whose eyes widened. “I don’t want you to leave this spot until I get back. I’m going to assume, for now, that it’s all a mistake. But if I have to come looking for you—and I will—I’ll have a whole new set of assumptions, and they won’t be pretty. Understood?”

“Well, you don’t have to get nasty,” she grumbled. “But I’m not waiting here all night.”

She didn’t intimidate easily, he thought as he took off after Brenna.

The security guard at the door had noticed Brenna, who didn’t exactly blend into the crowd. At Heath’s question, he pointed out the direction she’d taken—down a corridor that led to the ladies’ room. The corridor was empty. He cracked open the ladies’ room swinging door. “Brenna?”

“Leave me alone,” she called back on a moan.

“Are you okay?”

“What do you think?”

Hoping no one else was in there, he entered, holding his FBI shield just in case. But the room was deserted. Amazing, given how busy the trade show was.

He found Brenna leaning over the sink, splashing cold water on her face. She raised up, looking at him in the mirror, then blotted her face with a paper towel.

“Get out. This is a ladies’ bathroom, for gosh sake.”

“I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine. Go arrest somebody. That woman had my necklace.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t look at it very closely.”

“Of course I’m sure! You think I can’t recognize a piece of jewelry I worked over for days?”

“I looked it over. It doesn’t have your mark.”

That stopped her. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Marvin could have removed the mark.”

“The woman said she bought the piece six months ago in Florida.”

“Then she was lying! Heath, did you just let her walk away?”

“I flashed my badge and told her not to leave. If you look at the necklace and positively identify it as yours, I can demand that she produce the receipt.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll live. Freaking oysters,” she muttered. “And I don’t want to hear you even think ‘I told you so.’”

He wouldn’t say it, that was for sure. He felt too sorry for her to add to her misery. But he was thinking it.

She looked shaky as they headed back for the exhibit hall. Fearing she might fall off her platform shoes, he offered her his arm, but she shook her head.

It was after ten, and the show was officially closed now. The security guard at the door let them in only when Heath flashed his badge. But as soon as they got inside the exhibit hall, Heath realized he’d made a terrible mistake. The French Quarter Chic booth was empty. Alice was gone, and so were all of her display cases.

The booths on either side of her were also deserted. Queries to a couple of other exhibitors were useless; everyone was focused on securing their own merchandise for the evening.

He left Brenna on a padded bench by the door, whispered to the guard not to let her go anywhere, then located the show’s security chief, who was concerned and cooperative. He enlisted a handful of his men to search for Alice, but she’d disappeared like a snake slithering into a pond, not even leaving a ripple. He personally searched her space, finding nothing but her empty soft drink can.

Supremely disappointed, he headed back toward where he’d left Brenna. Grif suddenly appeared by his side. “What happened?”

“Where were you?” Heath demanded.

“I stopped to buy some earrings for my girlfriend.” He patted his shirt pocket. “You seemed to have everything under control.”

“Yeah, well, all hell broke loose.” Heath stopped himself before he could lose his temper. He was irritated with Grif, but more angry with himself. He never should have let Alice get away. But he’d allowed his concern for Brenna’s welfare interfere with his good judgment.

He filled in Grif, who let loose with some suitably colorful curses. Then he asked, “What now?”

“I’ll take Brenna back to her room. She’s really sick. I don’t think she’ll be getting into trouble tonight, so you can go catch some sleep if you want.” He handed Grif Alice’s empty soft drink can, which he’d placed in a small labeled sack. “And if you could drop this by the lab on your way home—”

“No problem. You’re sure Brenna’s not faking?”

No one could turn that shade of gray on purpose. “I’m sure.”

“I’ll come back about four, then, to relieve you.” He paused. “I’m really sorry, man.”

Heath couldn’t stay mad at Grif. “Hope your girl really likes those earrings.”

Brenna was where he’d left her. She gave him an accusing look. “You didn’t find her, did you.”

“No. Brenna, I couldn’t arrest her without stronger proof. If you could have positively identified—”

“I did!”

“But your mark—”

“Could have been filed off.”

“We’ll find her,” he promised. He had high hopes for finding prints on the can.

“I just want to go to bed,” Brenna said miserably.

“Let’s go, then.”

There was no way Brenna was up to walking the ten blocks back to her guest house. The taxi line in front of the convention center was thirty deep, too.

“Just lay me down in the gutter,” Brenna said. “I’ll be fine.”

Then Heath saw something that might be their salvation. He sat Brenna down on another bench, placed her purse in her lap and crossed her arms over it. New Orleans seethed with purse snatchers and pickpockets, and a sick young woman would be a handy target. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t move.”

“As if I could.”

Brenna wanted to die. Really, truly. She’d never felt so sick in her life. Then again, she’d never eaten a dozen tainted oysters, for surely that was the problem. But did food poisoning come with a fever? She was sweating and shivering at the same time, and her stomach threatened to revolt again at any moment.

She slumped down and put her head in her hands. Thank God she’d made it to the bathroom before. She’d die of embarrassment if she threw up in front of Heath. She supposed people barfing in the street was a commonplace thing in New Orleans, but it wasn’t something she intended to do.

The clip-clop of a horse’s hooves drew her attention. She looked up to see one of the French Quarter’s horse and carriages pulling up right in front of her. The horse wore a festive yellow hat with orange flowers.

Heath hopped down from the carriage. “I found us some wheels.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“It’s this or I carry you back to your hotel.” She actually smiled at that thought. Heath held out his hand, and she surprised herself by taking it. Moments earlier she’d wanted to strangle Heath for letting that thieving jeweler get away. But now she was oddly touched by the way he was taking care of her. He could have simply abandoned her, let her find her own way back to her guest house.

She was so weak she could hardly pull herself into the high carriage. But between Heath and the driver, they hoisted her up. She didn’t miss the fact that Heath put his hand on her bottom to accomplish the feat. She didn’t miss the fact that, even in her debilitated condition, she liked it. She wondered if he’d peeked up her short skirt.

Heath climbed in beside her and the carriage took off. “You’re shivering.” He took off his suit jacket and put it around her.

“Th-think I have a fever.” Her teeth chattered. Heath put his arm around her. His body felt warm, and she snuggled into it. Oh, Lord, he smelled great.

Between the gentle rocking of the carriage and the hypnotic clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, she fell asleep. The next thing she knew, she was being carried up the outside stairs to her room. And it was Heath carrying her.

“Oh, for gosh sake, put me down,” she protested feebly. “I can walk.”

“Hush. We’re almost there now, anyway.” When he reached her door he set her down, fished around in her small purse until he found a key and opened the door.

The room was freezing. She’d left the air-conditioning on. Heath walked across to the window unit and flipped it off. Then he yanked back the covers. “Get in.”

“I need a shower.”

“Only if you want me in there with you, holding you up.”

He was right. She was about to fall down. Her stomach felt like a giant hand was squeezing it like one of those stress balls, and she was so dizzy she was swaying. She took two steps, crawled across the bed and dropped.

Heath took off her sandals, covered her with the blankets. “I have some medicine in my bag, down in my car. I’ll be right back.”

While he was gone, she managed to wiggle out of her uncomfortably damp clothes and pull the covers over herself. Oh, God, why couldn’t she just die? It would be so much easier.

Heath returned a few minutes later and held out a handful of pills. “Something for nausea, something for pain and fever, and a muscle relaxer. Should knock you right out.”

“You always travel with a pharmacy?”

“I can’t afford to be sick in the middle of a job.”

She wasn’t sure how well the pills would sit on her beleaguered stomach, but she swallowed them with the water Heath brought her, then snuggled down deeper under the thin covers. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “You can go.”

“I don’t think so. I’m on the razor’s edge of taking you to the hospital.”

“No.” But she realized she was in no condition to fight him, if that’s what he wanted to do. “Stay, then. But if this is just a clever ploy to get a free bed for the night, forget it. You’re gonna have to pay for half…the room.” Already, a pleasant lethargy was taking over her. Whether the muscle relaxer was working or simple exhaustion was taking over, she thought maybe she’d drop off again. Even if Heath Packer was watching her and she might drool in her sleep.

Her last conscious thought was that, no, he didn’t sleep in his tie. And he wore surprisingly sexy underwear for such a straitlaced guy.

BRENNA WAS SICK almost all night, off and on. She managed to doze off between bouts of violent retching.

By morning, however, the worst seemed to be over. She was awakened by the sound of her hotel room door opening. She cracked open one eye and saw Heath Packer entering, one tall paper cup in each hand.

She groaned and hid her head under the covers. Heath Packer had spent the night in her hotel room, but had she managed to make the best of the situation? No, of course not. He’d seen her sick and sweating and half-delirious and, yes, probably drooling.

He managed to close the door quietly with his foot, then set the two cups on the nightstand. That’s when he spotted her peering at him with one eye, most of the rest of her under the covers.

“Hey.” He smiled, not unkindly. “What’s the story? Are you going to live?”

“I’m not sure. Did you spend the night in here?”

He pointed to the other bed, tellingly rumpled. “Part of the night.”

“Do you wear skimpy black bikini underwear, or did I dream that part? I’d have guessed you were a tightywhitey guy all the way.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Maybe she’d dreamed it after all. At any rate, he was back in his suit pants today, paired with another crisp, white shirt. No tie, though. His dark hair was neatly combed, his face freshly shaved.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asked, indicating a white bakery bag.

She groaned melodramatically and hid under the covers again. “Don’t you dare show me any food. Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it or smell it.”

“Okay. But it’s just some dry toast. That’s supposed to be good for an upset stomach. I brought you some hot tea with honey, too.”

Was this guy for real? Most men ran the other way when anyone around them took ill. Her father once left the house for three days when her mother had the flu.

She figured Heath was probably being so nice because he’d realized he needed her. She was the one who’d spotted the stolen necklace. She was the one who’d come up with French Quarter Chic. For all the good it had done.

“I might try the tea,” she finally said, deciding a couple of sips wouldn’t kill her. If she kept those down, maybe she would get really wild and take a bite of toast.

She started to sit up, then abruptly remembered she’d taken off all her clothes last night. She peeked under the covers and relaxed when she realized she had on her old, tattered flannel nightgown, the one she’d shoved to the bottom of the suitcase in embarrassment after she saw the matching-nightie-and-peignoir sets Sonya favored.

Wait a minute. No matter how debilitated she’d been, she would never have chosen to put this on when there was a handsome guy in the room.

She sat up and shot Heath a suspicious glare as he removed the top from her tea and handed it to her. “You didn’t, um…” No. That was ridiculous.

“Did you want milk for your tea?” he asked, thinking that was the problem.

“Did you put me in a nightgown last night?” she blurted out.

“You were shivering. That was the warmest thing I could find in your suitcase,” he said matter-of-factly.

She knew her face must be flaming. She was going to die of embarrassment. She took a gulp of tea to hide her discomfort. Though she didn’t much care for tea, this was good—hot, strong and sweet.

“Take it easy,” Heath cautioned. He took his own cup, which apparently contained coffee, and pulled off the lid. Then he settled back on his bed with the morning paper.

Gee, wasn’t this cozy?

“You saw me naked,” she couldn’t help pointing out.

He looked up. “What?”

“You saw me naked.”

He grinned. “I didn’t look. Not that I wasn’t tempted, but I’m not the kind of guy who takes advantage of a woman when she’s down.”

“How could you not look?”

He rolled his eyes. “I handed the nightgown to you. I turned my back. You put it on.”

Brenna knew she should have been relieved. She was disappointed instead. Not that she would have been at her fetching best last night. More like my retching best. She wished she could remember. If she’d been naked in front of Heath Packer, she ought to be able to remember it.

She forced herself to focus on something else. She drank more of the hot, sweet tea, then forced down a couple of bites of the dry toast. Her stomach didn’t seem to mind it.

“I think a shower might do me some good.” She retreated to the bathroom, bringing some fresh clothes with her. She was pitifully weak. But by the time she dressed and brushed her teeth, she was feeling almost human again. She pulled on a lime-green tank top and a pair of electric blue pants with a beaded design running down the side seams.

It took lots of makeup to disguise that sickly prison pallor and puffy eyes, and half a bottle of styling gel to spike her hair just right. But by the time she was finished, she thought she looked pretty hot. Well, pretty okay. Not that her cold-fish roommate would notice. Jeez, if he could see her naked and be totally unaffected, she was losing her touch.

AS SOON AS BRENNA WENT into the bathroom, Heath quit pretending to read the paper and put it down. Hell, yes, he’d put the nightgown on her. The poor woman’s teeth had been chattering so loudly she’d been in danger of cracking a molar. But contrary to what he’d just told her, he’d had to dress her himself. She’d been groggy from the muscle relaxer and half-delirious with fever.

He had definitely looked.

Then he’d covered her with every blanket in the room. And when she was still shivering, he’d gotten into bed with her and added his own body heat to the prescription.

After a few minutes the shivering had stopped and she’d dropped into a more normal sleep. Praying she wouldn’t remember any of it, he’d reluctantly slid out of her bed and into his own to catch some sleep.

Unfortunately, he remembered her every contour, exactly what it felt like to have her bottom tucked up against his very hard arousal, her shoulders pressed against his chest, the soft give of her flesh beneath the tattered flannel as he’d wrapped his arms around her. The feel of her would be with him always, he was sure.

Thank God she didn’t seem to recall.

Chapter Four

By noon Brenna claimed she felt well enough to leave the hotel room. “I really can’t stand being cooped up in here anymore,” she said. “I want to take action. Marvin’s out there somewhere.”

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