Downtown Debutante

“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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.