Downtown Debutante

“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.”