Downtown Debutante

“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.

[e-mail].

“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.