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