“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