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.
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