Page 14 of Toxic Temptation
“Saks Fifth Avenue.”
“You’re not funny, asshole.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
Her eyebrows flatline. “You’re making up for kidnapping me by taking me on a shopping spree?”
“Will that help?”
“No!”
I chuckle. “You’re wearing a doctor’s coat and scrubs. It’s a conspicuous outfit and I’d rather not draw attention to ourselves. Hence the little detour.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” she mutters to herself, her arms recrossing over her chest. Then she raises her voice. “I’m warning you: I have expensive taste.”
“It’s cute that you think that would bother me.”
“Right. Of course,” she huffs. “You probably have a ton of dirty mob money to blow on all the women you abduct. I bet you have a company p-card and an expense report already filled out just for this occasion.”
When we park out front of the department store, I turn to look at her, flashing my biggest smirk. “P-card? Expense report? Of course not. That’s the fun part about dirty mob money, Dr. Vesper:It’s all cash.”
6
KOVAN
I steer Vesper through the glossy revolving doors of Saks Fifth Avenue. It’s amusing how much she loathes having my hand on the small of her back. In some ways, I think she’d prefer the gun.
She’s smart enough not to pull away or cause a scene, though. That would end poorly for her.
The department store is almost comically bright after the dim fluorescents and red emergency lights of the hospital. White marble floors, glass cases sparkling with jewelry, perfume girls hovering around their stations like moray eels, ready to snap a bite if we wander too close.
“This is ridiculous,” Vesper mutters under her breath.
“So you’ve said. Several times now.”
“And I’ll keep saying it until you realize how absurd this situation is. I’m fine in my scrubs.”
“You’re not. You look like you just walked out of a hospital—which you did.”
“So what?”
I lean in close, my mouth near her ear. “So if the hospital reports you missing, every cop in the city will be looking for a woman in blue scrubs.”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue further.
I scan the store. It’s all brightly colored rags and blank-eyed mannequins with their tits out. These kinds of places repulse me. Just an ocean of cheap fast fashion everywhere you look. Growling, I shove her toward the closest rack of dress.
She stiffens under my hand. “I’m not wearing a fucking ballgown.”
“Ballgown, pantsuit, fucking clown costume—I don’t give a shit what you choose, but pick something.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “This is outrageous.”
“Would you prefer I pick for you?”
She understands quickly that it’s a threat. Another point in her favor. “Fine,” she mutters. “You don’t have to be a dick about it, though.” She begrudgingly selects a few items—dark jeans, a cream-colored blouse, and a navy blazer. Her choices are practical, understated.
I add a pair of low heels to the pile.
