The Chemistry of Death

Chapter 2

Vivian Torres stood in the middle of a Prada store on Fifth Avenue. Ridiculously expensive handbags posed on moodily lit shelves. Tall ceilings, mirrors, and the smell of leather and perfume made the narrow shop feel luxurious.

A salesman in a tailored suit eyed her disapprovingly. Her off-the-rack clothes and scuffed shoes probably told him she wouldn’t be leaving with one of the shop’s expensive bags. He was right, of course. Even if she could afford it, she’d never buy one, and right now, the only new purse she could afford was a paper bag.

She ignored him and studied the rest of the clientele. Two women in jeans and knee-high leather boots stood in front of a shelf of bags, speaking in the hushed tones usually reserved for church. Vivian’s charge, Katrinka Kazakov, wandered past them, expensive boots tapping against the gleaming black-and-white checkerboard floor. The blond teenager wore jeans that looked like they were falling apart and a burnt orange top from some designer Vivian had never heard of. The outfit probably cost more than everything in Vivian’s closet.

Katrinka eyed a butterscotch-colored purse. It matched the deeper shades of blond in her hair. She tried to hand Vivian her shopping bags.

“I need to keep my hands free.” Vivian stepped back.

“You work for me,” Katrinka said. “Hold these bags.”

“I work for your father,” Vivian corrected. “And I’m a bodyguard, not a butler.”

“You’re supposed to help me out.”

“I’m supposed to keep you safe.” So far, Katrinka hadn’t needed any real body guarding, but her father was a powerful Russian businessman married to a former model, and they wanted to make certain their daughter was protected. Vivian had quickly figured out her real job wasn’t to keep trouble from finding Katrinka, but to keep Katrinka from finding trouble. She had her drivers and the rest of the staff wrapped around her manicured pinky finger.

“Do you have a copy of your contract, the part where it specifies that you aren’t supposed to help me carry things?” Katrinka raised one waxed eyebrow.

“You’ll have to take it up with your father.” Vivian didn’t intend to give in to her. It’d make her job tougher if she did. Vivian had a sister the same age as Katrinka, and she knew better than to back down.

Katrinka’s brown eyes darkened a shade, but she set the shopping bags on a black tile without any more conversation. Then, she picked up the purse and caressed the golden crocodile skin as if it were some kind of weird pet. Maybe it had been Crocodile Dundee’s guard dog.

Three women on a mission came in and headed straight to a display in the far corner. They pointed at a pink bag and launched into a rapid-fire discussion in Chinese. The salesman who’d so quickly dismissed Vivian headed in their direction like a bloodhound on a scent.

Out of the corner of her eye, Vivian saw Katrinka drop the butterscotch-colored purse into the giant Macy’s bag at her feet. A slick maneuver. The salesman wouldn’t have seen a thing.

“Not happening,” Vivian said quietly. “Put it back.”

Katrinka widened those brown eyes, mascaraed lashes framing her fake surprise. “I know you aren’t going to hold my bags. You don’t have to get all bitchy about it.”

“Unless you pay for that purse, you’re not leaving the store.” Vivian raised her voice, and the salesman glanced over at them.

“We’ve had a long day, and I want to get some coffee. I’ll text Mr. Alenin to circle around and pick us up. Maybe we’ll go out for dinner after. My treat.” Katrinka gave Vivian her sunniest smile and pulled out her phone.

The salesman returned to his Chinese marks.

Vivian couldn’t let Katrinka steal, but she couldn’t get her arrested for shoplifting either. Her father would buy her out of trouble and fire Vivian, and Vivian needed this job.

What was the best way to protect a girl who was her own worst enemy?

Screw the philosophizing. Vivian blocked the salesman’s line of sight, reached into the Macy’s bag, and pulled out the yellow purse. She set it on the shelf behind the teenager’s head between a green one and a black one.

“It must have fallen in there,” Katrinka said.

Vivian didn’t bother to acknowledge the lie. She gestured toward the door, and Katrinka flounced out to where a Lincoln Town car idled at the curb.

Vivian ducked down to confirm the chauffeur’s identity before she opened the door and let the sulky teen climb inside. Vivian slid into the stuffy car after her, hoping this shopping trip was over.

She missed Joe Tesla. Keeping him out of trouble might be more complicated than babysitting Katrinka, but it was a lot more fun.