Free If Looks Could Kill by Elizabeth Cage

tents. The tourists didn’t look nearly so comfortable here. They browsed, but they were obviously wary of being scammed. They haggled in many different languages but never in the native tongue. The vendors just did their business and tried to get as many bills off the people’s piles as possible.
    Jo poked around the little bits of Kinh-Sanhian junk—and junk from a dozen other countries. She found Chinese fans and handcuffs. Little Eiffel Towers. A vendor selling nothing but pirated American music on CDs. And clothes. Lots and lots of clothes.
    Some of it wasn’t too tacky, either.
    Hmmm, maybe this country isn’t such a nightmare after all, Jo thought. She browsed through a few racks, inspecting cuffs, hemlines, and collar styles with a trained eye.
    Suddenly someone tapped her on the shoulder.
    â€œHelp you, pretty miss?” a wizened old Kinh-Sanh man asked. “Twenty dollar.”
    Jo grinned wide, immediately slipping into superflirt mode. She spoke with a slight Spanish accent. “Ah, hello. You speak English?”
    The man nodded. “Little enough.”
    â€œFantastic. I’ve been all over this city, and no one wants to help me,” she pouted.
    â€œI help,” the vendor replied with a proud smile. “I get you supercool T-shirt. Twenty dollar.”
    Jo grinned. “I’ll buy five T-shirts if you can help me.”
    The vendor’s eyes lit up. “You make me very happy. I help!”
    â€œOh, thank you,” Jo said, touching the man’s arm. “I’ve come all the way from Madrid, and I’m totally lost. Do you know anything about a man named West? Lucien West?”
    The vendor’s expression turned to disgust. “Ugh! You mean stinkball Luscious.”
    Jo’s heart jumped. “Yes, that’s him. Luscious Lucien West. I’ve come to find him. I hear he’s the superguru of Kinh-Sanh.” Jo leaned in close and elbowed the angry vendor.“I hear Lucien West can sell inner peace to the Dalai Lama himself.”
    â€œBeh!” the vendor growled, spitting. “All he do is set up shop in our beautiful country. Steal money. Steal lives. He evil man. I not help.” The man waved her away. “You go now.”
    Jo slowly sulked away, pretending to be disappointed.
    Hmmm. That was interesting. Not everyone thought Lucien was the cat’s nip.
    She moved on through the crowd. She tried to space them out, putting on her little Spanish girl lost act for a few more vendors. The reactions were all the same. “He set up shop. He evil man.” One supergenerous woman tried to convince Jo to come home with her rather than go to Lucien. Jo politely refused but bought a couple of the plastic key chains she was selling.
    After a while Jo glanced at her watch. Wow! She’d spent three hours in the market. Well, she figured, that’s nothing new. This was Kinh-Sanh’s version of the mall, and three hours in a mall was just a warm-up for Jo. She was about to head back to the flat when she spotted something familiar.
    A flash of color.
    Silk blouses on a rack. The exact same pattern as the sleeve scrap they found in the warehouse!
    Jo hurried over and snagged one off the rack. It was nice enough, but the print wasn’t her at all. She checked the label—and her jaw dropped. The label said Girl Talk!
    And it was in capital letters. It was a knockoff of Theresa’s mother’s design!
    Well, the fact that it was a cheap copy explained the obnoxious print. But how would a rackful of bogus Girl Talks find their way into a seedy market when they should be hanging out at Bogart’s fifth floor?
    Jo immediately bought one of every color for about ten U.S. dollars each.
    As she hightailed it back to the flat, she couldn’t help but grin. She had just combined the thrill of shopping, the excitement of finding an extreme bargain, and the rush of saving the world all at once!
    Did she have the life