“Where are we going, shopping, I mean?”
“Mojácar. This time next week we will be in Puerto Banús, and you will need to be dressed in clothes that good, honest, police officers just can’t afford, otherwise you are going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Excuse me,” Malik stopped in mid-stride. “What’s wrong with the clothes I wear? You don’t like the way I dress, is that what you‘re saying?”
“God, you’re beautiful when you’re angry,” Brodie smiled at Malik and pinched her cheek playfully. “Please believe me there is nothing wrong with the way you dress. I love your clothes. You’d look good in a bin bag with a hole cut out for your head but in Puerto Banús, yacht society, every last article of clothing a woman wears to a party needs to have a designer label and a hefty price tag. I know.
