Malachi chuckled. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, old friend.”
The tour boat had reached the end of the Golden Horn and had turned back toward the Galata Bridge when Ava approached him. He’d been playing a game on his phone, some mind-numbing activity Leo was addicted to that involved shooting birds at pigs. It was oddly satisfying; the pigs exploded in a puff not unlike the Grigori when you put a knife in the right place. He glanced up when he saw her move, then watched silently as she approached the bench in the corner where he had positioned himself. Her camera bag bumped against her thigh as she walked, an unwieldy cargo he’d never seen her without.
She paused in front of him, then sank onto the wooden bench opposite as Malachi hid his phone.
“I’m incredibly bored.”
He shrugged. “So why did you take the tour?”
“You’re supposed to take a tour of Istanbul from the sea. Didn’t you know that?”
He smiled. “Do you always do what you’re supposed to?”
“Hardly ever, but this is work.”
“What do you do?” He already knew. Rhys had given him a full profile on her the day after he’d discovered her name.
“I take pictures for travel magazines.”
Ava Matheson was considered one of the top travel photojournalists in her field, distinguishing herself by her willingness to go to the most remote location and capture it for the hungry print and online world. In fact, the more remote the location, the more attractive the job seemed to be for her. She’d climbed mountains in Peru and Nepal, traversed the Gobi Desert, and boated the Orinoco. The burgeoning ecotourism industry loved her. Ava specialized in finding the luxurious in the most remote places in the world. She seemed to avoid cities unless there was a specific assignment calling her to one. Malachi had no idea what she was doing in Istanbul, as Rhys could find no record of a commission from any of her usual clients.
“Which magazine do you work for?”
“Lots of them.” Her gaze drifted off for a moment until it snapped back to his face. “I don’t want to talk about work. Isn’t that boring? I bet you hate to talk about bodyguard gigs. You probably have some great stories you can’t tell anyone though, huh?”
You have no idea. He lifted an eyebrow. “So what do you want to talk about?”
He hoped she wasn’t thinking about coming on to him. That was destined to end badly, then she’d call her parents—or whoever she thought had hired him—and start asking inconvenient questions.
“Are you Turkish? You don’t have the same accent as most of the people I’ve met.”
He could actually be honest about that one. “I am, but I’ve traveled a lot. Lived in a lot of other places. I imagine that’s influenced the accent. You?”
“All-American girl.”
“They write songs about your kind, you know.”
She laughed. “My kind? That’s a good one. I can pretty much promise they don’t write songs about my kind. Not good ones, anyway. Have you been to the States?”
“I lived in Chicago for a time, but that was years ago.”
Ava leaned forward, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as the breeze pulled dark hair into her eyes. “And what did you do in Chicago?”
I helped kill the upper echelon of Grigori soldiers belonging to a fallen angel who preys on the women of the Upper Midwest. And his pack of dogs. He was pissed about the dogs.
“The same thing I do here.”
“Exciting.”
“It has its moments.”
“Did you ever guard Oprah?”
“I don’t think so.” He frowned. “Not directly.”
“So, Malachi…” She shifted again, leaning back and lifting her face to the sun. It poured over her, warming her pale skin and lighting the red in her hair. She tilted her head back, closing her eyes behind her sunglasses. “Are you an independent contractor, or do you work for one of Carl’s usual companies?”
She was subtly digging for information, but he couldn’t figure out why. He decided to play along for now. It would be less suspicious.
“I’m somewhat independent, but I work with a larger company. The headquarters is in Vienna. I imagine Mr. Matheson was referred from there.”
“Probably. He’s doing a lot of work in Eastern Europe lately. Low production costs.”
Her stepfather was a film producer, but Ava seemed unimpressed. In fact, everything about her spoke of boredom. Jaded expression. Cynical quirk to her mouth. Malachi sensed something else, though.
Lonely. The woman was desperately lonely.
“Do you like to travel alone?”
She seemed surprised that he’d asked a question. Her head tilted forward and she looked at him. “What?”
“Am I not allowed to ask you questions?”
“It’s unusual.”
“Call me unusual, then.”
She smiled then, a genuine smile untouched by cynicism. “Yeah, I like it. I’m not the most social person in the world.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Wow. That bad, huh?”
He shrugged. “You just seem to like your own space. I don’t see you chatting with many strangers like a lot of the tourists do.”
“My own space?” Her smile hinted at some inside joke. “You could call it that. I don’t travel much in cities. They’re very…”
He waited, but she seemed to expect him to interrupt. He didn’t.
Finally, she said, “They’re crowded. Noisy. Too many smells and sounds and sights all crashing together. I don’t like them, usually.”
“Not even Constantinople?”
“You mean Istanbul?”
He grinned. “Are we going there?”
“We better not.” She laughed again. “I’ll have that song stuck in my head for days. But to answer your question, despite the noise and the people and the heat—”
“The heat is something else, isn’t it?”
“No worse than L.A. most summers. Despite all that…” Her eyes drifted toward the water. “I like it here. There’s something about it, isn’t there? It’s…” Her eyes sought his. “Seductive.”
Malachi could feel the tattoos covering his chest pulse. No… Not going there, either.
He straightened and cleared his throat. “It’s a fascinating place. Very complicated history.”
“I can tell.” Her golden-brown eyes seemed to mock him. “Just by looking at it.”
Silence fell between them as she held his stare. The wind picked up, teasing the fine hair at the back of his neck. He saw her glance down at the tattoo work along his collar, but she said nothing. Asked nothing.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Really?”
“Headaches.” The mask fell over her face. She had answered without thinking. He was betting she didn’t do that often.
“Headaches?”
“The condition I mentioned the other day.” She waved a careless hand. “There’s a doctor here who specializes in it. The appointment last week, remember? I was referred to him. And you don’t need to report that to Carl or my mom.”
“I don’t report on your activities to anyone unless I think there is some aspect of your safety in jeopardy. I’m not a stalker; I’m a guard.”
“Good.”
“Is he helping?”
“The doctor?”
“Yes.”
Her head bobbed back and forth, considering the question. “Maybe. I try not to get my hopes up, you know? I’ve lived with the headaches my whole life.”
Malachi knew all about not getting his hopes up. So why was he having a hard time believing Damien?
“And there is no cure for them?”
“Not that anyone has found. It’s not a tumor or anything. They’re a bit of a mystery.”
As are you, woman. It wasn’t headaches. At least, that wasn’t all of it. He didn’t know exactly what was going on with the interesting American woman, but he was determined to find out.
Malachi said, “It’s better to be cautious, even with doctors. If there is any background information you’d like on this doctor, let me know. I know many people in Istanbul. Maybe some of my friends or associates have gone to him.”