The Scribe
Page 13

“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.”