The Scribe - Hunter Elizabeth (библиотека книг бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

“Just go about your business and ignore him. He has a job to do, and you know Carl won’t fire him.”

No, but he might hire more if he got wind of the incident in the alley today. “This is Istanbul. It’s very safe as long as you’re smart. I’d probably be in more danger traveling in New Jersey. You really don’t need to—”

“Have you forgotten Cassie Traver? She was in Paris and she was kidnapped. Let’s not take any chances, Ava. You know how he worries.”

You mean how his accountant worries. The only reason her stepfather had started up with the guards again was because of the enormous amount of money the Travers had been forced to pay to Cassie’s kidnappers. Ava had no illusions of paternal concern.

“Just tell him to keep his distance. I know you won’t fire him, but I don’t want to see him anywhere near me.”

“Do you want to talk to Carl?”

“What do you think?”

There was a heavy pause on the line. “Okay. Are you… having fun?”

She heard Carl growl again. Her mother covered the phone with her hand.

“It’s late, Mom.” Ava swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ll call you back another time.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just—”

“I gotta go. There’s someone I need to meet with. For work.”

“Call me back tomorrow?”

“I don’t know—”

“Later, then. Just call me later.”

“Sure.” Ava collapsed in one of the luxurious chairs under the shade and ran her fingers along the frond of a potted palm. “I’ll call you later.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.” Ava hung up before Lena could say anything more, then stared over the rooftops of Istanbul, far above the crowds.

Silence. At last, silence.

Ava started early the next day. She’d been to Topkapi Palace before but had woken when the first prayer calls floated over the city and couldn’t get back to sleep. She lay in bed for a few hours, loading and editing work on her laptop, then decided to beat the crowds and some of the heat. She headed toward the opulent palace in the center of the old city, walked past the first gate, and started working.

Photography had been her escape for years. There was something about the intense visual focus that helped Ava block out the voices around her. She could get lost behind the lens. An observer instead of an outsider. She snapped pictures of the stunning architecture, trying to capture it from unique angles in the morning light. But more and more, she found herself drawn to the people who began crowding the various courtyards.

Whispers of excitement.

Routine hums.

The clear, pure thoughts of the youngest children, uncluttered by the static of their parents and guardians.

And each and every one completely unintelligible to her. She recognized common words and phrases. She could probably quote things from memory, though she had no idea what she would be saying. People’s inner voices didn’t work the way their spoken voices did. They thought in slips and starts. Their minds drifted from one emotion to another, often so quickly it made her ill.

“Excuse me,” she said, working her way through a tour group and toward an empty corner where she could watch the growing crowds.

Workers. Tourists. Families on holiday and the odd wanderer like herself. Ava turned her camera on them, capturing their fleeting expressions and sudden smiles. People were nice… from a distance. She’d avoided cities for years, preferring the peace of wilderness destinations and hidden enclaves where the voices of the locals weren’t quite so overwhelming. She was still in shock that she’d agreed to come to Istanbul. Couldn’t explain why, exactly, but she’d felt drawn to it. Maybe it was the promise of help. She couldn’t allow herself to believe this doctor—Doctor J. Sadik—could actually help her. But perhaps she could allow herself to be curious.

She wandered the edges of the palace, looking out over stunning views of the sea and snapping pictures for hours. Every now and then, she’d catch a glimpse of him at the edge of her frame.

Hello, stranger. Ava snapped another picture of him, pushing a button on her camera to examine him more closely.

At least they’d hired an attractive one this time.

He looked Turkish. Taller than average. Most professional bodyguards were far from the romantic notions portrayed in movies or books, even farther from the giant thugs who followed musicians around. The best were men and women who could blend into any crowd. They were overlooked until they became necessary, and they rarely garnered an admiring stare.

But this man was… not handsome. Compelling. Something about him made her eyes want to linger. Lean muscle covered his frame, and despite the heat, he was clothed from head to toe, though his suit appeared to be made of linen and not some hotter material. His collar lay open, exposing the edge of an intricate tattoo. That was unusual. His hair was dark and straight, falling onto his forehead and almost into his eyes. He could use a haircut, which meant he was probably not married. She glanced at the three college-age girls who checked him out as he pretended to read a book at the cafe. He didn’t even give them a glance. Focused. He blended into the crowd admirably for someone as physically imposing as he was, but there was still something about him that drew Ava’s camera over and over again.

Or maybe it was just his voice.

She’d caught it almost as soon as she’d left the hotel. Thankfully, the bodyguard was keeping his distance. Carl must have clarified his instructions. The man followed, but not too closely. Occasionally, Ava would turn and deliberately snap his picture, letting him know she’d seen him. He looked away every time she did, a slightly irritated expression crossing his face.

She caught him at the edge of another frame just as he was pulling out a mobile phone. Probably calling Carl to complain about her.

“Won’t do any good,” she sang under her breath.

Her stepfather had tried for years to understand how Ava could pick up on any security he assigned to her. He knew she could hear them—her mother had never hidden her secret from Carl—he just chose not to believe. He wasn’t a bad guy, really. Carl adored her mother, and he was honest to a fault. The fact that he’d been saddled with a stepdaughter who was slightly crazy was just the cost of capturing Lena Russell’s heart. Ava couldn’t fault his indifference as she’d never made an effort with him, either.

The stranger was still talking, so Ava grabbed a coffee and perched on a bench, lifting her camera to capture a boy who was laughing at something his mother had said. They teased and giggled with each other as Ava clicked. A common moment between mother and child set in the grandeur of the old Ottoman court. It was exactly the kind of photograph she loved.

A young man brushed a little too close, causing her to tense, to grip her cup as her coffee spilled hot over her fingers. Her bodyguard started toward the man, but Ava gave a small shake of her head.

Not a threat. The unspoken message seemed to reach him, because he stopped, looking between the retreating man and Ava.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to rid the angry sound of the young man from her mind.

Sharp, piercing tones. His thoughts were shot through with a deep thread of pain. Most people’s inner voices were like tiny orchestras in the moments before a concert. An odd cacophony of emotion and tone only occasionally smoothing out into a discernible voice. The young man who had just passed her was angry, but also in pain. It was all there in his voice.

Ava took a few more deep breaths and looked up to find her bodyguard staring at her. His voice, in contrast, was the smooth, clear note the moment before the orchestra played. Perfectly in tune. She didn’t know quite what to make of it.