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nowadays, she ran away from them. Pretty much literally.
    It sounded like the coward’s way out, and maybe it was. Hopping a plane and jetting off to some city where she could have anonymity for a day or two was getting harder and harder, but it worked most of the time. She could dress down and slide into different skin for a handful of hours. Losing herself helped her not lose herself .
    It was crazy, but then Heather had always known she was crazy.
    She’d ran to Istanbul halfway through a nine-day shoot in the Mediterranean with a hot new photographer for Vogue. It would be her third shoot with them in less than five years. Everything had been going good when she got that coming out of her skin feeling again. Bad. The worst attack she'd had in years.
    She’d forced a hiatus to get her shit together. It was easy, she just pretended to be a psychopathic bitch and everyone gave in. It was unbelievable what people let you get away with when they thought you were beautiful. Heather wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth—particularly that one.
    She always wielded her beauty like a weapon and over the years, she'd become quite the master.
    The blackness had been thick enough to drown in when she finally got away. She had checked into the nice, but very average hotel in the Cukurcuma area of the city with her hands shaking. The paparazzi could be fooled more easily than people thought. It was only the ego of most celebs that made them so damn easy to find. Five star hotels and world-class restaurants were all well and good, but when Heather needed to get away she could drop all that like the bad habit it probably was.
    She had bolt holes in all her favorite cities. Neighborhoods and hotels where, if she were careful and didn't overuse them, Heather could be reasonably sure of keeping her anonymity. Istanbul had seemed the perfect choice.
    By the time she got to her room, she’d had to force herself not to just curl up on the bed and let the drop-off take her under.
    Instead, Heather had put on jeans and an old, ripped-up Dropkick Murphy’s t-shirt, braided her hair into two long plaits and dragged herself out to a bar…
     
    She walked down narrow streets with peeling pavement showing old bricks. Streets hemmed in by pastel and rust-colored buildings piled story upon lop-sided story like towering stacks of books. Twilight was dusting the ancient city in purple and blue. It was lovely and cool after the heat of Greece. The sounds of a multitude of languages and the exotic, nutty-sweet smell of Turkish food followed her as she walked.
    Heather missed the old shisha cafes with their tangles of hookah pipes and the scent of tobacco perfuming the city. The smoking ban had ended all that a few years back.
    She settled for a tiny bar where she wasn’t sure at first that the stern-looking host would serve her, a foreign woman unescorted. Thankfully, the one thing she'd always been able to do was charm men.
    Before long Heather was curled in a corner of the open air bar, her back to the street, a glass of sweet yellow wine in front of her. She would've rather had whiskey, but it was Istanbul. They frowned on the harder liquors on this side of town. She drained it in three great swallows before wondering what the hell to do next. Usually in these moods she had three choices of distraction; fight, fuck or flip the hell out.
    Heather became aware of him just as the anxiety was getting damn near unbearable. The back of her neck tingled. She turned to see him watching her. A man in a black leather trench coat and a smile that screamed badass.
    He had an angular, not-quite handsome face and devastating crystalline eyes; long legs clad in black denim seemed to stretch for miles out from under one of those tiny wooden tables. She knew immediately he recognized her, but not what he intended to do about it.
    There was a dark aura about him, a hint of caged power in that deceptively casual, sprawled poise. Danger personified.
    If this