Muscle for Hire (10 page)

When she knew drying herself had dragged into hiding out in the bathroom, she wrapped the towel around her chest, raked her fingers through her damp hair and exited the room.

Aslin stood on the balcony, his back to the suite. His legs were braced apart, his hands planted on the steel railing.

Rowan studied his wide back, her gaze charting a journey over the sculpted strength of his shoulders, his lats, down to the bunched perfection of his gluteus maximus.

Day-um, he had a gorgeous ass.

“You’ve got ten minutes, Rowan.” She flinched at the low statement thrown at her over his right shoulder without looking at her.

“For what?” she asked, for some reason feeling the need to clutch the towel more tightly to her breast.

“To get dressed before I come in there and do what we both want me to do.”

Rowan’s heart punched up into her tight throat again. Damn it, she’d never met a man who flustered her so quickly and easily.

She toyed with the idea of letting fate take over. Of keeping her feet in place and dropping the towel to the floor.

What got her moving was Aslin’s growling, “And I won’t be gentle.”

She all but ran for the suite’s bedroom and her overnight bag.

Five minutes later, dressed in cut-off denim shorts, a retro Bruce Lee T-shirt and her favourite cowboy boots, her heart far too fast, her expression as calm as she could force it to be, she walked back into the suite’s living room.

Aslin still stood on the balcony, his back to her. He was talking on a phone, his voice nothing but a low rumble of indecipherable sounds rolling with that sexy British accent of his. Rowan couldn’t make out the words, but she could tell from his body language he wasn’t happy. At all.

“Okay,” he suddenly said, louder. He turned to toward her, the rising sun casting him in silhouetting shadows that hid his face from her. “I’ve got to go. Let me know what you find out.”

He didn’t seem to wait for whomever he was talking with to answer. Sliding his cell phone into his back pocket, he crossed the balcony threshold and strode over to her, his expression unreadable.

“You’re really going to wear shorts on the back of a motorbike?”

Rowan tilted her chin. “You want me to take them off?”

A dark fire flickered in his eyes. “I want to rip them off, Rowan.” His matter-of-fact response made her pulse thump fast and her palms prickle. “Along with the rest of your clothes. I want you naked and coated in sweat as I bring you to the wildest orgasm of your life. But your brother is waiting, and he refuses to start filming until you’re on set.”

At the mention of Chris’s name, Rowan’s heart slammed into her throat. Oh God, here she was flirting with a man that left her utterly discombobulated and her brother was still in hospital?

She swallowed, guilt and shame heating her cheeks. “How do we pick him up on your bike? Isn’t that going to be a physical impossibility?”

Aslin scooped up his helmet from where she’d left it on the coffee table the night before and handed it to her. “He was discharged at six this morning and Nigel asked if I would collect him. I dropped him off at the barracks before coming here.”

A finger of irritation stroked down Rowan’s spine. Aslin had collected her brother? Aslin? A man Chris had known for less than a day?

She narrowed her eyes. “Of course you did. That being your purpose in life and all. To look after celebrities and be at their beck and call?”

The moment the insult was past her lips Rowan regretted it. It was petulant and childish.

Aslin’s stare never left her face. Nor did his ambiguous expression change. “Rowan, at this point in time, my purpose in life is to get you to the set of
Dead Even
. But if you insist on standing here trying to antagonize me, it will very quickly become to teach you a lesson.” He bent at the waist—just enough to make her shift her feet to maintain her glare on his face. “And trust me, I have no problems telling Nigel McQueen and your brother filming was delayed because you provoked me into throwing you on the bed and fucking you senseless. Is that what you’re hoping to achieve?”

His calmly delivered words slammed into her like a fist. Her breath caught in her throat and her pussy squeezed tight with urgent need. She drew in a steadying breath, wishing her nipples would stop pinching into hard peaks. He was correct of course. She
was
antagonizing him. He’d thrown her carefully controlled world into chaos since the second she’d met him, and she had no freaking clue how to deal with that.

She either wanted to fuck him or beat the shit out of him. Sometimes both at the same time.

It was messing with her head.

Wrapping her fingers around his helmet where he still held it out between them, she all but snatched it from his grip. “I’m not changing out of my shorts,” she muttered.

The edges of Aslin’s lips curled. A little. “I didn’t think you would.”

She stared at him, wishing she could think of something to say. Something smart and full of sass. Hell, even something funny. But Chris had got all the funny in their family. She had got the…

What? Ability to beat someone in a fight?

It was a bleak thought, one she couldn’t deny. Since her parents’ murder, she’d honed herself into a fighting machine. She didn’t need sass or wit. She had her fists and her feet. She made her living being the best fighter on the circuits. On the mat, in a dojo, there was no need for snappy comebacks or droll comments. On the mat there was just punishing pain and victory.

A thick lump filled her throat and she turned away from Aslin.

“C’mon,” she snarled, storming for the door. “I want to see my brother.”

If Aslin noticed her abrupt shift in mood, he didn’t comment. She almost wished he would. If he did, if he tried to cajole it out of her in the elevator ride down to the hotel foyer, it would give her an excuse to slam him against the wall and tell him to back the fuck off. Instead, he stood beside her, silent. His towering presence made her feel small and woefully vulnerable even as his undeniable maleness made her ache for his touch and wish he’d carried out his threat and stripped her bare back up in Chris’s suite.

Oh God, she was messed up.

She refused to cling to him on his bike. It was tricky. For one thing, they were moving through the Sydney streets during rush hour traffic. Aslin was constantly accelerating and braking, the G-forces throwing her backward and forward on the pillion passenger seat. For another, he smelled so damn good. This close, with her breasts brushing at his broad back, she breathed in the subtleness of his scent—sandalwood soap, leather and something else. Something perfect, intoxicating, addictive and uniquely him.

Even with the helmet’s visor down, she could smell him.

It infuriated her.

It aroused her.

When they finally drove through the gate at the film site, pausing briefly as Aslin flashed their security passes at the waiting guard, she was damn near giddy with sucking in breath after deep breath.

He’d barely brought the bike to a halt in front of Chris’s trailer when she threw her leg over the back and hurried for the open door of her brother’s on-site abode.

She tried to tell herself it was anxious impatience to see Chris that made her behave so ridiculously.

Aslin’s laugh behind her—low and far too knowing—told her she wasn’t fooling anyone.

She drove her nails into her palms and vaulted up into the trailer, determined to ignore the annoying Brit. Only to discover Chris wasn’t there.

“He’s on set, Rowan.” Aslin’s deep voice played over her senses, his breath warm on the side of her neck as he entered the trailer after her. “On the other side of the site in the old convict dormitories. No doubt waiting for us.”

She spun to glare up at him, her heart racing too damn fast for her liking. “Then why did we come here?”

“So I could do this.”

Before she could do anything—and with reflexes as fast as hers, she should have been able to do
something
—his hands came up to cup her face and he brushed his lips over hers.

She froze, the gentle beauty of the simple kiss stealing any ability in her to move.

When he straightened, her breath caught at the raw desire in his eyes. There was nothing arrogant, dominating, threatening or confusing about it. Just pure desire.

Her belly knotted. Her sex grew thick with wet need.

“I know I could take you here and now, Rowan,” he murmured, tracing her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb in a slow stroke. “I can feel your need in your body, see it in your face, but I won’t. I’ll wait. Fuck knows how I’ll find the control, but I’ll wait. Until you tell me to take you.”

She gazed up at him, unable to draw breath.

“And when you do—” the desire in his stare turned molten, “—I’ll unleash my control and nothing will stop me. Do you understand?”

She nodded. A single dip of her head.

Aslin smiled. “Good. Now let’s go find your brother.”

He stepped aside, holding out his arm toward the open door.

The pit of Rowan’s belly churned. For a split second, she wanted to say “to hell with my brother”, but the moment the thought formed in her mind—like the softest of whispers—prickling guilt and self-disgust rushed through her. She turned and hurried for the door, practically leaping down the steps to ground.

Only to bump into a woman with dyed-red hair wearing a skin-tight
Chris Huntley
T-shirt.

Rowan stumbled back, her cheeks flushing with heat as she smiled an apology at the older woman. “I’m sorry. I should look where I’m—”

“How did you get past security?”

Rowan jumped at Aslin’s growl. As did the woman. The blood drained from her makeup-caked face. Her stare snapped up to the Brit where he stood in the trailer’s open doorway. “Damn it,” she muttered, a second before she spun on her heel and bolted.

Rowan blinked. “What the fuck?”

She turned to look at Aslin, just in time to see him launch himself from the top step. He sprinted past her, a chilling expression on his face, his jaw set.

The woman ran fast. Aslin ran faster. If the situation hadn’t been so bizarre, Rowan would have been impressed by his phenomenal speed and grace. He caught up with the fleeing woman in no time at all, snaring her arm with one hand and yanking her to a halt.

“Let go of me you fucking Pom!” the woman screeched, lashing out at Aslin with her free arm.

Rowan blinked again. Pom? That was the second time she’d heard Aslin called a drink. What the hell did it mean?

Don’t you think the more important question is why did she run when she saw him? Or even, who the hell she is?

“Ah, you know I can’t do that, love,” Aslin’s chuckled voice came to Rowan, his humoured tone surprising her. “Now stop being silly before I have to hurt you.”

The woman screeched some more, louder this time, her legs joining in her free arm’s wild attempts to do Aslin damage. It wasn’t working. The Brit was too tall, too large for her to even come close with any of her frenzied blows.

Film crew was coming from everywhere to watch the show. Most gave Rowan curious looks before turning back to Aslin and the incensed, flailing woman. Some, Rowan could hear, started placing bets on how long it would take before Aslin knocked her out.

“Fucking Pom,” she continued to wail, her face twisted into a murderous glare. “Lemme go, you fucking Pom.”

“Insulting my nationality is only going to make it worse, love.” Aslin’s voice turned to a purr. To Rowan’s ears it sounded like his British accent grew thicker. More pronounced. “Now tell me how you got in—”

“Rhodes!”

Rowan jumped at the sound of her brother’s shout. She turned away from Aslin and the struggling woman, watching Chris run toward them both, his personal assistant stumbling to keep up behind him.

Her stomach dropped. He looked furious.

“It’s okay, Chris,” Aslin said, dragging the woman behind him, even as she squealed so loud it hurt Rowan’s ears. “I’ve got it under—”

“When I asked you to look after my sister,” Chris’s shout cut over Aslin’s calm statement and drowned out the rabid fan’s cries, his speed increasing the closer he got to Aslin, “I didn’t mean fuck her on the back of your bike for the whole world to see!”

A collective gasp went through the gathering crowd. All stares snapped to Rowan. All of them. Including Aslin’s.

Which meant it was only Rowan who saw Chris smash his balled fist hard into Aslin’s jaw.

Only Rowan who watched Aslin’s entire body tense as he recoiled from the blow a heartbeat before he fixed his focus back to her brother.

Only Rowan who saw his face turn to a mask of cold, deadly fury.

And then all hell broke loose as Chris tried to punch him again.

Chapter Seven

This is what happens when you get mixed up with the Hollywood crowd, boyo.

The surreal thought tickled through Aslin’s rage…a second before he clamped his fingers around Chris Huntley’s fist, capturing it mid-swing on its second attempt to smash into his jaw.