Muscle for Hire (25 page)

And all the time, Aslin took her body. Thrust in and out, his pace slowly increasing, his strokes sinking deeper and deeper, his stare melding with hers.

She felt no pain in her wounded body. Only pleasure. Absolute pleasure.

Elemental and consuming and unspoiled by pain.

She raked her nails over his flesh and whispered his name and gazed into his eyes, reveling in the fire in their dark depths. Fire for her. Love for her.

Fathomless desire and need and love.

He was hers and she was his, and nothing in the world would change that.

When her orgasm finally smashed into her, when her body was undone by sheer paroxysms of pleasure, Aslin came as well. Silent. Powerful.

His seed erupted from his cock in wild spasms, filling the condom. She could feel it surging through his length as it left him. The sensation was sublime, amazing, and she came again. And again. Three times.

Three times.

And then there was a fourth, so powerful that swirls of coloured lights filled her vision, and all she could do was cling to the man she loved and call his name forever.

Chapter Sixteen

“The power of the almighty dollar,” Nigel McQueen said, taking his megaphone from his assistant. “Not even the cops can compete against it.”

Turning away from Aslin, the director strode across the old Hyde Park Barracks’ ground floor—now turned into a gunfire-devastated scene of destruction by the set-design department—and called for silence.

After four days of not a single frame being shot, silence fell over the set in an instant. Aslin suspected every crew and cast member present knew now was not the time to test the director.

Four days of no filming made for one very agitated, stressed and intense Nigel McQueen.

Four days of no filming for Aslin however, meant four days of quietly investigating every possibility presented to him regarding Rowan’s attacker.

Of repeated frustration when every possibility lead nowhere.

Even the police seemed to believe the detonation of his trailer was an accident. When they’d finished with that, they’d begun to ask about the accident in the dormitory, questioning how a beam installed by the crew could splinter and fall to the ground. Aslin had done his best to glean anything from their behaviour and body language, but there was only so much a fight consultant was allowed to hear.

He’d suggested it wasn’t an accident when they’d spoken to him about it. Or should that be interrogated? It didn’t take more than two questions for Aslin to realize the investigating officer was suspicious about him.

To give the cop his due, Aslin would be suspicious as well. The accidents hadn’t started until he arrived, and he always seemed to be connected or involved in some way. He was in Chris’s trailer when the steps were tampered with, he was on set when the beam splintered and fell, and it was his trailer that had exploded.

That didn’t assuage his simmering rage in any way. Nor did it help him find out who was targeting Rowan.

And despite all the possibilities that lead nowhere he still couldn’t shake the belief Rowan was in danger. He’d investigated crew members that had shared angry words with Rowan during the first U.S. section of shooting, only to discover they were not a part of the Australian team. He’d spoken to Chris’s agent about any fan mail that may have mentioned Rowan, learning there was none. Hell, he’d even tracked down the owner of the empty gas-heater box found in one of the film set’s dumpsters, his hopes shattered when it belonged to a member of the makeup team who’d come down with the flu.

Four days of coming up empty and stalking shadows.

And four days of falling deeper and deeper in love with Rowan.

When he wasn’t on set trying to find a lead, Aslin was with Rowan. Often they were both with Chris. The actor had settled into a relaxed routine since filming shut down. He’d collect Aslin from the Hilton in the morning, go for a surf with Jeff and Warren while Aslin watched from the sand, drop Warren back on set and spend the day hanging out with Aslin and Rowan. He never questioned his sister why she hadn’t left Aslin’s room. He spent most of the time with his feet up, flicking through his dog-eared script, discussing certain aspects with Aslin, talking over future film offers with Rowan.

Occasionally, Tilly would call or arrive to deliver something—script changes Nigel had decided on, gifts from Australian fans, requests from local media for appearances, but for the most part, he was just a young man hanging out, making his sister laugh.

For that, Aslin would protect the actor with his life.

Because every time Rowan laughed, Aslin’s life gained greater meaning. Deeper purpose.

Every time she smiled, he knew what his future held. Not the life of a rock-star’s bodyguard. Not the possibility of returning to the UK for active duty again. Not even the uncertainty of a future career.

Her. Forever. No matter where she was, where she went.

Nick had paid him well during his time, very well. He didn’t need to earn a cent for many years if he didn’t want to. And he didn’t. He just wanted to be with Rowan.

Four days had shown him that.

Four days of relaxed company, eating room service, watching television, enjoying Chris’s company as Aslin allowed Rowan to heal.

Four nights of making love to her until they were both weak and breathless and dripping in sweat.

If anyone had told him sex was a better workout than an hour or two at a punching bag, he would have laughed at them. But it was. And the more Rowan’s physical injuries healed, the more fierce their lovemaking became.

A warm tension curled deep in the pit of Aslin’s stomach at the thought. More than fierce. Profound.

Last night, after Rowan had promised to tie him up and spank him if he didn’t make her come three times in a row, he’d chased her around his suite, both laughing themselves silly. He’d chased her and she’d run, only to be finally cornered at the door.

He’d pinned her there with his hips, his erection grinding to her belly, tormenting her with his lips as he told her
she
was the one going to be spanked, thank you very much.
She
was going to be spanked and he was going to be the spanker.

She’d wriggled against him, laughed her denials and reached for the doorknob at her hip. She’d twisted it and yanked the door open before he knew what she was doing, squealing in delight as she tumbled over the threshold.

They’d both stood frozen for a split second—Rowan in the hallway, naked as the day she was born, Aslin staring at her from inside, equally as naked.

“Holy shit,” she’d burst out, her eyes sparkling with sheer happiness, her fingers pressed to her smiling lips. “I opened the door, Rhodes. I opened the fucking door!”

He didn’t get the chance to respond. Laughing, she launched herself back into his suite. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his shoulders, and then they were both on the floor. Rowan kissed him, laughing and crying over and over that she’d opened the door, she’d opened the fucking door, as the door closed behind her.

They’d made love. He’d given her her demanded three-orgasm climax, and then they’d showered and gone
out
to the movies, catching a late showing of the newest superhero film playing.

Life couldn’t be more wonderful.

Except for the nagging belief she was still in danger.

“Are you ready, Chris? Vin?”

Nigel’s amplified voice sounded through the silence, jerking Aslin back to the here and now. He looked over at the scene about to be shot—an intense moment when the film’s antagonist declares his intentions to Chris’s hero before supposedly shooting himself in the head.

Aslin wasn’t needed for this scene. In fact, he wasn’t required at all for the rest of scheduled shooting. His job as a consultant during the Australian component of filming was essentially finished.

But Nigel had asked him this morning to remain in the role until wrap, which meant Berlin, followed by London and finally Hollywood.

Aslin hadn’t told Rowan. He had to tell Nick first.

“Just going outside for a sec,” he whispered in her ear, unable to wait any longer to do so. “Need to talk to my old boss.”

She’d studied him for a long beat. “Old?”

He dropped a kiss on her lips and walked away before she could whisper the question he wasn’t ready to answer yet.

“Aslin?” Chris’s voice drew him to a halt and he turned back to the set. “Any chance you can grab my script from my trailer while you’re out? Fucking left it there. Tilly, can you give Mr. Rhodes the key?”

“I can get it, Mr. Huntley,” Tilly called from beside a tungsten light.

“It’s okay, Tilly.” Aslin calmed her eager-puppy expression with a wave of his hand. “I can do it.”

He waited for the young woman to hurry over to him, giving her a smile as she handed him the key. “Thanks.”

“Okay,
now
are we ready?” Nigel called into his megaphone as Aslin turned and exited the building.

Chuckling, Aislin pulled his phone from his back pocket and dialed Nick’s Upper West Side apartment as he walked across the old Hyde Park Barracks’ large courtyard.

Nick didn’t answer. Aslin didn’t expect him to. It was early evening in New York after all. The Blackthornes would no doubt be out having dinner. “Heya, boss,” he said when the singer’s answering service activated. “I’m pretty certain you know what I’m going to say. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

Disconnecting, he shoved the slim phone back into his pocket. A sense of disconnected grief stirred within him. He’d been Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard for close to sixteen years. He’d watched a lost, brash, egotistical young man grow into a mature, centred, loving father and husband. He’d shared a life with the singer. And yet, while he could hardly believe he was bringing that life to an end, another one waited for him.

One that he could no more deny than drawing breath.

Two steps later, his phone rang. “Rhodes,” he said, pressing it to his ear.

“Heads up, mate,” Leiv Reynolds’s broad accent came through the connection. “Inside word says the arson investigator has declared the explosion deliberate. His report states the ignition was caused by gas leaking into your trailer from the gas heater found inside it. He also detected nylon residue across the floor from the door to the stove. It’s likely it was triggered to ignite when the door was opened.”

Aslin’s gut rolled. He stared at nothing, his pulse a deafening hammer in his ear. “How do you know this?”

Reynolds snorted. “I’m a firefighter when I’m not a bodyguard, Rhodes. Remember? I’ve got connections.”

The hair on the back of Aslin’s neck stood on end. He gripped the phone harder. “Do you know if the cops have a suspect?”

“That I don’t know, mate. But it looks to me like someone’s out to cause some fucked-up shit over there.”

Aslin bit back a curse. Fucked-up shit was right.

“I’ve got an incoming call, mate,” Reynolds said. “I’ll call you back when I know more.”

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Aslin ground his teeth. All his suspicions had been confirmed. The explosion had been a deliberate attack. Nylon on the floor, like that left behind by incinerated fishing line…

He clenched his fists, rage simmering below his calm. Hurrying to Chris’s trailer, he unlocked the door and leapt inside the dim interior, his mind playing over everything Reynolds had told him.

“Shit.” A soft hiss came from his left.

Aslin snapped around, seeing a shape in the shadows of the trailer’s eating area. He saw Warren McCreedy’s eyes widen with recognition.

Something small and dark was flung at him. A wallet? He couldn’t tell. Didn’t have time. The wild punch came at him before he could dodge it. He took the blow, rolling with the force before slamming his right palm upward into McCreedy’s elbow and his left fist down onto the man’s biceps.

The man screamed, the wail barely drowning out the splintering sound of his elbow joint shattering.

Aslin pulled back enough to allow McCreedy to stagger his own step backward. Enough to let the man make the next move.

Which he did. A wild lunge at Aslin, his uninjured arm lashing out in a quick punch Aslin ducked effortlessly.

The man fell forward and then stumbled backward as Aslin’s fist slammed up into his gut.

And still McCreedy fought on, driving his knee upward, aiming for Aslin’s groin. “Fucker!” the man snarled. “You fucking broke my—”

He lunged again, aiming for Aslin’s jaw with his still-working fist.

It bounced off Aslin’s deflecting forearm, the block sending McCreedy staggering sideward. His hip smashed into the trailer’s kitchen counter and he threw back his head and wailed, a second before grabbing the glass blender jug Chris used every break between shoots.

“Fucker.” McCreedy swiped the jug at Aslin, his eyes feverish, his broken elbow a jarring angle at his side. “You fucking fucked everything up.”

Adrenaline flowed through Aslin’s veins like liquid electricity. “Fucked what up, Warren?” he asked, keeping his voice curious and his stare locked on McCreedy’s face. “Stopping you from stealing from Chris? Is that what you’re doing here?”