Muscle for Hire (8 page)

Hell, how many cameras wielded by Holston had Aslin himself smashed before the paparazzo learned to swap memory cards before Aslin could get to him? Too many to count, but none were as beautifully destroyed as Rowan’s effortless kick.

“You’ll pay for this, Rhodes,” Holston snarled, still motionless.

Aslin chuckled. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Didn’t think you’d need a chick to do your dirty work.”

Aslin shook his head. “Mate, I’d shut up while you can still talk.” He turned back to Rowan, his smile stretching wider. “I was wrong. That wasn’t interesting, that was impressive.”

“Thank you. Now can we get out of here? I want to take these boots off and disinfect them ASAP.”

“Bitch!” Holston yelled behind Aslin. “The cops are going to hear about this!”

Aslin unclipped his helmet from its secure lock and handed it to Rowan. “Think you’ve made a new friend.”

Rowan pulled a face. “Oh goody. Shall we ask him to join—watch out!”

Aslin spun at her shout. Just in time to duck under the camera Holtson wildly flung at his head. He punched a fist upward into the man’s flabby solar-plexus. Just one punch. But it was enough.

Holston doubled over, face red, and then crumpled to his arse with a fat plop.

“Now that,” Rowan said, “was impressive.”

Aslin stood, casting the coughing, groaning photographer a steady inspection. “You’ll never learn, Holston.”

“Fucking Pom,” Holston mumbled, head down, arm wrapped around his gut.

With a shake of his head, Aslin turned back to Rowan. “Still want to ask him to join us?”

Disgust pulled at Rowan’s lips. Lips Aslin had tasted such a short while ago. “No.”

He recognised the anger in her face. He’d seen it on Nick Blackthorne’s face so many times in the years he’d protected the rock star it was etched in his psyche. He’d watched it simmer in Lauren’s eyes since Nick re-entered her life. No doubt, for Rowan it had always been directed at the scum invading her famous brother’s privacy. Tonight however, that scum had invaded her own.

And it sickened her.

Shooting Holston one last look and finding the paparazzo glaring at him with sullen eyes, broken camera in hand, Aslin climbed onto his bike.

“Fucking Pom,” Holston muttered.

With a chuckle, Aslin removed the helmet lent to him by one of
Dead Even’s
film crew from the handlebar. “As always, Holston—” he grinned at the surly photographer, a deeper part of his mind all too aware that Rowan had climbed onto the pillion seat and was now sliding her thighs against his hips, “—it’s been a pleasure.”

He didn’t bother to wait to see if Holston responded. Pulling the borrowed helmet over his head, he leant forward, started the Ducati’s ignition and revved the throttle.

He wanted to get Rowan away from the bastard ASAP. He wanted to take her somewhere private. Somewhere safe.

Tearing through the night streets of Sydney, he headed for the old Hyde Park Barracks. He didn’t question his need to protect her. It was who he was. It was ridiculous, of course, given that she’d just handed Holston his arse with that exquisite spinning kick, but there it was. He not only wanted to fuck her, he wanted to guard her from anything that may upset or unsettle her. One day, no not even that, half a day, and he was completely focused on her emotional and physical safety.

A tight fist of disquiet twisted in his gut. Maybe he really
was
just a bodyguard? A man with nothing more significant to offer the world than his muscles? Was that truly it?

The answer didn’t come to him before they arrived at the film location.

Nor when he climbed off his bike and crossed to Chris’s trailer before Rowan could slide from the pillion seat.

The silence of the surrounding area put him on edge. As did the darkness lurking around them, barely penetrated by the weak glow thrown by the sparse lights scattered around the fenced-off film set. It was ludicrous to think any possible threat hid in their depths, but he moved as if there was.

Too many years knowing no other way had left its mark. With the suspicious tampering of the trailer’s steps gnawing away at the back of his mind, Aslin couldn’t stop his wary alertness.

Especially when Rowan was so close.

When the door to Chris’s trailer slammed open, his hand reached for a gun he hadn’t worn on his hip for over sixteen years.

“Hiya, Ms. Hemsworth.” Chris’s personal assistant skipped down the once-again aligned steps, a black bag hanging from her fingers. “I’ve packed Mr. Huntley’s hotel key, his cell, a change of underwear and three bottles of coconut water.”

“Thanks, Tilly.”

As always, Aslin’s body reacted to Rowan’s soft American accent. He wished he could understand why. Hell, Nick had lived in New York until returning to Australia, which meant Aslin had too, in a smaller apartment one floor down. An American accent wasn’t exotic and unusual to his ears at all. And yet every word Rowan said sounded sinfully sexy.

Every word. Even something as innocuous as, “thanks”.

He stood and watched the two women, enjoying the way Rowan’s dimple flashed as she smiled at Tilly.

Who are you kidding, boyo? It’s not just her dimple. It’s everything. And the way she handled Holston is just the icing on a very delicious cake.

A cake he really wanted to eat.

The crude thought made his cock pulse in his jeans. A dull ache shot through its length down into his balls, telling him he’d come close to erupting more than once in the last twelve hours.

He drew a slow breath, forcing calm into his muscles.

And tensed instantly when a soft scratching sound rasped on the concrete to his left.

Turning his head, he scanned the blackness engulfing the area beyond Chris’s trailer. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

There were eyes upon him. He could feel them.

Somewhere in the shadows, someone was—

“Bye, Mr. Rhodes.”

Aslin started at Tilly’s call. He jerked his stare around, just in time to watch the young woman run past him. Straight into the arms of the tall, heavy-set man in a
Dead Even
T-shirt currently walking out of the darkness.

The man met Aslin’s gaze for a microsecond, and then he was kissing Tilly, his hands gripping her backside before he straightened again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Hemsworth,” Tilly called over her shoulder as she and the man made their way back into the shadows.

“She can do better,” Rowan muttered beside Aslin. He looked down at her, noticing the frown pulling at her eyebrows.

“Trouble?”

“Just a bit of a loser.” She pulled a face. “He used to be part of Chris’s entourage. Now he’s the key grip on the film. I think Chris got him the job because he felt sorry about ending his gravy train.”

Aslin returned his scrutiny to the place Tilly and the key grip had disappeared into the night. The hairs on the back of his neck still tingled.

He didn’t like it. His gut told him something was wrong.

“Can you give me a lift to Chris’s hotel, please?”

Rowan’s question drew his attention back to her. She stood on his right, the black bag Tilly had passed to her now hanging over her shoulder, his helmet in her left hand. Those blue eyes of hers seemed to shimmer with an emotion he couldn’t read, a tension stealing through her body once more.

He understood. Twice they’d been interrupted. Twice she’d been given the opportunity to question her actions. He knew she fought what she was feeling for him—the base, physical attraction—and he also knew a thirty-minute bike ride to the Sydney Park Hyatt would only evoke her sexual need again. Holding on to him, her sex pressed to his arse, her breasts crushed to his back…

His cock throbbed.

Christ,
his
sexual need was well and truly evoked just thinking about it.

Then do something about it. Once and for all.

“I can,” he said, stepping to stand directly in front of her. He gazed down at her, the subtle scent of her perfume, the delicate kiss of her body heat teasing his senses. “But tell me, what’s going to happen when we get there?”

For a moment, it looked like Rowan wasn’t going to answer. She looked away, her jaw bunched, her stare fixed on the shadows behind her brother’s trailer. “I don’t know,” she finally said, her voice a low husky whisper.

The urge to capture her lips with his almost undid Aslin’s control. He stood motionless, his blood roaring in his ears, his heart hammering in his chest. “You can’t fight this forever, Rowan.”

She let out a strangled chuckle. “I’m not in Australia forever.”

“All the more reason not to fight it.”

His answer was arrogant. Dominating. He knew that. But Christ, his control was being pushed to its limit. He studied her profile, watching the conflict raging war on her mind and body pull her eyebrows in a deep frown. He almost kissed her, just to ease her stress.

But stopped, just as the muscles in his lower back began to flex.

No. He couldn’t. Not while she was so torn. Not while he was so aroused. If he kissed her now, he wouldn’t stop.

Straightening, he turned and crossed the dimly lit stretch of pavement to Chris’s trailer. Another urge was twisting through him, one that had everything to do with Rowan and nothing to do with sexual hunger. He wanted to enter her brother’s on-set residence first. He’d spent his life listening to his gut and his gut was telling him there was something off.

He hadn’t let himself think about the disturbed trailer steps. Hadn’t allowed himself to ponder the fact they’d been moved on purpose. His concentration had been too distracted by Rowan. But now he was here…

Pausing at the steps, he ran a narrow-eyed inspection over them.

“Someone had to unscrew them,” Rowan said beside him, her voice low. Serious.

He inclined his head, casting her a quick look.

“I had the same thought you did when it first happened.” A soft snort escaped her. “In fact, I was pissed about that fact. Still am. A little.”

Aslin cocked an eyebrow at her.

She shrugged. “I’m competitive. What can I say?”

He suppressed the smile wanting to play with his lips. “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your brother?”

She shook her head.

Aslin’s gut clenched. Without another word, he climbed into the trailer.

It looked the same as it had the last time he was in there, with the exception the icepack he’d used earlier on his Rowan-punched balls was nowhere to be seen, and the bottle of water Chris had been drinking from was no longer sitting on the small table.

Tilly, no doubt.

Three lamps threw soft yellow light around the space, causing shadows to leap and dance over the walls as Aslin moved deeper into the trailer.

His gut clenched some more.

Off. It felt off.

But there’s nothing wrong here, boyo.

There wasn’t. But that didn’t make him feel any less on edge.

A noise behind him told him Rowan had followed him inside. “I’ll just grab my bag and we can go,” she said as he turned to face her. “Tilly gave me everything else I need.”

He watched her scoop her backpack up from the trailer’s luxurious leather sofa and hook its straps over her over shoulders. Even in such a simple action, her body moved with fluid strength. He couldn’t help but be impressed. If he had a checklist of every attribute his woman should have, Rowan Hemsworth met them all.

Christ, what are you, Rhodes? A caveman?

He wasn’t. He was intelligent, educated and level-headed. But everything about Rowan—everything—brought out a primitive male response in him. The kind that wanted nothing more than to snare a fistful of her hair, drag her back to his cave and claim her as his mate. Solely his mate. And heaven help anyone who wanted to argue with him about that fact.

“Ready?”

Rowan studied him. If she was aware how close he was to slamming the door shut and throwing her on the bed, she didn’t show it.

He inclined his head.

A security guard met them as they were exiting the trailer, a torch beam drilling into Aslin’s eyes. Rowan flashed her
Dead Even
film set pass at him a second before the man apologized and directed the light at their feet.

“Do you have a pass, sir?”

Aslin pulled his own pass from his back pocket and held it out to the guard.

The man bathed the plastic I.D. card in white light for a moment. “Thanks, Mr. Rhodes,” he said, lifting his scrutiny to Aslin’s face. “Don’t forget to check in with the gate guard when you leave.”

“Is there a problem?”

The guard shook his head. “Just the normal over-zealous fans trying to get at Chris Huntley. We busted a fairly determined woman earlier this afternoon trying to con her way in. She said she was with the catering firm.” He chuckled. “Staggers me the lengths these women will go to. The old duck would have had more chance if she wasn’t wearing a
Twice Too Many
T-shirt.”