Rowan hiccupped out a scratchy laugh. “Can I…can I say ouch?”
Aslin’s knuckles brushed against her jaw in a delicate kiss. “Only if you want me to call you a big girl’s blouse.”
Another laugh tore at Rowan’s chest, sending shards of pain through her body. “A what?”
He shook his head. “I’ll tell you—”
“Rowie?” Chris’s scream cut him short, her brother almost skidding to his knees at her side. “Jesus, Rowie, what…are you okay?”
His expression told her she wasn’t. Stunned horror twisted his face. His stare jerked all over her, no doubt jumping from bloody wound to bloody wound to bloody wound, before he looked at Aslin. “What the fuck happened?”
“An explosive device detonated in my trailer.”
The horror on Chris’s face evaporated at Aslin’s level answer and was replaced with stunned confusion. “What the fuck do you mean an explosive device? Did you leave something on? The kettle? The toaster oven?”
The muscles in Aslin’s jaw tightened and he shook his head. “I’ve only been in there once, Chris. Yesterday.”
“So how the hell—”
“What the Nigel McQueen’s shout cut Chris short. The director appeared at Rowan’s side followed by two police officers. “What the fuck is going on?”hell is going on?”
Before anyone could do or say a thing, two paramedics were shoving the cops and the director aside. Rowan flinched, hissing in pain as they began to investigate her injuries. She glared at them when they tried to placate her with reassuring words. Words she could barely discern over the ringing in her ears. Damn it, why wouldn’t the ringing stop?
Aslin’s low chuckle calmed her irritation, as did his fingers threaded through hers. She flicked him a quick look, biting back a groan at the pain the move caused behind her eyes.
“The pain in your head, Rowan,” one of the paramedics asked, flashing a narrow light in and out of her eyes, “on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, one being—”
“Eight,” she answered.
“Are you sure?”
She gave the man a shallow nod, once again suppressing a groan. “I’ve had a ten a time or two.”
Fifteen minutes later, she climbed to her feet.
She had to argue with them, of course. And Chris. No one wanted her to stand up. Nigel, her brother, the paramedics, they all wanted her to stay on her ass.
The paramedics insisted she stay motionless until they fitted a neck brace on her and moved her to the ambulance. Chris insisted she did what they said. Nigel ordered her to do what they said. She ignored them all.
Just as she ignored the pain threatening to engulf her again as she pushed herself off the ground.
Holy shit, she hurt.
She straightened, biting back the tight sob tearing at her throat. She wasn’t going to just lie around all day waiting to feel better. She was—
“Sis.” Chris reached for her, but she shrugged him off. And then stumbled sideways.
Aslin caught her, his expression unreadable. “Okay, you need to go to the hospital.”
She protested. Right up until black swirls of dizziness stole her ability to stand. Strong bands of steel wrapped around her back and beneath her knees, and it was only the distinct scent of Aslin’s body in her breath that told her he’d scooped her up. The rest of her mind didn’t seem to want to register anything but pain.
Pain.
When was the last time she let pain defeat her?
If the answer came, she didn’t remember it. Nor did she remember the trip to the hospital, but apparently there was one. Because that was where she woke up, connected to an intravenous drip, her favourite jeans and cowboy boots no longer covering her body, a hospital gown in their place, the ringing in her ears only marginally softer.
She pushed herself—gingerly—up onto her elbows. “Ouch,” she muttered, a sharp shard of pain sinking into her right side.
“Big girl’s blouse.”
Cocking an eyebrow, she turned toward Aslin’s voice.
He stood next to the door, his shoulders pressed to the wall, one ankle crossed over the other. A dark growth of stubble covered his chin and jaw, making him appear far more dangerous than ever.
Or maybe that was the morphine talking?
Rowan caught her bottom lip, shot the clear plastic tube connected to the pump beside her a quick look—was that morphine?—and then returned her attention to the silent Brit.
He studied her, his sculpted biceps all the more impressive due to the way his arms crossed his broad chest, his faded denim jeans emphasizing the corded strength of his thighs.
Rowan’s belly knotted. Menace oozed from him in waves.
“How do you feel?”
She shifted on the bed and winced.
“That good?”
Before she could answer, a nurse hurried into the room. “How are you feeling, Ms. Hemsworth?” The woman fiddled with the controls, adjusting something on the drip. “Are your ears still ringing?
“A little.”
The woman made a note on the chart she’d placed beside Rowan and then stared hard into her eyes. “Can you tell me your level of pain?”
Rowan frowned, letting her body talk to her for a brief moment. “Maybe a four?”
The nurse made a hmm sound, nodded, made another note and then adjusted something else. “What day is it today?”
“Friday,” Rowan answered.
“Who is the President of the United States?”
“Obama.”
“Are you feeling hungry?”
Rowan turned her frown on Aslin. “How long have I been out of it?”
The corner of his mouth tugged into a small smile. “Forever. I’m going to call you Rip Van Winkle from now on.”
“Three hours, Ms. Hemsworth,” the nurse answered with a glower at Aslin. “But you’ve been asleep for most of it, not unconscious. It’s good to see you awake and lucid. If for no other reason than the bossy mountain here can stop harassing the doctors.”
A soft snort sounded in the back of Rowan’s throat. “Told you you were bossy.”
Aslin shrugged. “I didn’t argue with you.”
The nurse clicked her tongue. “No, but you did argue with everyone who came in here. Including Ms. Hemsworth’s brother.” She smiled at Rowan, checking something above Rowan’s left eyebrow. “That’s looking very good. I doubt it’ll leave a scar.”
“A scar?”
The nurse smiled again. “You’re very lucky. No stitches required, but you do have a deep cut above your eye and your right eardrum is damaged, I’m afraid. Nothing permanent, but you will be feeling a little groggy for a few days. The doctor will be here in a moment, but until then…” She shot Aslin a look over her shoulder. “I need to check Ms. Hemsworth’s other injuries now. Can you please step out?”
Aslin shook his head. “I’ve seen every inch of Rowan’s body, love. I’m not leaving her now.”
“Jesus, Rhodes.” Rowan’s cheeks grew warm, the pit of her belly fluttering at the memory of how he’d seen every inch of her body. “Way to behave like a Neanderthal.”
In response, Aslin settled his shoulders more firmly against the wall, changed the way his ankles were crossed and gave her a grin.
The nurse tsked. “Would you like me to call security, Ms. Hemsworth?”
Rowan chuckled. “No. It’s fine.”
Casting Aslin a displeased glare, the nurse smoothed a hand behind Rowan’s shoulders. “Okay then, I need you to sit up, please?”
Rowan did as the nurse asked, shutting out the shards and slithers of pain stabbing at her body. She ground her teeth, fixing her stare on her knees as the nurse gently lifted the hospital gown from her torso.
A low growl from the other side of the room told Rowan Aslin could see what the woman had revealed. She twisted to the right a little, ignoring the way her body protested at the awkward move, and looked at her side. A deep purple bruise spread over her ribs,
an angry red mottled with darker maroon. “Ouch,” she murmured.
“You’re very lucky, Ms. Hemsworth,” the nurse stated, her voice soft and almost disconnected. “Only two broken ribs and no pierced lung. If you weren’t in such good physical shape you may be in a whole lot more pain now.”
“Which is what I told Chris.” Aslin’s deep rumble lifted her gaze from her injury.
“Is he here?”
“Outside. With Nigel and Tilly and Warren.”
“And two police officers,” the nurse finished.
The hair on the back of Rowan’s neck prickled. “Why are the cops here?”
The nurse straightened, lowered Rowan’s gown and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be back later. Try to stay quiet and still, Ms. Hemsworth. If the pain gets too severe, press this button. It’ll inject a small dose of morphine.”
Rowan frowned as the woman hurried from the room, stopping only to whisper something low to Aslin. He nodded once, waited until she slipped through the door and then crossed to where Rowan lay.
“Why are the cops here?”
He folded his arms over his chest, his legs braced, his thigh muscles hard under the denim of his jeans. “Because there is a distinct possibility someone is trying to hurt you.”
A sharp breath burst from Rowan. She pulled a face, the ringing in her ears growing louder. “Not this again.”
“Yes, this again. If it had been Chris’s trailer that exploded, I’d be inclined to agree with you that your brother is the target, but it was my trailer, wasn’t it?”
A heavy pressure wrapped around Rowan’s chest. “And this is what the police think as well? Someone is trying to kill me?” She stared up at Aslin, wishing to hell she could stand on her feet. She hated being vulnerable like this. Hated it.
Aslin’s nostrils flared. “They are investigating the situation.”
“Ah, so this is still only your theory?”
“It is. Rowan, listen to me. It’s not a secret on set you and I are spending…time together. Anyone watching you, studying you, would play the odds my trailer would be your on-set base, given our relationship.”
“And you don’t think they—whoever they are—are trying to hurt you? The woman, the red-headed fan? She hates you. What if she was trying to get at you? Or that paparazzo? It’s obvious you two have history. Why don’t you think—”
“Holston is a marked man.” Aslin’s gaze didn’t move from her face. “He can’t come within fifty kilometres of the set without me being notified, and he knows it. And I’m well versed with fans like the redhead. She’s fixated, but I’m not her target.”
Rowan’s heart slammed faster in her chest. Her head ached. She swallowed, not wanting to believe what Aslin was saying. It made no sense. None at all. “You…you don’t think the trailer thing was just an accident?”
He shook his head. “The only time I’d been in there was when we made love. There was nothing switched on or plugged in. And there was nothing in there that could have caused that kind of explosion anyway.”
The pressure around Rowan’s chest gripped tighter. “Does Chris agree with your theory?”
Aslin’s jaw muscles bunched. “I haven’t told him. Or Nigel.”
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer.
She stared at him. Waited. When he didn’t say a word, she asked again. “Why not, Rhodes?”
“Because I don’t know who is trying to hurt you.”
Rowan narrowed her eyes. “And you think it might be my brother? His director?”
“It’s not Chris.” Cold calm radiated from Aslin. He stood beside her like an immovable pillar of controlled menace. “But I’ve been asking around. Nigel took out a personal insurance policy to convince the studio to sign Chris for the role. If filming shuts down for whatever reason, he gains a sizeable sum—”
“And you believe that? Jesus, Aslin, that kind of gossip runs rife on film sets. Hell, if you were to believe talk like that the studio that makes Twice Too Many have fired Chris five times over, hired a prostitute for him numerous times and paid for him to have a penis extension.” She shook her head, glaring at the Brit towering over her. “It’s a popular pastime, to see who can make up the biggest pile of horse shit and which pile gets picked up by the celebrity rags and websites first. As far as I know, there’s a prize for the winner.”
Aslin’s gaze didn’t waver from her face.
Despite the pain in her body and the ringing in her ears, Rowan pushed herself upright. “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”
He bent at the waist, enough that their stares aligned. “Why are you being so resistant?”
Because I don’t want to be a victim again.
The words formed in Rowan’s mind, a heartbeat before she froze. Icy dread pooled in her belly. Her mouth turned to dust. Her blood roared in her ears, rivaling the ringing there.
She stared up at Aslin, the confession, the very basis for her grueling conditioning of her body, hanging on the tip of her tongue.
Victim.
A tornado of memories assaulted her—the wet, fleshy thud of her father’s baseball bat slamming into her mother’s head, the same sound as the bat hit her father again and again, the men’s laughter as he fell to the floor, his blood soaking into the carpet beneath the mess that was once his face… Chris’s wails when the men started attacking her mom, his young body thrashing in the chair beside her, his cracking voice screaming at the men to leave his mom alone, the whoops of delight from them as she toppled forward…their feverish eyes as they came for Rowan…
The sound of their zippers sliding open…
The feel of their hands tearing at her shirt, her skirt, her panties…
“I’m not a victim,” she growled, fighting down the fear slamming into her. She glared up at Aslin. Hating the terror gnawing at her. Hating the helplessness wanting to eat her. Hating it. Hating it.
Denying it.
“Rowan,” he began, and stopped when she slammed the heels of her palms into his chest.
“Go away,” she snapped. Pain lacerated through her, hot and excruciating. She welcomed it. It was infinitely better than fear.
And confusion.
He shook his head, his expression calm. That damn British calm he wore so well. “No, Rowan. I’m not going away.”
She glared at him, her head throbbing, her ribs aching, her ears ringing. “Why not? Want to play the big strong man? Need someone to protect?”
He shook his head again, fury making the edges of his mouth white. “Soddin’ hell, woman, I’m not going away because I love you.”
The statement punched into Rowan. She froze. Again.
He stared at her. For a second. And then let out a ragged growl, dragged his hands through his hair and turned away from her bed. “Christ, Rowan, I…”
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t.
With another growl, he turned back to face her, his expression haunted. “I’ve got to go. I need to… I’ll be back. Before visiting hours finish.”
He turned and strode to the door, yanked it open and crossed the threshold without looking back.
Rowan sat motionless in the bed. Beside her, the device she was connected to via the drip beeped continuously, sounding for all the world like an asthmatic Darth Vader doing a Road-Runner impersonation. In her ears, the ringing continued. It was fainter, but still there.
She stared at the now closed door, her heart thumping.
Her throat filled with a thick lump.
Love.
“Oh boy.” Her whisper sounded like a shout in the room.
And then Chris barged into the room, his world-famous grin nowhere to be seen, his normally artfully mussed hair a wild mess.
“Jesus, sis.” He hurried to the side of her bed and wrapped his fingers around hers. “Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again.”
“What? Get blown up?”
He didn’t laugh at her lame joke. Nor did the doctor wh
o followed him into her room.
“Ah, there’s that wicked sense of humour I remember so well,” the doctor who’d tended to Chris in the ER two nights ago deadpanned. “How are you feeling, Ms. Hemsworth?”
Rowan looked up at him, her heart still beating far too fast for its own good.
Love. Christ, Aslin Rhodes loved her.
“Rowie?”
“Do you still hear a ringing in your ears, Ms. Hemsworth?”
She blinked at the steely haired doctor. “A little.”
He plucked an instrument from his top pocket, leant forward at the hip and shined a light into her right eye. “I must say, for someone who was knocked backward by an explosion, you are looking remarkably well.” He flicked the light to her left eye. “If somewhat shell-shocked.”
“I…”
“Aslin said you’re feeling better.” Chris tightened his fingers around hers. His stare roamed over her face. “Jesus, sis, you scared the shit out of me.”
Rowan smiled at him. “I’m fine, squirt.”
“No, you’re not.” He shook his head. “Someone is trying to hurt you.”
Rowan’s stomach dropped. “What?”
Chris frowned. “Someone is trying to hurt you. Didn’t Aslin tell you?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. But it’s fucking obvious, isn’t it?”
The doctor cleared his throat, pocketed his tiny flashlight and pinned Rowan with a steady inspection. “Is this something the officers waiting outside need to hear?”
Rowan shook her head, and then winced a little as a dull pain sliced through it. “No. It’s the product of an overactive imagination.”
“Rowie,” Chris began, but Rowan leveled a hard look at him, and he fell silent.
She returned her attention to the doctor. “How long do I have to be here for, doctor?”
The elderly medical practitioner’s lips pursed. “The greatest concern now is traumatic brain injury.” He gave Chris a quick look. “That’s where the brain gets knocked about in the skull.”
“She’s got a pretty thick skull, doc.”
The doctor chuckled. “Why am I not surprised? Anyway, our scans revealed nothing when you were first admitted, but I want to be sure, which means I’m keeping you in here for twenty-four hours. Minimum.”
Muscle for Hire Page 13
