“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?”
“You fucking know what.” Spittle splattered from the man’s lips. “Me, Chris, Rowan…everything.”
Icy calm descended over Aslin. Resolute and infinite. He curled his fists, his muscles coiling, his blood on fire. “Rowan? You’re the one trying to hurt her? So you can be part of Chris’s world again? A world she took away from you when she disbanded his entourage?”
“Hurt her?” McCreedy’s shout reverberated around the closed space. Eyes bulging, he shook his head, his hand shaking as he brandished the blender jug like a blade. “Why the fuck would I want to hurt her? I fucking love her. I want to fucking be with her. And you fucking came along and—”
He threw himself at Aslin, the jug swinging for Aslin’s head.
Aslin blocked the feral attack, snatching McCreedy’s wrist before the jug could strike, and slamming an uppercut into the man’s pudgy gut. Once. Twice. Three times.
McCreedy crumpled to the floor, the jug spilling from his fingers, his moans filling the trailer.
Aslin pinned the man’s wrist to the ground under the ball of his boot and hooked a fist into his loose, sweat-soaked shirt. “Tell me again and I promise I will let you live. Are you trying to hurt Rowan?”
McCreedy shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks, snot bubbling from his nostrils. “I love her,” he blubbered, eyes squeezed shut, face a distorted mask of terrorized misery. “I wouldn’t hurt her. I love her. I love—”
“So you’ve been trying to get rid of me?”
“No, no, no.” Fresh snot oozed from McCreedy’s nose. “I haven’t done anything. Honest. I wouldn’t. Shit man, you scare the shit out of me. I just want to be with Rowan, that’s all. I love her.”
“Why did you attack me when I came in?”
McCreedy whimpered. “I—I dunno. I saw you and panicked. I don’t want Chris to know I’ve been stealing from him. I don’t. I—”
Aslin rose to his feet, kicked the jug away and stared down at the sobbing man. His gut churned. His fury dissolved into disgusted pity. “I’d suggest you leave. Now. Say goodbye to Tilly. Tell her you’ve been lying to her all this time and she needs to find someone else who deserves her. Write Chris a note telling him you quit. Tell him you’re not cut out to be a key grip. Tell him you’re going back to the U.S.”
He leant forward again, letting McCreedy feel the heat of his breath on his face. “And if I find out you’re lying, if I discover it was you…the world is not big enough to hide from me. Do you understand?”
McCreedy sobbed, snot and spittle glistening on his lips. “I understand. I promise, I understand.”
Aslin straightened, ran his stare over the gibbering, cowering man at his feet and then turned to the door. “Go.”
McCreedy scurried to his feet and ran for the exit, stumbling down the steps in two clumsy strides.
At the sight of a dark stain spreading over the arse of McCreedy’s jeans, Aslin shook his head. “Pissed himself,” he muttered. “Proof enough he’s not the one, boyo.”
He scooped up Chris’s script and the glass blender jug, returned the jug to its cradle and exited the trailer. Locking the door behind him, he pocketed the key and tucked the script under his arm. Apart from a slightly aching jaw, there was nothing about him that spoke of a physical altercation. Which was good. The last thing he wanted was Rowan on edge. If Warren McCreedy was smart, he’d book the first flight back to the U.S. and leave Rowan and Chris alone.
Walking back to the set, a ruckus to his left drew his attention. The last day of filming at the old Hyde Park Barracks meant the external location just outside the building’s front d
oor was close to the street. Close enough the public could line the perimeter in the hope of catching some of the Hollywood action taking place in their world, or spy one of their favourite actors. Since the trailer explosion, that fence perimeter had been kept clear. But by the look of the people pressed against it now, security had reopened access.
Men and women—predominately women, Aslin noticed—swelled against the waist-high barricade, most holding cameras, smartphones and printed images of the film’s main stars. They pushed against each other like a wave, jostling for the best position for the ultimate view beyond the fence.
He flicked the crowd a quick look, surprised when more than one person called out his name. Apparently his appearance on the gossip blogs and websites had elevated him beyond Nick Blackthorne’s nameless bodyguard.
Biting back a growl, he continued to stride to the barracks. But he snapped back to the crowd when his distracted brain finally registered who was standing front and center at the fence.
Belinda.
The red-headed fan stared at him, trepidation etched on her face.
Aslin frowned. She didn’t look like the same defiant, determined woman he’d first met at the harbour-side café a week ago. Her hands gripped the steel barricade like it was a lifeline, the Twice Too Many shirt she’d been wearing on two of their interactions absent today.
Aslin’s gut clenched. He studied her, every fibre in his being telling him…
What? That it’s her? That she’s the one trying to hurt Rowan? No. That’s not what your gut is telling you. So what is it?
Acting purely on instinct, he crossed the distance to the fence, lifting his hand to the security guard who began jogging toward him from his post. “It’s okay,” he said, raising his voice enough for the guard and Belinda to hear. “I’m just going to have a chat with someone I know.”
The guard nodded, falling back to where he’d been standing. Belinda stiffened, her knuckles growing white as Aslin approached her.
But she didn’t run away. For Aslin, that spoke a thousand words.
“You’re not here to cause trouble, are you, Belinda? I’m not in the mood to deal with you again.”
She flinched at his menacing tone, but shook her head. “No. I’ve been warned by the police if I cause another incident I’ll be arrested.”
Aslin narrowed his eyes, ignoring the onlookers crushing around her. Something itched at the back of his mind, something about the woman before him. Something from a few days ago. But what? “You’re taking a risk being here. Surely you know now you can’t gain access to Mr. Huntley?”
A woeful grimace pulled at Belinda’s mouth. “All I wanted was an autograph. Freddy Hill dared me a hundred dollars.”
“Freddy Hill?”
“A guy I work with. He dared me to get Chris to sign my chest for a hundred bucks.” The grimace turned to a snort, disgust twisting Belinda’s face. “It’s pathetic, I know, but with a hundred bucks I could buy my daughter the dress she wants for her year-twelve formal.” She laughed, a wholly miserable sound. “Plus Chris Huntley would have been touching my boobs. A man hasn’t touched my boobs for years. I couldn’t not try.”
Someone behind her laughed. “I’ll touch your boobs, honey.”
Aslin turned his stare on the guffawing man, a disconnected sense of satisfaction stirring in him when the idiot with apparently no social skills cringed backward and was swallowed by the crowd.
“That was it?” Aslin asked, returning his attention to a red-faced Belinda. “Just an autograph?”
She nodded. “I came so close. I made it onto the set so often, more than you or the security guys were aware of. So many times I could see Chris but couldn’t get to him.” She snorted again, giving Aslin a sardonic grin. “You were everywhere, pain-in-the-arse Pom. And if it wasn’t you, it was his assistant. Everywhere I went to approach Chris, she was there. Shit, she almost busted me near your trailer on the day you caught me pretending to be an extra.”
Prickling heat razed over Aslin’s flesh. “Say that again.”
Belinda frowned. “I was walking past your trailer—I knew it was yours ’cause I’d watched you and Chris’s sister go inside.” She paused, a smirk twisting her lips for a second. “Saw you both fall out of it too.”
Aslin didn’t react to her goad, keeping his stare fixed on her face.
“I was walking past your trailer trying to find where the other soldier extras were and she almost ran into me as she was coming out of it. I’m just glad she was…”
Whatever Belinda said next, Aslin didn’t hear.
His whole body tingled. Every nerve ending and cell thrummed with dawning realization.
He spun on his heel and ran for the barracks, his blood on fire, cold rage roping through colder fear.
Tilly was with Rowan. Who the fuck knew what she was going to do next.
“Hey!” He heard Belinda shout behind him. “Hey, you rude Pommie prick! Can you get—”
Without slowing his pace, Aslin tossed a look at the security guard gaping at him from the barricade. “See that woman there?” He jabbed a finger at Belinda. “She gets an all-access pass onto the set today. On my say so. Tell Mr. Huntley he owes her an autograph on her chest.”
And with that, he broke into a sprint, the ecstatic squeals from Belinda behind him fading to nothing as the roar of his murderous rage consumed him.
He didn’t answer his phone when Liev Reynolds rang. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who the person was trying to kill Rowan.
And exactly where to find her.
Chapter Seventeen
“I need to collect the board Mr. Huntley has been surfing on,” Tilly whispered in Rowan’s ear. “I promised him I’d pick it up from the surf shop this morning and I forgot.” She slid her gaze to where Chris was discussing his delivery with Nigel, before giving Rowan an apologetic smile. “Can you help, please? I think the owner of the shop is going to ask if Mr. Huntley will let him keep it, maybe autograph it so it can be a tourist attraction in the store, and I know you’re better at making people feel okay when told no.”
A frown pulled at Rowan’s eyebrows. “Does he really want to take it back to the U.S.? He’s got more than one board at home.”
Tilly nodded, her blonde ponytail dancing about her head. “That’s what he told me last night. Apparently, after he and Mr. McQueen finished dinner, he went to see you and Mr. Rhodes at your hotel, but neither of you were there so he called me. I also need to organize a case of the board wax he’s been using here. He likes it more than the wax he uses at home.”
“A case?”
Tilly shrugged. “You know what he’s like. How fickle he can be with stuff like that. Sometimes I don’t think he knows what’s good for him. It’s my role to look after him however, so I will do what’s needed.”
Rowan suppressed a sigh, pulling a face instead as she studied her brother. It was Tilly’s job, she guessed, but damn, Rowan had hoped Chris had moved on from the selfish, extravagant whims of his fame.
“Do you mind coming with me, Ms. Hemsworth? It will make it so much easier.”
Turning back to the young woman waiting with such a beguiling expression on her pretty face, Rowan nodded. “Sure. I’ll help. It’s kinda embarrassing I’ve been in Australia for a week and haven’t visited its most famous beach, I guess.” She chuckled. “In fact, only a few days ago I’d planned to buy a T-shirt from there. Something to remember Sydney by.”
The sentiment made Rowan laugh again. As if she needed a shirt to remember her time in Australia. Her life had been turned upside down in Australia. She’d come to the country planning on helping her brother during his break-out movie role, help him stay grounded and focused, and instead she’d been blown up, fallen in love and now faced the daunting task of asking Aslin to quit being Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard and come with her for the rest of the shoot. And hopefully, for the rest of forever.
As soon as he returned from wherever he’d gone, she was plucking up
the courage to, effectively, propose to him. After ten years of being afraid to give her heart, her time, her vulnerability to anyone but Chris, she’d finally realized she was stronger, so much stronger when she wasn’t alone. It had nothing to do with Aslin’s size and strength, and everything to do with the person she was when with him—a person not afraid.
Who would have thought her life could change so much?
“Achieving what you plan is always a good thing,” Tilly said, bringing Rowan’s attention back to the young woman. “My dad says you never quit on your plans, no matter what you have to do.”
Rowan smiled. “Sound advice.”
Tilly’s own smile grew wide as she hitched her tote up higher on her shoulder. “I think so. Ready?”
With another quick look at Chris, a look met with a cheesy, cross-eyed grin from her brother, Rowan followed Tilly from the set.
“My dad taught me a lot of things I’ve needed in life,” the assistant piped up the moment they’d exited the old building. She turned right, heading in the direction of the crew parking area behind the mobile storage sheds. “Of course, you didn’t get that chance with your dad being—”
She stopped, slapping a hand to her mouth, her cheeks turning red. “God, I’m sorry, Ms. Hemsworth.”
Rowan shook her head. “It’s okay, Tilly.”
It wasn’t, of course. Rowan’s heart ached. She rarely let herself think about her parents since their murder. It was less painful that way.
“I know you don’t talk about your mom and dad. Chris says it’s because it makes you feel weak.”
Itchy heat razed over the back of Rowan’s neck. “He what?”
“He talks about them all the time,” Tilly went on, starting to walk again, her strides long and confident. “I gave him a framed painting of them I had commissioned for his birthday last year. He loved it. I’ve never seen him so happy. Ever.”
Cold disbelief curdled in Rowan’s stomach.
Tilly stopped again, turning back to Rowan. “I did it again, didn’t I? I need to shut my mouth. I’m sorry. That was silly of me. Warren and I had a fight last night and my head is all over the place. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to offend.”
Muscle for Hire Page 19
