Authors: Lexxie Couper
The stunt director had stormed off the set after that. Well, limped off the set. After Aslin had let him up off the ground.
Beside him, Chris chuckled again. “What are the chances your boss knew you were going to stir up trouble when he suggested you come on board the film?”
Aslin’s lips twitched. “I suspect the odds are high.”
A shout from behind turned both men around, Aslin stepping slightly forward and in front of Chris without thought.
“Chris.” Nigel hurried toward them, his shaggy black hair flapping in the warm summer breeze. “You can’t take off now. We need to check the dailies.”
Chris slapped his forehead. “Ah fuck, that’s right.” He looked up at Aslin, an apologetic grimace pulling at his lips. “This’ll take a while. Sorry. Can you come to my trailer in an hour or so? I want to get your take on my character’s motivation.”
Aslin gave him a brief nod. “Of course.”
“I like what you gave us today, Mr. Rhodes.” Nigel stuck out his hand, whiter-than-white teeth flashing from behind a wide smile as he shook Aslin’s hand with a firm grip. “I’m not sure Ricco’s ever coming back on set, but I like what you gave us. I look forward to seeing what you deliver tomorrow.”
And with that, the film director and the actor walked away, leaving Aslin alone.
He watched them go, unable to suppress a snort as the personal assistants for both men came scurrying from the wings, water bottles in hand, mobile phones offered, fruit baskets hanging from bent elbows.
And you thought the demands of a rock star indulgent.
At the thought of his boss, Aslin pulled his phone from his hip pocket and dialed Nick’s number.
“You missing me already, Uncle As?”
Aslin didn’t bother answering the chuckled jest. “Am I being interviewed for a job by Chris Huntley, Nick? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
On the other end of the phone, the man who was once the world’s biggest rock star and was now happy to be just a husband and dad laughed. “No, As. It’s not. But let’s be serious, mate, you can’t hang around Murriundah looking out for insane groupies that
might
come after me or Lauren or Josh. The day I announced my retirement, they started to move on to the next new big thing. When was the last time you had to prevent a fan launching themselves at me? Seriously? Chris on the other hand…” Nick left the sentence unfinished.
Aslin’s gut clenched. Nick was correct. The Blackthorne groupies and fans had tapered off over the last few months, only the odd truly die-hard willing to make the long trip to the small town Nick now called home. When that happened, a state-of-the-art security system kept Nick and his family safe from unwanted guests when they were at home, and the protective residents of Murriundah looked out for their famous neighbours when they were in public. Which left Aslin almost redundant. But if he wasn’t Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard, what was he?
“Listen, As,” Nick went on, his voice relaxed and calm, and for one brief, stupid moment Aslin longed for the days when Nick was the wild rocker who had no fucking clue what he was doing from one second to the next. “Do what you’re there for—be the bad-arse Pommie commando and tell those Hollywood guys how to do it right. When you’re finished, we’ll talk about what’s next, okay?”
Ending the call after promising to get Chris’s autograph for Josh’s latest girlfriend, Aslin wandered around the film set, charting everything he saw for later consideration. He had to admit to himself, it was a bizarre experience. He’d grown up in the London slums, the middle child of five boys who all knew how to fight by the time they were eight. Aslin joined the British Army at the age of seventeen in a last-ditch effort to avoid ending up like his older brothers—who were already serving time. His years as a SAS soldier, of existing as a vital member of a unit, followed by his life as Nick’s bodyguard had given him little time to exist as an individual. Now here he was, alone, with a possibility before him he was eighty-five percent certain he didn’t want.
But if not a bodyguard to a celebrity, than what? What kind of career options did an ex-bodyguard, ex-commando have?
And did Aslin want any of them?
Do you even know who you are now, boyo? Or are you just muscle for hire?
The question was unsettling. And without answer. At least none presented itself in the time that lapsed as Aslin toured the film set.
Forty-five minutes later, part-frustrated, part-irritated, he made his way to the massive, ostentatious manor on wheels that was Chris Huntley’s trailer.
He stopped a few yards away when he noticed a tall, slim woman dressed in faded denim jeans and a snug black T-shirt trying to jimmy open the door.
Her back was to him, her long, toned legs braced apart as she wriggled something thin and silver between the door and the frame near the lock. A thick ponytail the colour of spun wheat spilled from the back of her baseball cap, fanning over her shoulders and ribcage as she shifted her position, no doubt to put more weight behind her attempt to access Chris’s trailer.
For a quick second Aslin, was struck by the sublime perfection of her physique—the latent strength in her firm limbs, the confidence in her stance. And then the sheer gall of what she was doing hit him and he moved. Fast.
Silent.
He snared her right wrist with one hand, spun her around to face him, his expression set in an intimidating glower—and ended up on his back in a blur of colour as she kicked his legs right out from under him.
Fuck.
A booted heel rammed under his chin, mashing into his flesh as the woman glared down at him, her fists loosely clenched at her face. “Want to explain what you’re—”
He didn’t let her finish. Twisting to his left, he slammed his forearm into the side of her calf, rolling to his feet and driving her back—butt first—against the trailer.
A second later, she dropped into a crouch, escaped his pinning arm and smashed a fist into his balls.
He staggered back a step. But only one. The pain was excruciating, agonizing, but he’d learnt to shut pain out a long time ago. Fixing his stare on the woman’s face, he whipped out his right hand, feigning an attempt to grab her arm even as he swooped his left foot against her right ankle.
And ended up on his arse, again, the wind knocked from him, when she spun off the ground in a tight circle and drove her heel into his chest.
What the hell?
The thought had barely formed in his head when two firm thighs slammed into his ribcage, right under his armpits, squeezing him with phenomenal crushing strength as one fist balled in the front of his shirt and the other bunched behind her head. “Nice try, buddy.” A soft American accent turned the words to a mocking snarl. “But not good enough.” Brilliant blue eyes glared down at him, thick dark lashes framing their obvious anger. “Now tell me who the fuck you are and what the hell you think you’re—”
“Holy shit, Rowan!” A male voice called out, and a distant part of Aslin’s mind recognised it as Chris Huntley’s. “What have you done to Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard?”
The woman straddling Aslin didn’t move a muscle. Aslin could tell. Every muscle in
his
body was tuned into hers.
“What’s Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard doing here?” the woman—Rowan—asked without lifting her pinning stare from Aslin’s face. “And why did he try to grab me?”
From the corner of Aslin’s eye, he saw feet come to a stop on the concrete beside his head, but he didn’t tear his focus from the woman atop him. His nerve-endings sparked and fired. He’d been put on his back by a woman? How the hell had he been put on his back by a woman? Who the hell was she?
“I don’t know why he tried to grab you.” Chris laughed. “Did you piss him off?”
Blue eyes flickered, holding Aslin motionless. And then the woman was standing, in a move so fluid and quick he couldn’t stop the slither of appreciation threading through his disbelief.
“Funny, Huntley,” she said, stepping over him like he no longer mattered. “Now shut up and say hello to me. It’s been too long since we saw each other.”
From his place on the ground, Aslin watched her reach out and wrap her smooth, firmly toned arms around the actor, giving him a hug that was relaxed and warm. She kissed Chris’s cheek, a grin playing with the corners of her lips. Lips, Aslin couldn’t help but notice, that were full and naturally pink.
“Ugh,” Chris laughed, stepping out of the woman’s hug. “Girl germs.”
The woman swiped at his jaw in a friendly punch, a shallow dimple creasing the smooth flesh of her cheek. “Shut up, you idiot.”
Chris laughed again, dropped a kiss on that very dimple, and then turned to Aslin. Aslin who was still lying shocked on the ground.
Aslin who’d just had his arse handed to him by a woman no taller than his chin.
“Aslin Rhodes,” Chris said, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Rowan Hemsworth.”
Chapter Two
The situation, in Rowan’s opinion, wasn’t acceptable. For starters, the last thing she wanted was her brother forming a relationship with the bodyguard of the famous wild boy of rock. She’d worked too hard to keep Chris grounded for him to suddenly be exposed to the lifestyle and stories Aslin Rhodes would no doubt regale him with. The life of a successful actor was already fraught with temptation for Chris. Rowan didn’t want the potential decadence of celebrity leeching into his ear via the stories told by a walking, talking mountain of muscle.
She watched Chris hand the silent bodyguard an icepack. Her brother was already enamored with the Brit. It was obvious in the easy smile on his face. This was not how she’d hoped the shoot in Australia would go. Getting Chris away from all the yes-men and fawning hanger-oners in L.A. was meant to help him grasp a more real perspective on life, not skew it to hell.
And the other thing unsettling her? The one she was trying to ignore?
Rowan slid a quick sideward glance at Aslin Rhodes. Her stomach clenched. The Brit was unsettling. His towering height, his impressive strength, his speed, the way his body moved when fighting her, like oiled smoke and liquid steel. It had only been a short kerfuffle between them, but it was enough to tell Rowan she may not be the victor if it happened again. The element of surprise had been her greatest advantage this time, but that element was gone. If she had to face off against Aslin again, she didn’t know if she’d win. And
that
, ladies and gentlemen, was very unsettling. Because the very real possibility of being bested by the Brit not only made her angry, it made her…
Horny.
Damn it, on a level she didn’t want to acknowledge let alone analyse, the man currently holding an icepack to his groin turned her on.
Rowan bit back a curse. She hadn’t flown halfway around the world to be turned on by an Englishman, no matter how killer his biceps and moves. She’d flown to Sydney to look after her kid brother. Aslin Rhodes could just fuck—
Me?
“And then Ricco stormed off…sis? Are you listening to me?”
Rowan jerked her stare back to Chris, dismayed by the fact both he and the Brit had caught her unfocussed.
She pulled an exasperated face at her brother. “Of course I’m listening. What I’m wondering is, now Mr. Rhodes has apparently pissed off the stunt director to the point where Ricco has gone AWOL, who is going to co-ordinate and choreograph all the fight and stunt scenes?” She folded her arms across her breasts—breasts that for some stupid reason felt much fuller and rounder when Aslin’s gaze moved to her. “After all,
I’m
not allowed to do it, am I?”
Chris laughed, a boyish chuckle the world was in love with and she’d heard her whole life. “You know why you can’t be the stunt coordinator.” He tossed a grin at the still-silent Englishman. “But I’m certain I could pull some strings and Aslin could do it. The bodyguard union and the stunt-workers union would have to be connected somehow, right?”
Rhodes cocked an eyebrow. Just one. “I’m here to show you how to be a soldier, Chris. That’s it.”
The calm statement sank into the pit of Rowan’s belly. Maybe it was the British accent, or the undeniable power lurking beneath his steady words. Whatever it was, it made her pussy contract with a greedy urgency she hadn’t experienced since…well, since ever.
Great. She was attracted to a grunt. Awesome.
She leveled a glare at the man, ignoring how goddamn handsome and intimidating he was, even holding an icepack to his groin. “What do you know about being a soldier? Aren’t you just a bodyguard?”
The question was petulant, but Rowan couldn’t help it. She didn’t like her base reaction to the man. It made her feel out of control. Weak.
One thing Rowan Hemsworth
wasn’t
was weak. She had the black belts—plural—to prove it.
“Aslin was once an elite soldier. An SAS Commando in the United Kingdom Special Forces.” Chris grinned at her and, for the first time since entering his trailer, Rowan recognised his wicked sense of humour brimming below his boyish front. Her kid brother was enjoying himself. A lot. Which meant
he
could detect how…affected she was by Rhodes.
Rowan ground her teeth and gave Chris a look, the one that said she was going to give him a damn good nipple-cripple when they were alone.