Muscle for Hire (19 page)

“Nigel McQueen.” Nigel thrust out his hand to the cop, giving the man a wide, beguiling smile. “Director of
Dead Even
. I’ve been looking for a certain presence for a small but pivotal role in an upcoming scene, and casting hasn’t delivered what I’m after. Which is you.”

The cop blinked. Looked at Nigel’s hand shaking his. Shot Aslin a quick glance. Looked back at Nigel again. “I’ve never…do you think…”

“I was just watching you deal with my rather intimidating friend here—” Nigel went on, still shaking the cop’s hand, “—Nick Blackthorne’s personal bodyguard, by the way. Do you listen to Nick’s music? Awesome singer. Wrote the theme song for
Dead Even
. Awesome track. He’s doing a special concert in Sydney soon, isn’t he, Rhodes? Maybe you could get some backstage tickets?”

Aslin regarded the director, keeping his expression set. Nick was doing no such concert. Nick was on his way to New York for who knows how long. But the cop didn’t know that, and by the way he was gaping at Aslin, the man was a fan.

“Anyways,” Nigel continued. “I’d really like to get some shots of you, just to see if the camera captures your intensity. Is that okay?”

The cop dropped his stare to his hand still engulfed by Nigel’s pumping one. Back up to Aslin. To Nigel. “I’m not—”

“Can I get it with the trailer as a backdrop? Like an action shot? If you’re what I’m looking for, you’ll be shooting with Scarlett Johansson. Have you met Scarlett Johansson, yet? Damn, now that’s a fine woman.”

Fifteen minutes later, after photographing the cop in various poses around the destroyed trailer on his iPhone, Nigel walked away
with
the police officer in tow, the director describing in great detail the scene the cop would be shooting with Scarlett. A scene, to the best of Aslin’s memory, that didn’t exist in the script.

Standing at what was once the door to his trailer, but was now a gaping hole of torn metal, Aslin watched the two men disappear around a corner, Nigel dropping him a discreet wink before turning.

Leaving Aslin alone.

Without hesitation, he stepped up into the charred remains of his mobile abode.

He knew what he was looking for—something that would indicate the explosion had been deliberately lit. And something that would tell him who was responsible.

Ha. You’re not wanting for much, are you, boyo?

The interior was a mess. War-zone destruction. The smell threaded into Aslin’s nose, acrid and smoky. It was a smell he remembered all too well. A hideous odor he’d hoped never to breathe in again. It took him back to his last tour of duty, to the shit fire that was Afghanistan. His gut clenched. His muscles coiled. It was a visceral reaction, but he welcomed it. It took his mind from the fact he’d blurted out to Rowan how he felt.

It also took his mind from the fact he actually felt that way to begin with.

Love. Fuck, he was a British bodyguard in love with an American martial arts expert who despised the notion of needing protection.

And someone was trying to kill her.

Cold fury stirred deep in his core, but he ignored it, focusing instead on his surroundings. He cast the destruction a slow inspection without moving, needing to take it all in first. To see if anything immediately caught his attention.

Nothing did.

But then he hadn’t spent enough time in the trailer in the first place to know what it really looked like inside, had he? And when he was in it, he’d been losing himself in the rapture of making love to Rowan. The interior could have been a carbon copy of the inside of the Taj Mahal and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Sloppy. Real sloppy. Was a time you didn’t miss anything.

He ground his teeth. Was a time he wasn’t in love, as well. Life changed.

And unless you find out what the fuck is going on, life may change again. For the worse.

He bit back a low growl at the heinous thought of Rowan being killed and moved deeper into the burnt-out trailer carcass. Shattered glass and debris crunched under his booted feet, the sound a ghost of his former life. How many bomb-destroyed buildings had he searched during his SAS days?

Too many.

But none mattered as much as this one.

This one was going to tell him who was after Rowan.

This one was going to tell him who he was going to break in two with his bare hands.

If only he could find what he was looking for now.

And yet, there
was
nothing. Nothing looked wrong, which was ridiculous given everything in there was now blackened, blistered or charred almost beyond recognition. The bed—a piece of furniture he’d never even approached—was a sodden lump of blackness, the table and chairs were upended—what was left of them, that was.

He scanned the small kitchenette, noting the blast pattern. The detonation had occurred in that area, but as far as Aslin could determine there was nothing in the kitchen capable of exploding. The stove hot plates—now black warped discs on a charred and buckled silver surface—told him the appliance was electric, not gas, and there was no oven, nor a space in the fire-ravaged cupboards where one might have been pre-blast.

He crossed the rubble on slow, careful feet, running his stare over everything, his mood growing dark.

Nothing.

Not a sodding thing.

What were you expecting? A sign with the words
“I did this
” pinned to the remains of a lump of C-4?

He sneered. And then jerked around when a noise came from behind him.

“See anything you like?” A man stood in the gaping mouth of the trailer, white shirt pristine and crisp, black tie perfectly knotted, stare locked on Aslin with drilling intensity. “And while I’m asking questions, who are you?”

Aslin studied him. “Aslin Rhodes.”

The man processed the answer before narrowing his light blue eyes. “The owner of the trailer.”

Aslin nodded. It wasn’t his trailer, per se, but he wasn’t ready to divulge anything until he knew who the man was.

“Was there anything of value inside it when it detonated?” the man asked, his inspection on Aslin’s face unwavering.

“No.”

“But there could have been, correct?”

Aslin didn’t answer.

The man cast a quick look over the burnt-out interior surrounding Aslin. “Your girlfriend was about to enter, correct?”

Aslin clenched his teeth. “Yes.”

He didn’t know if
girlfriend
was the correct word to describe what he had with Rowan, but once again, he wasn’t prepared to offer up that information to the stranger yet.

“She’s lucky she’s alive,” the man went on, returning his stare to Aslin’s face. “Or maybe,
you’re
the lucky one. Given that it was your trailer.”

Aslin let his spine straighten. He turned—slowly—to fully face the immaculately dressed man. “And you are?”

Blue eyes flicked over Aslin, from head to toe. “Officer Desmond Russell. Chief arson investigator. Mind telling me why you thought it was okay to cross a police line?”

Aslin held the officer’s stare. “Because my girlfriend was almost killed, and I want to know who did it.”

Desmond Russell’s eyes narrowed a little. “And what makes you think it wasn’t an accident?”

“My gut.”

“Intelligent gut you’ve got there.”

Aslin snorted. “Some would argue differently.”

“What else is your gut telling you?”

“That you’re not telling
me
something.”

Officer Russell’s head inclined. Once. “True. And I’m not going to, I’m afraid. But I can tell you this is a crime scene and you have to exit it. Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Rhodes?”

The urge to tell the arson investigator to sod off welled up in Aslin. He bit it back. Like the cop earlier, the man was only doing his job. Crossing the remains of his trailer, Aslin dropped through the door to the ground, directly in front of Russell. “I don’t.”

Russell fixed him with another narrowed-eyed stare. “Why’s a musician’s bodyguard working on a film site?”

Aslin stiffened. “How do you know what I do for a living?”

“I do my job properly, Mr. Rhodes. Before I even look at the scene I know who the parties involved are. Just that little fact can give me a wealth of information of the scene.”

“And what does me being Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard tell you about this scene?”

“That an ex-British Special Forces officer would know how to detonate a trailer if he wanted.”

Aslin balled his fists. “He would. But he didn’t.”

Russell didn’t break Aslin’s stare. “How about I be the judge of that. In the meantime, mind telling me why you had a gas heater installed in the trailer in the middle of summer? I know you Brits constantly complain about the Australian heat so I can’t fathom why you’d need a heater in there?”

An icy finger traced up Aslin’s spine. The hair on his nape prickled. “Heater?”

Russell studied him for a long second and then, with a dismissive noise, wrapped his fingers around the charred edges of the doorframe and pulled himself up into the trailer. “Don’t leave town, Mr. Rhodes,” he said over his shoulder before withdrawing a pair of blue latex gloves from his back pocket and stepping out of sight.

Aslin stood motionless, his heartbeat fast, the arson investigator’s words ringing in his head.

Heater. He hadn’t installed a heater. Hadn’t requested one. Why would he? Compared to Britain—and New York, for that matter—it was bloody hot in Australia, most especially in summer.

So where had the heater come from?

Or more to the point, who had put it in there?

Pulling in a deep, smoke-tainted breath, he turned from his trailer. Nigel McQueen’s personal assistant had been responsible for arranging the mobile home. Maybe the young man knew where the heater came from?

Fifteen minutes later, Aslin was more frustrated than ever. Judging by the confusion in the P.A.’s eyes when questioned, followed by the abject terror when Aslin’s control began to fray, the young man was clueless. As was Nigel when Aslin questioned him while he was in the middle of placating a very agitated Scarlett Johansson over a stolen kiss from a police officer.

Now, standing on the other side of the clearing from the row of trailers, Aslin stared hard at the destroyed carcass.

Someone knew something. Someone had seen something. There was no way, in a place as crowded with people as the
Dead Even
film site, not one person saw someone carrying something as obvious as a gas heater.

Someone, somewhere, knew something.

He just had to find that person.

His back pocket started to vibrate, his phone’s normal ring tone—Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust”—filling the silence.

Biting back a muttered curse, Aslin yanked his cell phone out and rammed it to his ear. “Rhodes.”

“You know that fan causing Huntley grief?” Liev Reynold’s Australian accent sounded through the connection, his tone on edge. “The one with the red hair security escorted off the site today? She’s here at the hospital.”

Thick heat knotted like a furious fist in Aslin’s gut. “I’m on my way.”

He shoved his phone back in his pocket and turned from the trailer, only to find Warren McCreedy directly behind him.

The key grip flinched, stumbling back a step. “Sorry, Mr. Rhodes.”

Aslin stopped his hands balling into fists. Just. “That’s okay. What can I help you with?”

McCreedy’s gaze slid to the destruction behind Aslin for a second before returning to Aslin. “I just wanted to ask how Ms. Hemsworth is?”

The hair on the back of Aslin’s neck stirred. “She’s well.”

McCreedy let out a breath, shooting the trailer another glance. “That’s good. It would fuck Chris up big time if anything happened to his sister.”

“In what way?”

McCreedy barked out a wry laugh. “She’s his world. Without her…well, without her his life wasn’t exactly sane.”

Aslin cocked his head to the side. A fraction. “Weren’t you a part of that life?”

“Yeah, I was. But he’s in a better place now. Better mindset and all. Still miss it though.”

The cold finger that had traced its way up Aslin’s spine earlier returned. Colder. He stared hard at the key grip. “How much?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up his head. “Fuck, not enough to hurt Rowan, if that’s what you’re thinking?”

At Rowan’s name, Aslin’s anger—already simmering close to deadly rage—grew hotter. He lowered his head, just enough to make McCreedy shuffle back a step. “I’m thinking a number of things at this point in time, lad.”

Aslin held him prisoner with his stare, letting the man see the promise in his eyes, letting the key grip sweat for a long moment. And then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

He heard McCreedy’s sharp exhalation cut the air behind him. Almost smelt his pungent B.O. as the man no doubt swiped at his face or ran his fingers through his hair. It was the normal response to such an obvious threat.

As soon as Aslin dealt with the fan at the hospital, he’d sit down with Warren McCreedy and have a conversation. A long one. Something about the key grip was…off.