Authors: Lexxie Couper
No matter how sated and peaceful her sleeping expression.
He shifted beneath her, an inch at a time, determined to not wake her. It took patience, stealth and muscle control, but Aslin didn’t care. He not only didn’t want to wake her, he wanted to be certain he didn’t hurt her.
Finally on his feet, he allowed himself a moment to study the bruises on her body. Her ribcage was going to be sore for many days, and the cut on her lip would make kissing out of the question. She wouldn’t like that. Hell, he didn’t like it either, but that was the way it was.
So sodding well control that dick of yours, boyo.
Aslin let out a slow breath. What they’d done just now…
Guilt wormed its way through his happiness, cold and tainted.
He let out a slow breath and lowered himself into a crouch. With as little movement as possible, careful not to press any part of his body against her ribcage, he slid his arms under back and knees and lifted her from the floor.
She moaned, her eyebrows pulling into a small frown before she curled into his chest. Sounds slipped past her lips, words he couldn’t make out. He held her motionless for a long second, her cheek on his shoulder, her lips on the side of his neck, her body snugged against his chest, and he knew without doubt he would kill anyone who tried to hurt her again.
Which meant the person responsible for her being injured today better hope it wasn’t Aslin that tracked them down.
Because if Aslin
was
the one that found them before the cops, they wouldn’t live another minute.
And he would end their life with an extraordinary amount of pain.
Chapter Fifteen
Filming was shut down until further notice.
Nigel McQueen, having recovered from his meltdown the day before, was now—according to Tilly—spending his time co-operating with the police investigating the trailer explosion or arguing with the studio suits. Apparently the suits were threatening to pull funding if filming didn’t recommence within twenty-four hours.
Nigel was calling for blood. Everyone was being interrogated. The director’s famed intensity and relentless focus was now being turned on cast and crew. No one was spared his suspicions.
“He’s even questioned Chris and Mr. Rhodes,” Tilly said, shaking her head. “Which is ridiculous. Why would your brother and your lover try and hurt you?”
Rowan dragged her hands through her hair, bit back a sigh and stared at the young woman sitting opposite her. “What are the police saying? Do they have any leads?”
“If they do, they’re not sharing.” Tilly popped a strawberry into her mouth from the breakfast platter she’d ordered after arriving in Aslin’s suite thirty minutes ago. “But the feeling on set is they think it was an accident. Apparently there was something wrong with Mr. Rhodes’s trailer that was meant to be fixed before being delivered.”
Rowan’s stomach rolled. An accident? Was it possible? She thought of Aslin’s insistence someone was out to harm her. She thought of the bruise covering her broken ribs.
Just an accident?
“I told Chris to go.” Tilly’s chipper voice tickled Rowan’s frustration. “He didn’t want to, but I said you’d be fine. And Mr. Rhodes was going to be there, so I knew you wouldn’t worry about him being attacked.”
Rowan blinked, forcing her focus back on her brother’s personal assistant. “Sorry? What didn’t Chris want to do? Where is he now?”
Tilly smiled, her eyes wide and excited. “He didn’t want to go surfing. But when I called Mr. Rhodes this morning and asked him to guard Chris, Chris was more than happy to head to the beach. He’s been working so hard he needed a time out, don’t you think? Jeff and Ross are with him. I procured boards and wetsuits from a local supplier and promised they could use Chris’s image in their advertising in exchange.”
The pit of Rowan’s stomach clenched. Tilly was organizing Chris’s days. Two members of his former entourage, the jovial clown and the surly sponge, were with him. It was just like Rowan didn’t exist.
“Don’t worry,” the young woman went on, topping off Rowan’s cup with hot, black coffee, “I covered his face with sun block and told Mr. Rhodes not to let anyone near him when he comes out of the surf.”
“Thank you.” Rowan was surprised by how calm her voice sounded considering how unsettled she was at Tilly’s words.
That Rowan had woken this morning to find Aslin missing may have something to do with her unease. That she’d felt lost when he wasn’t there flustered her as well. At least she knew where he was now.
“He’s very scary when he wants to be, isn’t he?”
She blinked, Tilly’s statement jarring her. “Who?”
“Mr. Rhodes,” Tilly answered. “He wasn’t very happy to leave you alone, but when I told him Chris would be an open target on the beach for any crazed fans, particularly that red-headed woman who keeps stalking him, he agreed to go.” She reached forward and patted Rowan’s hand. “And no need to thank me. I’m just doing my job, Ms. Hemsworth. I’ve been doing it now for over five years. I’m very good at it.”
Shifting on her chair, Rowan bit back a soft hiss. Her ribs still hurt more than she wanted them to. “Is there anything else?”
“No. Chris told me to tell you to take it easy and get better as soon as you can. Oh, he’s attending a party tonight thrown in his honour by a local night club. Ross said he’ll go with him so Mr. Rhodes can come back here to you.”
Rowan frowned. “A party? Where?”
“Somewhere near the water. He’s quite excited about it. Said he hasn’t been to a good party for a long while. I know Warren is keen to spend some time with him like they used to. I told Warren to call me when they are done and I’ll arrange for Jeff to collect them and bring them back to Chris’s suite. I’ll make sure I’m there to get him into bed
alone
. I know how you don’t like him bringing his sexual partners back to his room when he’s on location.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t either. So much hassle to deal with the next morning.” She rose to her feet, scooping up a croissant from the platter of food on the coffee table. “I better go. Chris asked me to organize lunch for him and the boys. He wants to book out the revolving restaurant at the top of the Sydney Tower so they can relax before climbing the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I reserved all the allocated times for today so they can do it without being mauled by fans.” Taking a bite of the pastry, she gave Rowan a flakey smile. “Oh, I almost forgot. He told me to tell you not to worry about him at all. He’s being well cared for.”
And with that, Tilly vacated Aslin’s hotel room. Leaving Rowan alone and unsettled.
Parties, booking out restaurants, throwing his money around. It was like the second she was out of the way, Chris had leapt back into the extravagant, excessive lifestyle she’d worked so hard to educate him away from. What did that mean?
That he never wanted you taking charge in the first place? That he preferred his personal assistant’s care? Christ, the woman was positively glowing with joyful pride.
She pushed herself from the chair, grinding her teeth against the dull pain pulling at her ribs. The ringing in her ears had been gone this morning when she woke, as was the ache in her head and extremities, but her ribs still felt like shit.
It had something to do with the chunk of Aslin’s trailer that had slammed into her as she’d been flung backward. The doctor had informed her she was lucky to not have her lung pierced by splintered rib bones.
Rowan didn’t feel lucky. She felt pissed. How many side kicks, back kicks, spinning kicks and fists had she taken to the ribs in her life without this kind of residual pain? And yet here she was, hissing like a freaking kettle whenever she moved?
Thank God Rhodes wasn’t here to witness it. He’d call her a
big girl’s blouse
again, whatever the hell that meant. Something about the glint in his eyes told her she’d want to thump him if she knew.
Refusing to limp, she walked to the window and glared out at the city beyond the glass. She was edgy.
Maybe because she’d woken up alone when she’d expected to wake up beside Aslin. Maybe because she was feeling displaced from her brother.
Maybe because she felt…defeated.
Biting back a growl, she crossed the room to her backpack, withdrew a clean set of underwear and then walked—
without
limping, dammit—to the bathroom. Perhaps a shower would clear her head? Wash away the self-doubt trying to eat her up?
Forty minutes later, she killed the water, stepped out onto the plush white mat, wiped her hand over the steam-fogged mirror and stared at her reflection in the streaky glass.
She let out a long breath.
The shower hadn’t washed away anything it seemed, except the slight crust of dry blood above her eyebrow.
She ran her gaze over her body, for the first time since leaving the hospital truly aware of the damage the explosion had caused her. Small bruises and grazes marred her flesh, most on the side she’d landed on after being propelled backward by the blast. There was a nasty bruise on her hip, about the size of a golf ball, and another on her arm that ran from elbow to shoulder. All spoke of a serious blow, none more so than the one that covered her ribcage.
Frowning, Rowan narrowed her focus on the injury. It was discolouring, a faint tinge of green starting to bloom in the mottled purple stain. She touched her fingertips to it, prodding a little to see how much pressure it could take before hurting.
Cold shards of pain sank into her side after a second and she removed her fingers, happy with the result.
Yesterday, just the slightest pressure had made her wince. Today, her body was on its way to healing. That was a good thing. As was the way the split on her lip looked this morning, just a tiny line of red curving from inside her mouth. In fact, apart from the bruises, she appeared okay. Physically. Not at all like a woman someone had tried to blow up.
Her eyes however…
Rowan stared hard into her reflection, her stomach churning. She recognised the shadow there. It was the same haunted darkness that had lingered there for many months after her parents’ murder. It told her she
wasn’t
okay, wasn’t just nursing the injuries of a brutal full-contact sparring session or competition.
It told her she was dealing with shit beyond the norm.
It made her want to scream. And hurt somebody.
A choking sob welled up in her chest, thick and heavy. She swallowed it down and turned from the mirror, snatching up her clean thong.
She’d sworn never to feel like this again. She’d promised herself. Feeling like this made her weak. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t.
Shoving her legs into her thong, she yanked the black cotton up over her ass, ignoring the biting ache in her side at her abrupt movement. Pain could be turned off.
Pain could be denied.
She was denying it now.
She’d get dressed, call a cab and go find Aslin at Bondi Beach. Talk to Chris. Ask him if she was being too much of a PITA big sister.
Walk in the sun and find her centre again.
Pulling her shirt on was a problem, one she hissed and winced through. It didn’t help she was down to just a snug black racer-back tank top now that the shirt she’d worn yesterday had been cut from her body in the hospital, and the shirt she’d worn on the flight to Australia was crumpled in the bottom of her bag. She’d buy a tank or tee today at the beach. There would no doubt be plenty of places she could purchase a touristy shirt that would do the job. As for her legs…
Rowan pulled out the only option left in her bag, a pair of lime green satin hotpants she’d packed in case Chris had wanted to hit the dance clubs one night.
The last thing she withdrew from her depleted clothing supply was a pair of knee-high lace-up Chucks. Not exactly beach-combing footwear but better than her cowboy boots, which hadn’t survived the blast unscathed.
She fastened her hair in a ponytail, wiped away the small beads of perspiration the exertion of getting dressed had created from her forehead, scooped up her handbag and walked toward the suite’s door.
And stopped when her fingers wrapped the doorknob.
Stopped.
Stood frozen.
She stared at the polished brass knob, its chilly surface like a branding heat on her palm. Her heart slammed into her throat. Her blood roared in her ears. A million pin-pricks of fire danced over the back of her neck. Her breath grew trapped in her constricting chest.
She stared at the doorknob.
At her fingers squeezing its form.
Stared at it. Willed her hand to turn it. To open it.
And let out a strangled sob as she stumbled back a step.
“Oh, fuck,” she burst out, tears stinging her eyes. “Fuck. What the fuck is—”
Refusing to finish the sentence, she grabbed the doorknob again.
This time she felt the explosion’s force lash at her face, her body. She sucked in a breath, her stare locked on the doorknob, as immobile as she was.
Open the door, woman. Open the door.
She ground her teeth, her knuckles white, her fingertips aching as she drew on every fibre in her body to turn the doorknob.
And her hand refused to move.