Chapter One
A wall of screaming, squealing, crying young women—and some not-so-young women—threw themselves at Aslin Rhodes. He wasn’t the object of their frenzied affection. That was for Chris Huntley, star of hit sitcom Twice Too Many and soon-to-be released action blockbuster, Dead Even. No, Aslin just happened to find himself between Chris and the wall of screaming, squealing, crying young and not-so-young women. Fifteen years working as the bodyguard of the world’s biggest rock star, however, had prepared Aslin for all kinds of insanity, and this was no exception.
He planted his size-fourteen booted feet firmly on the footpath and with his arms wide, jaw bunched and muscles coiled, held back the frenzied horde. Just.
Movie-star groupies were more maniacal than rock-star groupies it seemed. At least those currently here trying to get their mits on Chris Huntley were. And, Aslin discovered, they were more prone to biting.
“Oi!” He flinched as a set of teeth sank into his forearm and he snapped his glare to a girl who looked no more than twelve snarling up at him from near his elbow. “Watch it.”
“We’re trying to,” a middle-aged woman wearing a skin-tight Twice Too Many T-shirt snapped back, giving the teenager girl squashed between her and Aslin a shove. “But you’re in the road.”
Her fellow frenzied fans echoed her unhappiness with Aslin’s presence, most resorting to names and insults regarding his British nationality. He’d never heard the words “fucking Pom” uttered so often by so many women. If the situation wasn’t so surreal, he’d laugh.
“Seriously,” he called out, still holding back the wall of hormone-induced lust with sheer strength and a wide arm span. “What are the odds Chris Huntley is going to—”
A loud groan drowned out the rest of Aslin’s question. Almost as one, the women stopped pushing against him and fell back, their eyes swelling with tears, their expressions suicidal.
“He’s gone,” the woman in the Twice Too Many T-shirt moaned. Another collective sob sounded from the horde as surly glares turned to Aslin.
Aslin did his own turning, shooting a look at the space behind him where Chris Huntley and Nigel McQueen, Dead Even’s famed director, had been sharing coffee. The harbour-side café was now empty of Hollywood-type persons, the normal run-of-the-mill patrons left behind smirking with bemused curiosity.
Aslin returned his focus to the women, only to find them dispersing on the esplanade. Most stared intently at their cameras and smartphones on which—Aslin assumed—hundred of hastily snapped images of Chris sipping his latte were now stored.
He let out a chuckle and shook his head. He’d never get his head around the unhinged mentality of a frenzied fan. Fifteen years protecting Nick Blackthorne hadn’t enlightened him, and he didn’t see this small job illuminating it either.
Maybe it’s time you went back into the service, boyo? HRH’s Defense Force would take you back in an instant.
A dull pressure settled on Aslin’s chest at the notion of returning to his post as a SAS Commando. He may not understand infatuated, borderline-loopy fans much, but he understood his country’s need to be involved in the war in Afghanistan less.
There was a reason he’d left the United Kingdom Special Forces to become professional muscle for a rock star. That surreal career made more sense than the orders constantly given to him during—
“Mr. Rhodes?”
A male voice called from behind Aslin and he turned, an instinctual tension coiling through his body. He didn’t like being caught unawares. It wasn’t something that happened often.
A non-descript blue SUV sat parked beside the café’s al fresco area, the rear passenger door open.
Aslin narrowed his eyes. That the SUV was there in the first place told him it wasn’t as unimportant as it appeared. The whole area facing the harbour where he now stood was strictly an esplanade—no cars allowed. Added to the situation was the fact Aslin was at the café in the first place to meet the director of the film, and he suspected he knew who the owner of the voice was. There weren’t that many men with American accents capable of flouting the laws in Sydney at the moment.
A soft snort sounded at the back of Aslin’s throat and he began walking toward the waiting vehicle.
Looks like your career in the movies is just about to begin, boyo.
Stopping at the open door, he looked into the cabin and lifted his eyebrows at the sight of Chris Huntley smiling back at him.
“Nick told me you were good at keeping back the masses.” The actor’s smile turned into a grin. “But I have to say, I’ve never seen just one man intimidate so many women all by himself.” Chris held out a hand as he shifted back deeper along the rear seat. “Nigel and I had planned to chat with you at the café, but…well, as you no doubt saw, it got a little crowded.”