Rowan heard Nick Blackthorne’s name uttered again a second before another flash fired, and then the nurse wasn’t just storming towards the scurrying photographer, she was running. If Rowan hadn’t been so damn flustered with the whole situation, she would have been impressed.
But she was flustered.
On every level imaginable.
Worried. Turned on. Out of control. Haunted.
Why the hell had she come to Australia in the first—
“He’s here, Rowan.”
Rowan snapped her stare to her left, finding Nigel McQueen standing at an open door under a sign that clearly said Medical Staff Only.
“He’s fine—” Dead Even’s director held up his hands—palms out—as if to placate an expected tirade before it began, “—but word must have leaked to the public he was here, because by the time the doc was ready to discharge him the paps had arrived.” He flicked Aslin—towering over Rowan on her left—a quick look. “I’ve never seen so many supposedly injured paparazzi in one place. Thank God you came, Rhodes.”
The obvious relief in Nigel’s voice at the Brit’s presence pissed Rowan off. She ground her teeth and stepped away from the man. His fingers slipped from the base of her spine, a loss of contact that should have made her glad.
Should have.
She drove her nails into her palms and glared at McQueen. “Where is he? Take me to him now.”
“This way.” The director turned and began to walk away.
Rowan nodded at Aslin. “Thanks for bringing me here. I’ll catch a taxi back to Chris’s trailer lat—”
“Chris wants to see Aslin too.” Nigel’s voice cut her dismissal short. “He said the two of you would be together.”
Hot tension squirmed through Rowan’s belly, but from Nigel’s words or the look Aslin gave her that echoed exactly what he’d told her in the elevator—that it wasn’t over—she didn’t know.
Of course you know. It’s both.
It was both. She was pissed Chris had made a connection with the bodyguard. And she was unnerved that she had as well.
Without a word, she walked through the door. A white flash popped behind her, telling her at least one paparazzo had risked being given a colonoscopy to get a photo of Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard. On a detached level, she wondered if images of Aslin without the rock star sold, and then she saw her brother sitting propped against a pile of pillows on a hospital bed, a white butterfly bandage stuck to his eyebrow and all thoughts of the paparazzi vanished.
“Hey, sis.” A wide grin split Chris’s world-famous face. He cocked his head to the side a little, no doubt in an attempt to show her his wound. “Looks like I’m going to need to make a claim on my insurance. What do you think, Aslin? Will it make me more believable as a seasoned commando?”
“Definitely,” Aslin’s deep rumble behind her made Rowan’s belly knot. “All us commandos have scars.”
Before she could stop herself, she turned and cast a steady inspection over Aslin’s hawkishly handsome face. There was a ghost of a scar along his strong right jaw line, a thin straight line that—to her practiced eye—looked like the result of a blade or knife of some kind, and a smaller, thicker scar just above his left eyebrow near his temple. Neither detracted from the understated sensuality radiating from him. In fact, they only emphasized it. In a menacing, primitive way.
Oh boy. She was pathetic.
“Like what you see?”
A fiery blush flooded Rowan’s cheeks at Aslin’s murmured question. She started, jerking her attention back to her brother. Only to find Chris grinning at her.
Great. Just great.
“Rowan and Aslin sitting in a tree,” her brother sang off-key, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Kay. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. En—”
She thumped him in the shoulder with a fist. “Shut the fuck up.”
He laughed.
Behind her, Aslin chuckled. Chuckled.
“Probably not a good idea to hit the patient.” An older man dressed in a white coat appeared at the foot Chris’s bed, a disapproving frown on his seamed face. He reached for the chart, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening. “Hmm. Your vitals are still a little erratic, Mr. Huntley. I’m thinking I’d like to keep you in overnight for observation.”
Rowan stiffened. “What’s going on, doctor?”
The elder gentleman lifted an eyebrow at her. “Apart from being punched in the shoulder, you mean?”
Chris snorted. “Gotcha there, sis.”
“Sister?” The doctor made a tsk tsk sound.
Rowan bit back a retort. No matter how much she wanted to tell the old coot to shut up, now wasn’t the time. “Is Chris okay?”