Muscle for Hire(20)

Rowan stiffened in Aslin’s arms. For a second. Only one. And then she was off his bike and sprinting toward Holston, a feline grace claiming her body.

The paparazzo froze. His mouth gaped, sheer shock on his face as Rowan flung her body into the most elegant spinning kick Aslin had ever seen, her heel smashing into Holston’s jaw with a crunching thud.

The photographer stumbled sideways and fell to his knees. His camera clattered to the concrete, skittering across the ground just as Rowan’s leg completed its blurring arc.

It was poetry in motion. Aslin had never seen anything so beautiful. So perfect.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” Holston screeched, desperately trying to regain his feet. “You fucking—”

Rowan’s foot struck out in a blurring streak. There was a distinct cracking sound, a surprised yelp from the photographer and then Holston’s camera was flying through the air, rising, rising…

And then smashing down to the ground in pieces.

“Now try and take our photo, fucker,” Rowan’s coldly calm voice reached Aslin. “Or better still, get a real job.”

She turned and walked back to Aslin, as if she hadn’t just put the most infamous paparazzo in the country on the ground.

Aslin cocked an eyebrow. “That was interesting.”

She looked up at him. “That was an interruption.” Her glare slid behind him and she shook her head. “Don’t even think about it.”

Aslin twisted at the waist, a grin pulling at his lips at the sight of Holston frozen in an awkward half-crouch. How many years had he wanted to beat the shit out of the bastard? How many times had the sod invaded Nick’s world and Aslin had been forced to pull punches longing to be swung?

Hell, how many cameras wielded by Holston had Aslin himself smashed before the paparazzo learned to swap memory cards before Aslin could get to him? Too many to count, but none were as beautifully destroyed as Rowan’s effortless kick.

“You’ll pay for this, Rhodes,” Holston snarled, still motionless.

Aslin chuckled. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Didn’t think you’d need a chick to do your dirty work.”

Aslin shook his head. “Mate, I’d shut up while you can still talk.” He turned back to Rowan, his smile stretching wider. “I was wrong. That wasn’t interesting, that was impressive.”

“Thank you. Now can we get out of here? I want to take these boots off and disinfect them ASAP.”

“Bitch!” Holston yelled behind Aslin. “The cops are going to hear about this!”

Aslin unclipped his helmet from its secure lock and handed it to Rowan. “Think you’ve made a new friend.”

Rowan pulled a face. “Oh goody. Shall we ask him to join—watch out!”

Aslin spun at her shout. Just in time to duck under the camera Holtson wildly flung at his head. He punched a fist upward into the man’s flabby solar-plexus. Just one punch. But it was enough.

Holston doubled over, face red, and then crumpled to his arse with a fat plop.

“Now that,” Rowan said, “was impressive.”

Aslin stood, casting the coughing, groaning photographer a steady inspection. “You’ll never learn, Holston.”

“Fucking Pom,” Holston mumbled, head down, arm wrapped around his gut.

With a shake of his head, Aslin turned back to Rowan. “Still want to ask him to join us?”

Disgust pulled at Rowan’s lips. Lips Aslin had tasted such a short while ago. “No.”

He recognised the anger in her face. He’d seen it on Nick Blackthorne’s face so many times in the years he’d protected the rock star it was etched in his psyche. He’d watched it simmer in Lauren’s eyes since Nick re-entered her life. No doubt, for Rowan it had always been directed at the scum invading her famous brother’s privacy. Tonight however, that scum had invaded her own.

And it sickened her.

Shooting Holston one last look and finding the paparazzo glaring at him with sullen eyes, broken camera in hand, Aslin climbed onto his bike.

“Fucking Pom,” Holston muttered.

With a chuckle, Aslin removed the helmet lent to him by one of Dead Even’s film crew from the handlebar. “As always, Holston—” he grinned at the surly photographer, a deeper part of his mind all too aware that Rowan had climbed onto the pillion seat and was now sliding her thighs against his hips, “—it’s been a pleasure.”

He didn’t bother to wait to see if Holston responded. Pulling the borrowed helmet over his head, he leant forward, started the Ducati’s ignition and revved the throttle.

He wanted to get Rowan away from the bastard ASAP. He wanted to take her somewhere private. Somewhere safe.