Rowan’s heart slammed faster in her chest. Her head ached. She swallowed, not wanting to believe what Aslin was saying. It made no sense. None at all. “You…you don’t think the trailer thing was just an accident?”
He shook his head. “The only time I’d been in there was when we made love. There was nothing switched on or plugged in. And there was nothing in there that could have caused that kind of explosion anyway.”
The pressure around Rowan’s chest gripped tighter. “Does Chris agree with your theory?”
Aslin’s jaw muscles bunched. “I haven’t told him. Or Nigel.”
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer.
She stared at him. Waited. When he didn’t say a word, she asked again. “Why not, Rhodes?”
“Because I don’t know who is trying to hurt you.”
Rowan narrowed her eyes. “And you think it might be my brother? His director?”
“It’s not Chris.” Cold calm radiated from Aslin. He stood beside her like an immovable pillar of controlled menace. “But I’ve been asking around. Nigel took out a personal insurance policy to convince the studio to sign Chris for the role. If filming shuts down for whatever reason, he gains a sizeable sum—”
“And you believe that? Jesus, Aslin, that kind of gossip runs rife on film sets. Hell, if you were to believe talk like that the studio that makes Twice Too Many have fired Chris five times over, hired a prostitute for him numerous times and paid for him to have a penis extension.” She shook her head, glaring at the Brit towering over her. “It’s a popular pastime, to see who can make up the biggest pile of horse shit and which pile gets picked up by the celebrity rags and websites first. As far as I know, there’s a prize for the winner.”
Aslin’s gaze didn’t waver from her face.
Despite the pain in her body and the ringing in her ears, Rowan pushed herself upright. “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”
He bent at the waist, enough that their stares aligned. “Why are you being so resistant?”
Because I don’t want to be a victim again.
The words formed in Rowan’s mind, a heartbeat before she froze. Icy dread pooled in her belly. Her mouth turned to dust. Her blood roared in her ears, rivaling the ringing there.
She stared up at Aslin, the confession, the very basis for her grueling conditioning of her body, hanging on the tip of her tongue.
Victim.
A tornado of memories assaulted her—the wet, fleshy thud of her father’s baseball bat slamming into her mother’s head, the same sound as the bat hit her father again and again, the men’s laughter as he fell to the floor, his blood soaking into the carpet beneath the mess that was once his face… Chris’s wails when the men started attacking her mom, his young body thrashing in the chair beside her, his cracking voice screaming at the men to leave his mom alone, the whoops of delight from them as she toppled forward…their feverish eyes as they came for Rowan…
The sound of their zippers sliding open…
The feel of their hands tearing at her shirt, her skirt, her panties…
“I’m not a victim,” she growled, fighting down the fear slamming into her. She glared up at Aslin. Hating the terror gnawing at her. Hating the helplessness wanting to eat her. Hating it. Hating it.
Denying it.
“Rowan,” he began, and stopped when she slammed the heels of her palms into his chest.
“Go away,” she snapped. Pain lacerated through her, hot and excruciating. She welcomed it. It was infinitely better than fear.
And confusion.
He shook his head, his expression calm. That damn British calm he wore so well. “No, Rowan. I’m not going away.”
She glared at him, her head throbbing, her ribs aching, her ears ringing. “Why not? Want to play the big strong man? Need someone to protect?”
He shook his head again, fury making the edges of his mouth white. “Soddin’ hell, woman, I’m not going away because I love you.”
The statement punched into Rowan. She froze. Again.
He stared at her. For a second. And then let out a ragged growl, dragged his hands through his hair and turned away from her bed. “Christ, Rowan, I…”
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t.
With another growl, he turned back to face her, his expression haunted. “I’ve got to go. I need to… I’ll be back. Before visiting hours finish.”
He turned and strode to the door, yanked it open and crossed the threshold without looking back.
Rowan sat motionless in the bed. Beside her, the device she was connected to via the drip beeped continuously, sounding for all the world like an asthmatic Darth Vader doing a Road-Runner impersonation. In her ears, the ringing continued. It was fainter, but still there.