Muscle for Hire(51)

“Ever thought of being an actor, sir?”

The cop blanched at the sudden question, his stare snapping to the man striding up to the police tape. “I…”

“Nigel McQueen.” Nigel thrust out his hand to the cop, giving the man a wide, beguiling smile. “Director of Dead Even. I’ve been looking for a certain presence for a small but pivotal role in an upcoming scene, and casting hasn’t delivered what I’m after. Which is you.”

The cop blinked. Looked at Nigel’s hand shaking his. Shot Aslin a quick glance. Looked back at Nigel again. “I’ve never…do you think…”

“I was just watching you deal with my rather intimidating friend here—” Nigel went on, still shaking the cop’s hand, “—Nick Blackthorne’s personal bodyguard, by the way. Do you listen to Nick’s music? Awesome singer. Wrote the theme song for Dead Even. Awesome track. He’s doing a special concert in Sydney soon, isn’t he, Rhodes? Maybe you could get some backstage tickets?”

Aslin regarded the director, keeping his expression set. Nick was doing no such concert. Nick was on his way to New York for who knows how long. But the cop didn’t know that, and by the way he was gaping at Aslin, the man was a fan.

“Anyways,” Nigel continued. “I’d really like to get some shots of you, just to see if the camera captures your intensity. Is that okay?”

The cop dropped his stare to his hand still engulfed by Nigel’s pumping one. Back up to Aslin. To Nigel. “I’m not—”

“Can I get it with the trailer as a backdrop? Like an action shot? If you’re what I’m looking for, you’ll be shooting with Scarlett Johansson. Have you met Scarlett Johansson, yet? Damn, now that’s a fine woman.”

Fifteen minutes later, after photographing the cop in various poses around the destroyed trailer on his iPhone, Nigel walked away with the police officer in tow, the director describing in great detail the scene the cop would be shooting with Scarlett. A scene, to the best of Aslin’s memory, that didn’t exist in the script.

Standing at what was once the door to his trailer, but was now a gaping hole of torn metal, Aslin watched the two men disappear around a corner, Nigel dropping him a discreet wink before turning.

Leaving Aslin alone.

Without hesitation, he stepped up into the charred remains of his mobile abode.

He knew what he was looking for—something that would indicate the explosion had been deliberately lit. And something that would tell him who was responsible.

Ha. You’re not wanting for much, are you, boyo?

The interior was a mess. War-zone destruction. The smell threaded into Aslin’s nose, acrid and smoky. It was a smell he remembered all too well. A hideous odor he’d hoped never to breathe in again. It took him back to his last tour of duty, to the shit fire that was Afghanistan. His gut clenched. His muscles coiled. It was a visceral reaction, but he welcomed it. It took his mind from the fact he’d blurted out to Rowan how he felt.

It also took his mind from the fact he actually felt that way to begin with.

Love. Fuck, he was a British bodyguard in love with an American martial arts expert who despised the notion of needing protection.

And someone was trying to kill her.

Cold fury stirred deep in his core, but he ignored it, focusing instead on his surroundings. He cast the destruction a slow inspection without moving, needing to take it all in first. To see if anything immediately caught his attention.

Nothing did.

But then he hadn’t spent enough time in the trailer in the first place to know what it really looked like inside, had he? And when he was in it, he’d been losing himself in the rapture of making love to Rowan. The interior could have been a carbon copy of the inside of the Taj Mahal and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Sloppy. Real sloppy. Was a time you didn’t miss anything.

He ground his teeth. Was a time he wasn’t in love, as well. Life changed.

And unless you find out what the fuck is going on, life may change again. For the worse.

He bit back a low growl at the heinous thought of Rowan being killed and moved deeper into the burnt-out trailer carcass. Shattered glass and debris crunched under his booted feet, the sound a ghost of his former life. How many bomb-destroyed buildings had he searched during his SAS days?

Too many.

But none mattered as much as this one.

This one was going to tell him who was after Rowan.

This one was going to tell him who he was going to break in two with his bare hands.

If only he could find what he was looking for now.

And yet, there was nothing. Nothing looked wrong, which was ridiculous given everything in there was now blackened, blistered or charred almost beyond recognition. The bed—a piece of furniture he’d never even approached—was a sodden lump of blackness, the table and chairs were upended—what was left of them, that was.