Muscle for Hire(71)

He leant forward again, letting McCreedy feel the heat of his breath on his face. “And if I find out you’re lying, if I discover it was you…the world is not big enough to hide from me. Do you understand?”

McCreedy sobbed, snot and spittle glistening on his lips. “I understand. I promise, I understand.”

Aslin straightened, ran his stare over the gibbering, cowering man at his feet and then turned to the door. “Go.”

McCreedy scurried to his feet and ran for the exit, stumbling down the steps in two clumsy strides.

At the sight of a dark stain spreading over the arse of McCreedy’s jeans, Aslin shook his head. “Pissed himself,” he muttered. “Proof enough he’s not the one, boyo.”

He scooped up Chris’s script and the glass blender jug, returned the jug to its cradle and exited the trailer. Locking the door behind him, he pocketed the key and tucked the script under his arm. Apart from a slightly aching jaw, there was nothing about him that spoke of a physical altercation. Which was good. The last thing he wanted was Rowan on edge. If Warren McCreedy was smart, he’d book the first flight back to the U.S. and leave Rowan and Chris alone.

Walking back to the set, a ruckus to his left drew his attention. The last day of filming at the old Hyde Park Barracks meant the external location just outside the building’s front door was close to the street. Close enough the public could line the perimeter in the hope of catching some of the Hollywood action taking place in their world, or spy one of their favourite actors. Since the trailer explosion, that fence perimeter had been kept clear. But by the look of the people pressed against it now, security had reopened access.

Men and women—predominately women, Aslin noticed—swelled against the waist-high barricade, most holding cameras, smartphones and printed images of the film’s main stars. They pushed against each other like a wave, jostling for the best position for the ultimate view beyond the fence.

He flicked the crowd a quick look, surprised when more than one person called out his name. Apparently his appearance on the gossip blogs and websites had elevated him beyond Nick Blackthorne’s nameless bodyguard.

Biting back a growl, he continued to stride to the barracks. But he snapped back to the crowd when his distracted brain finally registered who was standing front and center at the fence.

Belinda.

The red-headed fan stared at him, trepidation etched on her face.

Aslin frowned. She didn’t look like the same defiant, determined woman he’d first met at the harbour-side café a week ago. Her hands gripped the steel barricade like it was a lifeline, the Twice Too Many shirt she’d been wearing on two of their interactions absent today.

Aslin’s gut clenched. He studied her, every fibre in his being telling him…

What? That it’s her? That she’s the one trying to hurt Rowan? No. That’s not what your gut is telling you. So what is it?

Acting purely on instinct, he crossed the distance to the fence, lifting his hand to the security guard who began jogging toward him from his post. “It’s okay,” he said, raising his voice enough for the guard and Belinda to hear. “I’m just going to have a chat with someone I know.”

The guard nodded, falling back to where he’d been standing. Belinda stiffened, her knuckles growing white as Aslin approached her.

But she didn’t run away. For Aslin, that spoke a thousand words.

“You’re not here to cause trouble, are you, Belinda? I’m not in the mood to deal with you again.”

She flinched at his menacing tone, but shook her head. “No. I’ve been warned by the police if I cause another incident I’ll be arrested.”

Aslin narrowed his eyes, ignoring the onlookers crushing around her. Something itched at the back of his mind, something about the woman before him. Something from a few days ago. But what? “You’re taking a risk being here. Surely you know now you can’t gain access to Mr. Huntley?”

A woeful grimace pulled at Belinda’s mouth. “All I wanted was an autograph. Freddy Hill dared me a hundred dollars.”

“Freddy Hill?”

“A guy I work with. He dared me to get Chris to sign my chest for a hundred bucks.” The grimace turned to a snort, disgust twisting Belinda’s face. “It’s pathetic, I know, but with a hundred bucks I could buy my daughter the dress she wants for her year-twelve formal.” She laughed, a wholly miserable sound. “Plus Chris Huntley would have been touching my boobs. A man hasn’t touched my boobs for years. I couldn’t not try.”

Someone behind her laughed. “I’ll touch your boobs, honey.”