Hard Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 2)

by James, Marysol

  “Yeah, well, that’s the problem.”

  “You can deal with it today?”

  “Sure.” The guy named Chris turned around now and saw Naomi standing there. “Oh. Hi. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, please.” She cleared her throat. “I’m looking for Matt Kingston.”

  The guy gave her a look with a pair of quite sexy gray eyes. “King’s upstairs. Who can I say is here?”

  “Naomi Abbott.”

  “OK, Naomi Abbott. I’ll get him and you just hang out, yeah?”

  Despite her nervousness and his size, she found herself smiling at the man; something about him just set her at ease. She nodded and watched him go up the stairs, then she looked around again, trying to look like she belonged here. Her sobriety coin was in her coat pocket and she held on to it tightly, drawing courage.

  Chris knocked on King’s office door and poked his head in.

  “Hey, Brooker. What’s up?”

  “You’ve got a visitor. A woman. Suit, high heels, even a briefcase.”

  “Yeah?” King looked puzzled. “Is the accountant supposed to come by today?”

  “Dunno. She said her name’s Naomi.”

  King jumped in his chair. “Naomi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Oh, OK.” King stood up, flustered. “Uh… send her up.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Chris smirked. “You might want to take a few minutes to freshen up, though.”

  “Why?” King’s hand shot to his face. “Am I dirty?”

  “Man, the things I could say to that, huh?”

  “Shut it, Brooker. Gimme two minutes.”

  “Uh-huh.” Chris left and closed the door behind him.

  King ducked in to the small attached bathroom, looked in the mirror. Sure enough, he had streaks of motor oil on his cheek. Cursing, he washed his face quickly, then stared at himself for a few seconds, wishing that he’d taken the time to shave that morning. Without pausing to wonder why he gave a damn about any of these things, he changed his t-shirt and splashed on a bit of cologne.

  He had just settled back in to his chair when he heard a soft knock at the door.

  “Come in!” he called.

  Slowly, it opened and there she stood. Blonde hair dazzling gold in the morning light, eyes warm brown velvet. Her skin was smooth and shining and it looked like she was barely wearing any makeup at all. King stared at her lips, thought maybe she had a bit of lipstick on them. He had the craziest urge to taste that mouth, just to see if it was as sweet and soft as it looked. In that prim little suit, her curves looked even fuller, rounder, lusher than they had the day before, and his rough fingers itched to explore them.

  Goddammit, she is glorious.

  He’d dreamed about her the night before and woken up that morning with a hard-on that wouldn’t quit. It had persisted until he got to the shower, and that was when he’d closed his eyes and let her beautiful face come to him. The way she’d looked sitting next to him at Jax’s bar, the feel of her hand when he’d helped her to her feet. She’d been cool and reserved towards him at Dangerous Curves yesterday, and he wondered what exactly he’d have to do to get her to warm up, to loosen up.

  His hand had gone to his cock and as he’d stroked it, he’d indulged in a fantasy of Naomi in the shower with him. Down on her knees, the water running over those amazing breasts, her perfect lips sliding up and down his length.

  He’d imagined taking her delicate wrists in one large hand and pressing them above her head against the wall, holding her in place so he could watch her take him, taste him. His hand became her mouth, and his back had arched as he’d pumped harder, faster. His release had been almost painful and he’d stood under the hot water, panting and already hard again when he thought about fucking her against the cool tile.

  Mind out of the gutter now, man. Greet the lady like a gentleman, not a goddamn horndog who jerks off in the shower while thinking about her.

  “Naomi. Hi.” He stood up and came around the desk to meet her. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Mr. Kingston.”

  He paused. Mr. Kingston? “Please call me King, Naomi.” God, I want her to scream that while I take her, hard and deep. “Maybe you want some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Kingston.”

  He really looked at her now, tried to read her body language. Tense, closed, brittle. Her one hand was in her pocket, and he just knew it was clenched hard in there.

  Is she scared of me?

  The thought shook him, and he rushed to set her at ease. “Sit down, honey.”

  She stiffened. “Please don’t call me that.”

  He blinked. “Please don’t – what?”

  “Please don’t call me ‘honey’. Or ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ or anything else in that vein.”

  “I – I’m sorry.” King was totally wrong-footed. No woman had ever flatly protested him calling them some meaningless term of endearment. He also never apologized for anything. “I do it with everybody.”

  Sadly, she wasn’t having any of it. “Everybody with breasts, you mean.”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess that’s right.”

  “So, save it for the women you meet at the bar, OK?”

  “Well, technically we met at a bar,” King joked, still trying to salvage the situation.

  She stared back at him, unimpressed. Any hot thoughts of her lips wrapped around his cock disappeared completely now, as he realized that she was there on business – and it didn’t seem like very nice business.

  OK.” He took a deep breath and went back behind his desk. “Let’s start this again, yeah? Please sit down, Naomi.”

  She did, trying to stay calm. My God, he was even bigger than she remembered and definitely sexier. He still hadn’t shaved, and she imagined how the rasp of stubble would feel against her breasts, between her thighs.

  Now that she knew more about him, the danger vibe was stronger, more pronounced. Unfortunately, it totally worked for him and just made him hotter; he was all dark hair and dark gray eyes. His calling her ‘honey’ had set her mind wandering to all kinds of inappropriate places: she imagined him whispering it in her ear as he thrust deep in her quivering body.

  Focus. Focus.

  “So. What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I came to talk to you about your contribution to the Art With Heart program.” She noticed the sculptures and pottery scattered around his office and recognized it as Callie’s work. “About your offer to sponsor it.”

  “Oh, right.” King looked puzzled. “I thought we were all meeting at the Heart Center this afternoon? That we’d talk about specifics then?”

  “Well, the thing is, I see no need for you to come this afternoon. I’m not able to accept your donation, I’m afraid.”

  King was stunned. “Why not?”

  “Because since we met yesterday, a few facts have come to my attention – things that I was unaware of at the time.”

  Why is she talking like the world’s most uptight lawyer?

  “What facts?” he said.

  “Some things to do with your business.”

  “The garage?”

  “No, Mr. Kingston. Your other business.”

  He stared at her. “Ah.”

  “Yes. Ah.” Naomi took a deep breath. “I can’t have my organization funded by money that comes from – those kinds of activities. I hope you can understand that.”

  “What does it matter where the money comes from? Aren’t people more interested in what you do with it?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a registered non-profit, so I have to make all my financial documents and tax returns public knowledge. I have to account for every cent received, every cent spent. Every move I make is open to scrutiny and frankly, they should be. Oversight is a great thing and I play ball. Part of that i
s accepting only clean money.”

  His gray eyes flashed now. “So my money is dirty?”

  “Mr. Kingston –”

  “King.”

  “Mr. Kingston. I have no opinion whatsoever about your businesses. I suppose motorcycle club members have to have their bikes fixed somewhere, right? And from what I understand about your other business, you and your people are hired to perform specialized services, and I can see the need for such services. I really can. But I can’t have my organization associated with drug cartels and bounty hunters. I just – I can’t.”

  “And Jax? His money is just fine with you, even though he serves up alcohol to MC members and drug dealers?”

  She forced herself to hold his stare. “Jax and I have talked about that at length. He’s already agreed to provide documentation from his accountants and lawyers indicating that any and all money he gives will come from his lottery winnings. Not one dime from Dangerous Curves.”

  Well, fuck me. The woman is serious about this, huh?

  “OK, well, let’s get a few things straight, shall we?”

  Naomi felt misery start to spread through her at the tone in his voice. He was angry now, and this was a big trigger for her… she hated when people were angry at her. She was bad at confrontation and worse at sticking to her guns, even when she thought she should.

  Don’t you dare apologize. You don’t have to fight him, or convince him of anything. Just say your piece and get out and call Mirrie. After that, you never have to see him again.

  “I don’t see the need for that, but if you do, go ahead.” She leaned back in her chair, trying to look in control. “I’m listening.”

  “First, like the garage, my other business is totally legal. I accept private contracts, I hire freelance employees, I file taxes, I voluntarily get audited every year. Like you, I account for every penny that I earn and spend, so it’s all above-board and no question about that. It’s not like I’m running around the country accepting bags of cash in back alleys from guys in ski masks. You get me?”

  She didn’t respond. She was too busy thinking about making a break for it.

  “Next. My employees are highly-trained and specialized and they do what nobody else can do. They walk in to life-and-death situations on almost every op, and they do so because they want to get bad guys. That’s it. They track down criminals on the run, and they rescue kidnap victims, and they extract sex slaves. They’re violent when they have to be. They kill when they have to. But we’re not the bad guys. We clear?”

  Naomi shrank back in her chair, terrified of his anger. He had to have at least a hundred pounds on her, and he was pure muscle. The urge to make a run for the door began to grow.

  King studied her, took in her fear. He softened his tone. “Naomi. There’s lots of talk about what happens when I meet my people in the backroom of my garage. I know that. And to be honest with you, most of what my people do is not nice. It’s – it’s dirty and dangerous. Ugly, sometimes, and yeah, we walk the line between legal and not-so-much. But some situations out there call for people who can do this kind of thing.”

  She looked away from his intense stare, and he suddenly realized that he actually cared very much what she thought about him. This was a new experience for him, and he tried to get his focus back.

  “What I’m saying is, don’t get the wrong idea about me, OK?”

  “OK. Thanks for clearing that up.” She stood up now. “So, take care.”

  “Wait.” King stood up too. “That’s it? You just leave?”

  “Yes.” She shrugged. “I mean… your business is still something my organization can’t be linked to. That hasn’t changed.”

  “Well, what if I made a private donation? Like, anonymously?”

  She paused. “Mr. Kingston –”

  “King.”

  “Mr. Kingston. I don’t understand why you’re so insistent on this point.”

  “Because of Callie, partly, and because of Noah. But also, because I did a bit of research in to you, too.”

  Right away, Naomi tensed up completely. What had he found out? If his people were super spies or whatever, they’d have no trouble finding out things about her… including her alcoholism.

  “And?” Thank God her voice was cool, distant, unconcerned. “What did you find out?”

  King indicated to her recently-vacated chair. “Please.”

  She sat again, her hand clenched so hard around her coin that she felt her nails cutting in to her palm.

  He sat too. “You graduated with honors from the Fine Arts Program at the University of Colorado. You had lots of success as a painter, had several sold-out exhibitions. You then took some time off and started working with autistic adults – art therapy, art workshops, that kind of thing. From what I understand, you were disturbed that the workshops were nothing more than glorified babysitting services for autistic people.”

  She blinked at him.

  “You started to make arguments that artistic talent should be paid, full stop, and if an artist’s work was good enough, it could and should be sold. You went around to art galleries all over the state and showed the work from the workshops – and you created interest and demand. You sold the art for fair prices, cut the artists in on the profits. From there, you developed a business model.”

  “I – how did you find out all of this?”

  He shrugged and opened his hands. “And that was it… you started your organization. The workshops are fun and free, and are safe places for autistic adults to go during the day so that their families can get to work or school or whatever. But you also have a real eye for spotting talent and when someone shows promise, you cultivate it. You teach, train, encourage, and you sell their work and give them fifty percent. Your half is funneled back in to the organization to pay for the rent, materials, staff wages, and your own pretty modest salary. You’re fair, and honest, and well-respected.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “So, I get it, OK?” His husky voice was as soft as it ever got. “I get what you’re doing and what you’re protecting. I care about it too, and I really admire your dedication to it. You’re looking out for your artists’ livelihoods, and your program’s reputation, and I’m not going to jeopardize those things, I promise you. If you feel that strongly that I can’t sponsor your work openly, then I’ll make an anonymous donation as a private individual. It’s legal and you’d be safe.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, closed it again. He was right, actually. He could make a donation that way and she’d be able to accept it. But would it be strings-free?

  “And what do you want in return?”

  His eyes flashed again. “Who says I want anything?”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  They stared at each other now, and the silence stretched out between them.

  “So, what do you think?” he said.

  “I – I guess it would be OK.”

  He grinned. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She found herself smiling back at him. “Thank you, Mr. Kingston.”

  He sighed. “Look, can we stop that? If you can’t get on board with ‘King’, can we agree to saw it off in the middle and have you call me Matt?”

  “Matt,” she repeated. “OK. Thank you, Matt.”

  “My pleasure, Naomi. So, I’ll have my accountants prepare all the documents for transfer through their firm, and I’ll run everything past my lawyers just to be sure that you’re protected.” King cocked his dark head at her. “And I’ll see you at one o’clock at the Heart Center. Right?”

  “Right.” She stood up and accepted his extended hand covered in heavy silver rings. “Thank you again.”

  He knew he was holding her hand a bit too long, but her skin was so soft against his rough fingers, and her hand was shockingly tiny in his. He stared down
at her, wishing he could stroke her cheek, her hair. She’d be silky and delicate, he just knew it and to his horror, he went hard, just at the thought of touching her.

  Naomi saw the heat in his eyes and her whole body responded to it. Despite her best efforts to ignore his body, she was all-too-aware of his size, his strength. He was a powerful man – and not just physically. God help her, but it turned her on to think about him rescuing children and women, tracking down murderers and rapists, hauling them in to face justice.

  He’s really OK after all, isn’t he? And that makes everything much more complicated all of a sudden. Why couldn’t he be a straight-up criminal asshole that I could just walk away from? Why? Why?

  Gently, she took her hand back and jammed it in her pocket, palmed her sobriety chip. “So, have a good morning. I’ll see you later today.”

  “Yeah.” King stuck his hands in his jeans pockets to hide his arousal. “Later.”

  They both spent the rest of the morning watching the clock, counting down the minutes until they saw each other again, cursing their stupidity at their eagerness.

  Dammit. Don’t start what you can’t finish.

  Chapter Three

  Sarah Matthews limped in to the Art With Heart Center. It was just over eight weeks since her ex-boyfriend had beaten her in to a coma, six weeks since she had come out of it, and she was still grateful that the damage wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it could have been.

  The right side of her lower body had been almost totally unresponsive when she’d come to, and had to be retrained and strengthened. Five weeks of intensive physical therapy was working wonders, and she was now walking on her own… though painfully slowly and carefully. She still lost her balance easily, but she hadn’t had any serious tumbles.

  Far more frustrating was her memory loss. When she’d first emerged from the coma, she’d had very little memory of her relationship with her boyfriend Jax. But as more time passed – and they spent more time together – things had started coming back to her. She had been told that she probably wouldn’t ever fully regain all her memories, and she was working to make her peace with that.