Dark Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 6)

by James, Marysol

  “Stop,” he said, making sure the warning in that single word was unmissable. “Or I’ll toss you downstairs like this. No fucking problem for me, girl.”

  It came to him that he should probably be casually referring to her as ‘bitch’ or even the despised ‘skank’, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. No matter what he’d done in public since leaving Kentucky, Warren still had some lines that he refused to cross in private. ‘Girl’ was as far as he was willing to go when degrading a woman to her face.

  She was frozen with uncertainty and he waited. Finally, she extended her hands to him, still holding his gaze. The helplessness of the gesture kicked him in the chest, hard, and he scowled again, not liking the stark, sharp fear that he saw in those eyes.

  In two quick movements, he sliced the ropes off her delicate wrists, now glaring at the blood and bruises that he saw there. As soon as she was free, she pushed her glasses up her nose, then tucked her hands in to her massive sweater and crossed her arms across her chest. It was a defensive position, but it also looked like she was giving herself a hug. Warren didn’t like that she felt the need to protect herself from him, or that she was trying to soothe herself as he stood over her.

  Having her afraid would make things better, no doubt about that… but for reasons that he was starting to wonder about, he didn’t want her to be afraid of him. Not even if it made his job easier.

  “Now the gag,” he said gruffly. “No damn screaming.”

  She shook her head and he reached out. She shut her eyes as his hands approached her face, like she couldn’t bear the sight of him being so close.

  He surprised himself when he so slowly, so gently, so damn carefully, moved the dirty rag out from between her lips. Then he reached around her neck, untied the knots without so much as touching her, let the material drop to her lap.

  Shay took a deep breath, then another one. Warren watched her lick her lips, and realized that she’d been without food or water for hours. How many hours, he wondered. God, maybe as many as fourteen. That was no damn good: the last thing he needed was her passing out on him from hunger or dehydration.

  Abruptly, without a word, he spun around, stalked over to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, put it on the island.

  “C’mere,” he said roughly. “Drink.”

  Shay hesitated, still hugging herself.

  “Come. Here.” His voice was pure steel now. “Don’t make me come over there and get you, girl. You won’t like it if that happens.”

  She gave a small gasp, stumbled to her feet. He watched as she swayed for a few seconds, and he had the uneasy thought that she’d pass out almost for certain. God knows, she’d been through a lot and if she felt dizzy or faint, he wouldn’t be surprised.

  Shay gritted her teeth and seemed to give herself a mental shake. Her first steps were slow, but at least they were steady. She walked across the living room, came in to the kitchen. She stopped about five feet away from him, regarding him warily.

  He pointed with his chin at the water. “Drink.”

  She took a few more steps, still eyeing him. Warren stayed still, silent, just nailed his eyes on her. She needed to drink that goddamn water, but she wasn’t going to do that if he so much as leaned in her direction, he knew. So he just stood on the other side of the island and watched as she unscrewed the plastic lid, took a few sips, then drank deeply. When she lowered the bottle, it was almost half-empty.

  He move to the side now and Shay jumped, scuttled backwards.

  “Stop,” he ordered again.

  She froze in place.

  “You hungry?” he said.

  She hesitated, shook her head, then nodded.

  “Which is it?” he grated. “Yes or no?”

  She gasped again, crossed her arms.

  “Answer me, or you can head downstairs without a meal.”

  Shay bit her lip and he found himself suddenly looking at her mouth. Her lips were cracked and dry, for sure, but still… they were curved in the most distracting way. Their plump, pouty fullness was also an interesting contrast to the rest of her body.

  Shay Alcott was a tall woman, no doubt about that. He had maybe three inches on her, and Warren was just over six feet. She was slim, too, all long, streamlined limbs. God, those legs went on fucking forever in those baggy jeans, and he wondered if they were as full and rounded as those amazing lips, or if they were angular and fragile like her wrists.

  Shaking off his thoughts, he cocked his blond head at her. “So? You gonna answer me?”

  “I’m – I’m –” Her words were a croak as she spoke for the first time, and she drank a bit more water. “Yes. I’m hungry.”

  Warren couldn’t help a reaction at finally hearing her voice. It was a minuscule reaction, of course, since eight months of seeing nothing but bad shit go down in front of him had taught him exactly how not to react to anything, and not ever.

  Still, though… hearing Shay’s voice was something that demanded a reaction from Warren. It was a small voice, weak, tired, afraid. But it had an undercurrent to it, too. Like a gentle, undulating stream or a lilting piece of music, her voice was sweet and fresh and light.

  Pure. Innocent.

  Not liking the way his thoughts were going, he narrowed his eyes at her, made her wait for his answer. Finally, he nodded.

  “OK. Check the fridge, see what you can make us for lunch.”

  She blinked at him and he saw her confusion. He grinned at her now; he made sure it wasn’t a nice grin.

  “Yeah, you’ll be doing all the cooking,” he informed her, playing the macho idiot to the hilt. “I hope you don’t have a problem with that, girl.”

  She shook her head, her hair glowing in the winter sunlight.

  “Good.” He settled on to a stool, waved his hand. “Get to it. And no touching the knives, you hear me? I got ‘em locked up, and if you need one, I’ll get it.”

  “Yes,” she said softly, then she looked embarrassed. “Can I just –” Her voice broke off and she blushed a bright red.

  “Can you what?” he said.

  “Can I…ummmm. Can I freshen up?”

  “Yeah.” He stood up again, jerked his head. “This way, down the hall. You go first.”

  She walked down the hallway slowly, keeping her eyes down. She saw the tile floor, paused, glanced up.

  Warren knew that there was nothing at all in the bathroom for him to worry about, in terms of weapons or an escape attempt. The cleaning supplies were under lock-and-key in the linen closet, there were no glass bottles anywhere, there was no window, and his razors were in his bag, which was locked in his bedroom. The most lethal thing that Shay Alcott could get her hands on in here was a plastic bottle of lavender hand soap.

  “I’ll be right outside,” he growled. “Don’t be long. Oh, and the door doesn’t lock.” He shut the door in her face, leaned against the wall, crossed his large arms.

  He heard water running, then silence. The toilet flushed, water ran again. More silence.

  Deciding that was long enough, Warren pushed himself off the wall and knocked on the door.

  “Open up,” he commanded.

  Less than two seconds later, the door swung open, and he stared at Shay.

  She’d clearly finger-combed her wavy hair and tied it back again. It was in a blonde, bouncy ponytail that fell far down her back, making him want to see her with it loose around her face, cascading over her shoulders. She’d also washed her face and it was pink and soft, her eyes clear green and bright behind her glasses. She looked like she’d smell sweet, like she’d feel damn good to hold in his arms.

  Now just why the hell was he thinking about holding her? Was he that desperate for something clean, something pure in his life? So damn hungry for goodness and sweetness? So fucking ready for a warm, glowing light that would warm him,
melt his increasingly-frozen and -dead core?

  Well, even if he was, Shay Alcott wasn’t going to be it – none of it. She was his prisoner, and he was her jailer; she was the sister of one of the most murderous MC Presidents that the Fallen Angels had ever dealt with, a man who was now their mortal enemy.

  Most importantly, Shay was good and innocent, and Warren was damaged and dirty. No way he had any right to touch so much as one hair on her head.

  “Back to the kitchen,” he said roughly, angry at himself for his uncontrollable desire to just hold her. He wanted nothing more than that, actually – he didn’t want to have sex with her, didn’t even want to kiss her. He just wanted – no, needed – to be close to her, to hold on to all that light and softness. “Go cook.”

  She nodded, scurried around his large body, hurried back to the kitchen. Warren followed more slowly, already feeling like things were way, way beyond his control.

  He had no idea just how right he was about that.

  **

  Warren pushed back from the table, and Shay’s eyes jumped from her empty plate to his face. She hadn’t said one word since asking if she could freshen up; she hadn’t looked at him since then, either.

  She’d cooked an excellent pasta meal, made a salad, made some garlic bread, and she’d done it all in total silence, keeping her eyes averted. She’d served him without comment, then stood there, uncertain about where she should sit. He’d indicated to the chair across from him with a pointed finger, and she’d worried her full, pink, lower lip for a few seconds before sitting down and picking up her fork.

  Her hands had shaken the whole time that she’d eaten, but at least she’d eaten a lot. Really a lot, and he was pleased about that. What he wasn’t so pleased about was the fact that she was still, obviously, petrified of him.

  He thought back to what Joker had said, about Shay crying the whole way from Montana, crying for an hour at the Fallen Angels clubhouse. She was fragile and afraid, he knew, and he had to be careful with her. Not super-friendly, clearly, but a bit friendly was fine, he figured.

  “So.” He stood up. “That was good.”

  She stared at him, surprised.

  “You clean up,” he said, reminding himself that he was playing the part of a sexist jerk biker here. “Then I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping downstairs.”

  She nodded, got to her feet, too. Quietly, she cleared the table and took the plates to the sink. She started the water, squirted in a bit of dish soap. He watched all of this, decided to maybe embark on his more friendly approach by making some coffee and offering her some. That would be nice, right? But still badass enough to not be taken as weakness?

  While he made the coffee, Shay washed and dried all the dishes and the pans, then put everything away. She was totally docile and silent, and so when he turned to get the milk from the fridge, he never saw it coming.

  How such a slim woman managed to get that much power behind a punch to his head was a mystery to him, but there was no denying it: the woman could punch. Kick, too, he soon discovered, when he turned to face her, and she did a dizzying-fast spin-kick that landed smack in the middle of his chest. He flew backwards, straight in to the fridge. Food and bottles fell to the floor, and Shay stepped forward with the controlled grace and lethal cool of a wildcat.

  Her next strike was open-handed, and caught him in the throat with the heel of her palm. Even as he struggled to breathe from that, she grabbed him by the back of his head, curled her fingers in his hair, and slammed his head down on the counter. Once, twice, three times, and his knees started to give.

  It was like that’s what she’d been waiting for, and why not? With Warren on his knees, she was taller than him, and had all the leverage. And she took full fucking advantage of it by grabbing a pan that she hadn’t put away after all, a pan that she’d hidden carefully in one of the island cubby-holes, and smashing him across the face with it.

  Warren heard his own grunt, heard his body hit the floor. He didn’t feel anything, though, and he fell in to the blackness, so fast and easy. He wished he could just drop off to sleep that fast and easy, to be honest.

  His second-to-last conscious thought was that if she’d set her mind to it, she could undoubtedly have done something lethal with that plastic bottle of lavender soap.

  His last conscious thought was that Shay Alcott wasn’t so goddamn sweet after all.

  Chapter Three

  Shaylene Alcott glared down at the man on the floor in front of her. She still held the frying pan aloft, just in case he was playing possum, trying to lull her in to a false sense of security and safety. If he so much as moved a finger, she’d bash him again. Way harder, this time.

  She waited, eyeing him coolly. After a minute or so, she realized that he was out, totally. Only then did she lower the pan, set it on the island next to her with a sigh of relief that the charade was finally over.

  Jesus Christ, it had been difficult to sniffle and snuffle for the past fifteen hours or so, and she’d actually given herself a headache from it. She’d had to do it, though, since she’d needed these MC assholes to regard her with nothing less than contempt. Oh, they already did, she was fully aware, since she had breasts, and that made her a skanky whore by default… and weak and stupid, to boot. She’d played on the weak and stupid thing, and she’d played it well.

  The truth was that she’d always known this day would come. You couldn’t be Crusher Alcott’s kid sister and not be a target at some point, in some way, for something that had nothing whatsoever to do with you. The fact that she hated her brother with a passion, and that she had zero communication with him, wouldn’t matter to his enemies. They’d use her with no hesitation or compunction at all, and she’d be collateral in some fucked-up power play.

  Yeah. That day was here. No doubt about that.

  She stared down at the jerk at her feet, thinking fast. She’d laid out the plan in her head, gone over it again and again over the past few hours, and she was ready to move.

  Shay knelt down, rolled him over on to his stomach. She lifted his cut and t-shirt, and sure enough, she found his gun. All these idiots carried, and she’d have laid money that this man with the hard face and harder eyes was no exception.

  She tucked the gun against the small of her back, moved on to his pockets. She found the knife, and – jackpot! – she found his cell. Quickly, she checked it: full battery, which was awesome. No bars, which was not. She’d known that reception was going to be sketchy out this far, but she’d never intended to call the cops from the cabin, anyway. Her plan was to haul ass as far and fast as she could, then call when she felt safer. She’d check the bars as she hiked and as soon as she had a line to the world, she’d get help.

  For now, she pocketed the knife and the phone, then leaned back on her heels to look at him again. She told herself that it was to make sure that he was still out cold… but that wasn’t the whole truth.

  What a shame this man was a violent, murderous, one-percenter, MC dickhead. Because this man was exactly her type, so long as you didn’t look past the physical. He was taller than her – crucially important, and not so easy to find – and broad and strong. His accent had been warm and southern, and she’d liked the gentle drawl that he’d brought to his harsh words. Also, she liked blond men, and she was an absolute sucker for guys with beards.

  His beard brought out those cold blue eyes, brought out his sculpted cheekbones, brought out his curved, sexy mouth. Yeah, that dark-blond facial scruff gave him an edge, made him look darker and more dangerous and as much as she had no use for darkness or danger in her life, thank you very much, she couldn’t deny that the guy was hot.

  Too bad he was everything that she feared and despised in a man.

  Also? The bastard had made her cook. She hated cooking.

  She sighed again, maybe with a bit of regret this time, got back to her feet. She ne
eded to pack a bag, and she needed to pack well and fast. No more time or brain power could be wasted staring at this guy’s incredible ass, and corded forearms, and large hands, and rippling biceps.

  Nope. Time to focus.

  Moving quickly now, she grabbed the small black backpack that had been sitting next to the door. It was empty, but no biggie. She put the knife in it, then opened the cupboard and took every single granola bar from it. She took the buns off the counter and raided the fridge too, took the cheese, fruit, sliced meats and eight bottles of water.

  She bolted down the hall to the bathroom and snatched the first-aid kit from under the sink. It was only OK – bandages and wraps, anti-bacterial cream, gauze, a thermometer – but it was better than nothing. Finally, she took all the matches that she could get her hands on from the jar on the mantel above the fireplace in the living room, and grabbed two flashlights and extra batteries.

  In less than three minutes, Shay had her coat, hat and gloves on, had her scarf and his scarf wrapped around her neck and face, and had moved the gun and phone to the coat pockets. She threw on the backpack, opened the door, turned to give him one last look.

  Yeah, hot for damn sure. But what an asshole.

  She stepped outside, her hand on the gun, waited a second to make sure that the cabin wasn’t being watched. When nothing happened, she shut the door behind her and adjusted the backpack. Turned right and started walking through the dense trees; started walking towards what she hoped was help, a warm room, and safety.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  **

  About forty minutes later, Shay paused to catch her breath. She wasn’t in bad shape – kickboxing five days a week kept her fit, after all – but hiking in the Rockies was almost depressingly hard work. There were no paths out here, so she’d spent an insane amount of time scrambling up steep hills slippery with snow and ice, holding on to overhanging tree branches to haul herself up. Her arms were sore, her thighs were burning, her fingers were screaming and she was sweating like mad, despite the chill in the air.