Dark Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 6) (3 page)

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 needed 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.

She stopped, drank some water, checked the phone. Still no reception, so she pocketed it again and turned her face to the clear blue sky. She closed her eyes, just for a second, gathering up her energy to carry on.

When she opened her eyes, the mountain lion was standing less than ten feet in front of her.

She froze, completely. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Stopped everything.

When her brain
did
actually start to function again, the only thing that she could think was how she just couldn’t
believe
that she’d managed to extricate herself from the clutches of one wild animal… only to wander smack in to the path of another one.

Slowly, she took a breath, then another. The panic receded, just a bit, and she scrambled to recall anything that she may have gleaned from casually flipping past the National Geographic Channel whilst drinking coffee. Maybe she’d accidentally retained something useful?

OK… weren’t you supposed to
not
make eye contact with wild animals? It made them feel challenged if you stared at them head-on, right? She’d certainly employed that eyes-lowered, submissive bullshit with the violent idiot that she’d laid out on the kitchen floor, so it had to work on other beasts too.
Right
?

Shay dropped her eyes to the lion’s paws, which was a huge mistake, because now she saw that its claws were out. She swallowed, tried to make herself smaller than she was, since she was sure that animals backed down when they didn’t feel threatened by an opponent.

This
mountain lion didn’t seem to have received the memo, though. If anything, her eye-lowering and shrinking seemed to just piss the thing off more. Shay heard a low, rumbling sound coming from its chest. And it definitely was
not
purring.

It was
growling
at her.

It was also getting all tense and arched, its tail twitching wildly. Then, the surest sign that she was in big trouble: it bared its teeth at her.

Oh, shit.

Trying to keep her movements small, Shay slowly,
so slowly,
reached for the gun in her pocket. Still keeping her eyes down, she slid off her glove and then flicked the safety off with her thumb.

The tiny
click
sounded like thunder in the deathly stillness and silence of the mountains.

The mountain lion exploded in to action, launching itself at her, closing the distance between them in mere seconds. In one smooth, practiced move, she had the gun out of her pocket, aimed and ready to fire. She almost made it, too… she was less than a millisecond too late in pulling the trigger.

The shot echoed and rolled down the mountains, so loud that it stunned her a bit, and completely distracted her from the fact that the lion had its teeth in the front of her right leg. It ripped her flesh as it fell backwards, making sure to twist and shake its head as it went, ensuring maximum pain and damage.

Shay screamed, fell to the ground herself. She managed to keep a hold of the gun, though she saw that she no longer needed it. Her shot had been true and the lion was dead, its mouth bright red with her blood. Quite a lot of her blood.

No. Oh, no.

She stuck her injured leg straight out in front of her, gritting her teeth against the agony of even that small movement. What she saw damn near threw her straight in to the land of Holy-Fuck-It’s-Time-To-Panic-Now.

The white ground was stained red, her jeans were shredded, she saw teeth marks in her lower leg. She was hurt, and for a minute, she just sat on her ass, more frightened than she’d ever been in the whole of her life.

Then her survival instincts kicked in and she got her shit together. Kind of.

OK, first things first. She checked the phone again, praying hard now for reception. But the god of cell phone towers was still out for lunch or something, because he was
not
listening. She put the phone back in her pocket, trying to not cry, trying to think.

Right. So. If there was one pissed-off, unwelcoming mountain lion roaming around, there may well be others, and they’d possibly be attracted by the smell of blood. As she was right now, she was easy prey and that was the
one
way that Shay refused to go down. She had to find a place to hide, to staunch the flow of blood, to recover a bit.

That meant getting to her feet. Or, if that wasn’t possible, that meant crawling. She was good either way, so long as she was actually in motion.

Carefully, she pushed herself vertical; immediately, she was horizontal again. She cried out at the sharp, intense burst of pain, and knew that walking was out.

So. Crawling it was.

She looked around and squinted at what looked like a cave about eighty feet away, hidden high in the rock face. She stared up at it, gauging the distance, knowing that how far it was didn’t matter, in the end. It was shelter, and it was a place to hide, and so long as it didn’t house a pack of mountain lions, it was her best option.

Grimly, she started to haul her body up the steep incline, digging her hands deep in to the snow, scrambling for roots to grasp and pull herself up on. Inch by inch, foot by foot, she crawled. Night started to fall, the wind started to pick up, her injured leg dragged behind her, useless and a dead weight.

And she kept crawling.

**

The pain in Warren’s head was incredible, and he was groaning before he’d even cracked his eyes open. When he
did
open them, he was astonished to find himself staring at a bunch of broken eggs, spilled milk, and a jar of mayonnaise. He blinked, realizing that he was on the floor.

He rolled, cursed when he rolled in to some orange juice. He forced himself to a sitting position and looked around, wondering just what the fuck. That was when he saw the handle of the pan peeking over the edge of the island, and all memory returned in a flash.

Right away, he bolted to his feet. His head spun, the room swirled, and he cursed again.

She’d hit him. She’d hit him with a goddamn
frying pan
.

His gun was gone. So was his phone. He supposed he should be grateful that she hadn’t shot him in the head as she’d hauled ass on out of there, but seeing as Ace was going to kill him anyway, she’d really just postponed the inevitable. Unless he could find her and bring her back here. And when he did? She was going down to that basement until this whole thing blew over.

To hell with being nice to a woman who’d kicked him in to a fridge.

Warren went to the door, looked outside, looked down. Yep, her tracks went off in to the trees, as clear as day. He looked at the sky and was sure that it hadn’t snowed while he’d been out, but even if it had, it wasn’t a big deal.

His useless drunk of a father had taught Warren exactly one useful thing in his time on earth: he’d taught him how to hunt, and any hunter worth his salt
also
knew how to track his prey. Warren had never been any good at school – but he was
damn
good at hunting, and even better at tracking.

He went back in to the house, glanced at his face in the bathroom mirror. Oh, yeah, she’d clocked him but good, and he sported a massive bruise across his left cheek. There was blood matted in his hair from where she’d slammed his face down on to the counter, and his chest hurt like hell. He lifted his shirt, surveyed the ugly bruise on his muscled pecs.

Yeah. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

He unlocked his bedroom door and grabbed his spare gun. The he took off his cut, slipped on a heavy sweater. He donned his coat, looked for his scarf, sighed when he realized that it was gone, put on his hat and gloves. He saw that the flashlights from the kitchen were gone and he shook his head, cursing the obvious fact that Shay was a smart-as-hell woman, and no doubt. He grabbed the flashlight from downstairs, and then he was ready to go.

She had about a four-hour head start on him, and that was quite a lot. The good thing was, though, that she’d headed off in the completely wrong direction. Instead of walking towards civilization, she’d actually walked straight in to the deepest, densest part of the surrounding forest. Unless she basically retraced her steps and did a total one-eighty, she was just going to move farther and farther away from help.