Dark Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 6) Read Online Free PDF Page A

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,