“Tell me what he’s done.”
“It doesn’t matter, Cole.”
“To hell with that,” he snarled, moving toward her like a semi in full gear. “It does matter.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He’d grabbed her wrists and she started tugging, trying to get free. But he was having none of it—this time she would stay put until she told him everything.
He was beyond angry, beyond furious that she had kept this from him. Sure, he hadn’t told her the whole truth about what he was doing in New Orleans, but he wasn’t putting himself at risk with his omissions. That his woman—for that was what she was, whether she acknowledged it or not—had deliberately chosen not to tell him about this threat was more than maddening. It was completely unacceptable and more than enough to have him tearing at the walls. To have him locking her up so that no one, nothing, could ever get to her again.
Rage, red-hot and explosive, ripped through him as he shoved his face in hers and spoke through clenched teeth. “Tell me what he’s done, Genevieve.”
“Don’t bully me!” Once again she tried to pull away; once again he allowed his grip to tighten.
“Then don’t push me—I let it go the other day, but I’m done with that. You will tell me, or you won’t like the consequences.”
“You can’t do this.” She tugged at her wrists. “Let me go!”
He was no longer in control, every protective instinct he had was aroused at the thought of her being hurt. At the thought of getting another phone call telling him that a woman he loved was dead.
Protecting her was more than a need, more than his duty. It was a primal obsession that wrapped itself around him and demanded to be heard. She would not be hurt, not this woman. Not this time.
“Tell me what he’s doing, Genevieve. Now.” His voice was no longer his own— deep, primitive, more animal than human, even as the one small, rational part of his brain that was left warned him that he was going about this all wrong.
But he was too far gone to listen, every part of him straining to find this bastard and rip him limb from limb, until he was no longer a threat to Genevieve. Until she was finally safe and he could hold her, feel her heart beating against his and know that this animal—this sick, fucked-up asshole—would never get his hands on her.
But to protect her, he had to know where the threat was coming from, had to know what was coming next. He knew he was pushing it, knew she wouldn’t take much more without fighting back. But he had to try. Shaking her gently, he ordered, “Just tell me, Genevieve!”
She lashed out before he was prepared for it, her foot catching him on the upper part of his shin with more force than he would have thought possible considering her lack of shoes. He stumbled, lost his grip for just a second, but that was all it took for her to spring away from him.
“Don’t come near me, Cole,” she said from halfway across the room. “You’re acting crazy.”
“You make me crazy.” He stalked toward her, slowly, stealthily. She would tell him what he needed to know to protect her.
“I mean it.” Genevieve circled the kitchen warily, watching as Cole mirrored her every movement with his own body. A step to the right from her and he was there. Two steps to the left, the same thing.
She was completely trapped. It didn’t bring about the fear it normally did, didn’t make her want to run. Instead, she wanted to push back—to see just how far he was willing to let her go and how far past that she could actually take things.
It was stupid, really, to engage in this power struggle when women were dying around her. But she was off the case—on vacation, for all intents and purposes—and to give Cole his way now in this was to breed disaster later on.
And there would be a later on; she was determined about that. He was hers. Despite his high-handed interrogation techniques and crazy need to dominate, to be in charge, he was the man for her. He just didn’t know it yet.
“It’s a police investigation, Cole. I can’t talk about it.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was lower now, a caress that sent shivers running up her spine and heat spiraling toward her sex. She fought the sensations, kept her eyes on his, but before she knew it, he was two steps closer than he had been before.
Damn it, she had to concentrate. But it was hard to do with a glorious, half-naked man looking at her as if he would gobble her up in a couple of neat bites. Harder to do when she wanted nothing more than to let him.
She tried another tack. “It’s no big deal—just some stupid pranks.”
“Anything that has you running around our bedroom in a panic, slamming shutters closed and begging me to stay inside, isn’t nothing.” He took another step closer, but she was so dazed by his voice—and the words coming out of his mouth—that she didn’t notice.
“I’m handling it.”
“We’ll handle it together.” And then he was there, in front of her, his wicked black eyes gleaming down at her with a look that said he meant business. He pulled her into his arms, ran his lips softly over her forehead, down her cheeks, across her mouth. “Tell me, Genevieve. Please. Let me protect you.”
“I can protect myself.”
“Of course you can.” It was a groan from his soul, a cry for help she couldn’t refuse. “But I need to protect you to. I need to be a part of it.
“After Samantha—” His voice broke, and the hands clutching her trembled.
It was his sorrow that cracked her resolve—it was heart-wrenching to see him so desperate, so shaken, and she knew she could deny him nothing.
“You’re making too big a deal out of a few phone calls, Cole.” She sighed, then slipped into a kitchen chair, resting her elbows on the table. Waited for him to do the same.
And then told him everything.
* * *
With each word that Genevieve spoke, Cole felt himself getting angrier, more wound up. The desire for vengeance was huge, the need to rip this animal apart a living, breathing entity within him. He would kill him for this, would have killed him for much less. But to torment Genevieve like this, to humiliate and scare and taunt her as he had? The bastard had signed his own death warrant—he was just too stupid to know it yet.
“He’s not going to get away with this.” He growled the words before he could stop himself.
The look she shot him was rife with her own anger, her own frustration. “You’re damn right he’s not.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “He’s killed five women in my jurisdiction, under my watch. There’s no way this bastard walks away from that.”
His heart stuttered in his chest. “But you’re suspended. You can’t work—”
“Wanna bet?” She gestured to the backpack she’d brought in with her and that he hadn’t paid any attention to until now. “I brought everything home with me, and I will damn sure be working on this—whether Chastian wants me to or not.”
“You can’t do that.” The words were torn from him.
“I am doing it. This guy is going down one way or the other.”
“Then let it be the other.”
“I can’t, Cole. Can’t you see that? This is my job and I can’t just walk away from it.”
“What about us?” He pulled her into his lap, smoothed soothing hands over her. “I love you, Genevieve. I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love another person.”
She trembled in his arms, her eyes going wide. “Now?” she demanded. “You tell me this now?”
“I can’t lose you. I wouldn’t survive if this psychopath got his hands on you.”
“He won’t, Cole.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t.” He leaned down, kissed her with all of his pent-up fear and love and anger.
She exploded, her arms going around him as her lips devoured his. On and on and on went the kiss, until every sense he had was clouded by her. But then she was pulling away, her smile sad, her eyes even sadder. “Don’t ask this of me, Cole. I would do anything for you, give you everything and anyth
ing you asked for. But I can’t do this—can’t just let this guy go when he’s ruined so many lives.”
“That’s exactly what Samantha said. That it was her job, her career, and she couldn’t take the easy way out.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“No, it’s not. She was a random victim. But you, you’re taunting the hell out of this guy, making yourself a target. Just waiting for him to make a move.” He paused for a minute, studied her with tormented eyes. “Let someone else catch him, Genevieve.”
“They can’t. This sick fixation he has with me is our best weapon, and it doesn’t work if I don’t use it to my advantage.”
“Goddamn it, Genevieve! You don’t always have to be the hero.”
“This isn’t about being the hero. It’s about doing what’s right—about bringing this bastard down once and for all. About stopping him before he kills another woman.”
As he stared at her, his heart in his throat and his stomach tied into so many knots he feared it would never recover, Cole knew it was a done deal. There was nothing he could say to convince her, nothing he could do that would make her leave this case alone.
He was going to lose her, just like he’d lost Samantha. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Chapter Twenty-three
Genevieve woke with a start, thoughts of murder and suspension and Cole chasing each other around in her head. He was pulling back from her, hadn’t touched her once after their conversation. He hadn’t held her or kissed her or made love to her like he usually did. Just climbed into bed beside her and rolled over so that when she tried to talk to him all she saw was his back.
Her heart was beating much too fast, and as she lay there in the dark, listening to his steady breathing beside her, she thought about what Cole had asked of her.
Could she let this investigation go—for him? Could she just walk away and hope the killer lost interest in her? But it wouldn’t work that way. In her heart, she knew that if she didn’t find him and shut him down, then he would be coming for her. And in the meantime, another poor woman would die when she didn’t have to. When Genevieve could have stopped him.
Willing her heart to calm down, she rolled onto her side to stare at her lover. He really was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen—all long, lithe muscle and dark eyes and gorgeous features.
And inside, he was even more beautiful. This man who had tortured himself for seven years over the loss of his sister, this man who had dedicated his life to exposing corruption and death, who tried so hard to right wrongs that couldn’t be righted.
She loved him; how it had happened, she didn’t know. What she would do about it, she hadn’t a clue. Reaching a hand up to toy with the necklace he’d given her, she couldn’t help wondering about its implication. Did he see it as she originally had—as him branding her, claiming her? Or was it just a gift after all—one that was pretty but really didn’t mean much?
I love you. He’d said the words last night, but had he meant them? She wanted to believe that he had, but how could she when he was so reluctant to accept her own love for him? When he tried so hard to make her into something that she wasn’t?
Because she couldn’t go one more minute without touching him, she traced a delicate finger over his eyebrows and down his cheeks. In sleep, he looked almost sweet—all the angst and darkness that possessed him during the day was absent now, leaving only little-boy innocence that tugged at her heartstrings.
How she could ever have thought him a murderer, she didn’t know. It embarrassed her that she’d ever doubted him, even when the killer had focused on her. Especially then. He wasn’t capable of it, not this man who had tortured himself for nearly a decade, who was so desperate to protect her that he would change his whole life around to save her.
Her cell phone went off in the next room, but she ignored it. No one from the station would be calling her—she was off the case permanently. And she didn’t have any friends away from the job—hell, she didn’t have many friends on the job. Maybe that was something she needed to work on.
But when the cell phone stopped ringing and the house phone started, she rolled out of bed and grabbed the cordless on her nightstand before it could wake Cole.
“Hello?” she whispered, scooting out of the room on silent feet.
“Genevieve? It’s Roberto. There’s another body.”
“Where?” She was already reaching for a pen when it occurred to her that she wouldn’t be able to do anything about that fact. She ached, literally ached, for the dead woman—she hadn’t been good enough to save her. Hadn’t been fast enough.
“Dauphine and St. Louis. It’s the house on the corner.”
“Why are you calling me? I can’t do anything about it.”
He swore roundly. “Fuck Chastian. You know more about this murder than any of us. We’re all here. We need you. Even if your name doesn’t go on the report, we need your eye. This is what you’re good at.”
She paused for long seconds, Cole’s pleas for her to play it safe running through her head. But she had to do this, had to see it through. Then they would talk—about the future and their expectations for each other. About whether they could make this thing work.
“I’ll be there in ten.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
Her clothes from last night were still by the door and still relatively fresh—she’d changed into them after she’d finished Sharon’s homicide scene. As she slipped into them—too afraid of waking Cole to chance going back into the bedroom—she fought back the tears that had been burning her throat since she’d heard Torres’s voice on the phone.
She’d become such a pariah that they had to sneak her onto a homicide case. It was bullshit—total and complete bullshit—but what could she do about it? She was used to fighting, had gotten where she was in the department because she didn’t back down when she was sure she was right.
But she didn’t have a clue how to fight this. She was demoralized, humiliated, barely able to contemplate looking her partner and friends in their faces.
But she didn’t have a choice, she told herself as she shrugged into her blouse. A killer was out there, one she had more than likely spoken to on numerous occasions. From the second she’d seen Sharon hanging in that supply closet, she’d known the killer was one their of own.
All along she’d had her suspicions about it being a cop; things were just too clean for it to be someone else. She’d even had a few suspects in mind, had taken steps to monitor them as best she could without raising any flags. Sharon’s body had just proven to her what she’d suspected all along.
And he was probably going to be there tonight, might have been there all along—at each of the crime scenes—and she hadn’t known to look for him. But that stopped now. She would get this son of a bitch, with or without her lieutenant’s support.
After strapping on her piece, she went to the closet and pulled out the backup gun she rarely carried. Put extra ammunition for both in her back pockets. Scribbled a note to Cole, then let herself out of the house. As she locked the door behind her, she fought back the fear that she would never see Cole again. Never hold him against her, never feel his lips against hers.
She turned away and focused on what she had to do.
The walk up Burgundy had never taken so long or passed so quickly. Cold sweat trickled down her back despite the heat and nerves jumping in her stomach. She ran through every scenario she could think of, wondered how this whole thing was going to play out. Wondered if she and her friends were going to make it through the night alive.
She’d expected the house to be dark when she got there, had figured Roberto had called her in at the end of the investigation just to look around a little and get a feel for the place without getting written up for disobeying orders. It was the smart thing to do, and she’d told herself she wouldn’t resent him if that was, indeed, the case.
Instead, the house was lit up like a Christmas t
ree and more than a dozen cop cars were parked in front of it. Luc was standing on the front porch and when he saw her, he took the steps two at a time to get to her. “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”
For the first time since she’d picked up the phone, the knots in her stomach unwound and the sense of doom that had been plaguing her since the debacle at the station that afternoon drained away, though she was still cautious. “I didn’t think Chastian would approve of my being here.”
Luc snorted. “What Chastian doesn’t know won’t hurt us.” He led her through the door.
“You don’t think any of these guys will talk?” She glanced around at the crime scene unit, busy searching for fibers and fingerprints near the point of entry, a patio door on the side of the house.
“They think this whole thing stinks as much as we do. Who gives a shit what you do on your personal time?” He looked away, as if embarrassed by what he’d said.
“Anyway, it’s pretty bad in there. Elements of S and M, not to mention the torture.”
Genevieve braced herself as she walked into the room, determined not to react. But her first glimpse of the body stopped her in her tracks. A rope was strapped over and under the woman’s breasts, and wound around her arms, so that her entire upper torso was bound—exactly as Genevieve herself had been bound the night before. Except the ropes were harsh and heavy and tied much too tightly. Whereas Cole had bound her with silken cords, for their mutual pleasure. this had been done with one purpose in mind: to cause as much pain as possible.
Candle wax—black and pink—decorated the victim’s nipples, stomach and legs in various patterns. But it had been hot—much too hot—when it had touched her, and blisters had formed under the steaming wax.
“How’d she die?” Her voice was hoarse, her fists clenched, as she approached the body.
“We don’t know yet.” It was Torres who answered, his face grim as he looked at her. “Jefferson—” he nodded at the ME, who was collecting evidence from the body—“can’t find any outward sign of trauma. I mean, besides the obvious. But while painful, it isn’t the cause of death.”