by Tracy Wolff
He lifted one eyebrow so high she could barely see it beneath his shaggy bangs. “You think I’m killing teenage girls?”
“They aren’t all teenagers.”
“Excuse my mistake.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “You think I’m killing women?”
She didn’t—especially not after his admission of hacking into the NOPD database and the small mistakes he kept making that told her he knew less about the murders than she’d originally thought—but the cop in her wouldn’t let her pass up the opportunity to push him just a little further. “Are you?”
His coffee cup hit the counter, hard. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.”
“Why?” She stood up, crossed the room until she was in his face. His very irate, very disturbed face. “Hit too close to home?”
“Fuck that. I don’t kill women. I don’t hurt women.” He pushed past her, crossing the room to where his clothes were crumpled on the floor.
She followed him. “Well, that’s not exactly true, is it?” She glanced down at the bruises on her wrists and then back at him. She was hitting below the belt—God, was she ever—but he was hiding something, and she needed to know what it was.
He stopped dead, his hands clenching into fists she could only imagine he wanted to wrap around her throat. “That’s a really shitty thing to say.”
“The truth often is.” She inclined her head.
“You liked what I did to you.”
“I never said I didn’t—merely that you don’t have quite the aversion to causing pain that you would like me to think you do.”
The look of betrayal on his face had her catching her breath while bile rose in her throat. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, had wanted only to get at the truth so that she could relax about him. About them. But from the look on his face as he turned away, there no longer was a them.
“Well, fuck you, then, Genevieve. Fuck you.”
She scrambled after him with the feeling that her whole world was caving in around her. “Cole, can you see it from my perspective? You have to admit, it looks suspicious.”
“Does it?” He yanked on his jeans hard enough to get denim burn in some very uncomfortable places. “Why?”
“Are you kidding me? You have that huge file on the murders. You admit to hacking the NOPD database. How can I not be suspicious?”
“Because you trust me?” He shrugged into his T-shirt, then grabbed his shoes without bothering to button up.
“Trust has to be earned.”
The searing look he tossed over his shoulder would have stopped her at two hundred paces if she hadn’t just spent the night in his arms. As it was, it still made her more nervous than she liked to admit. Crossing to him, she put a hand on his shoulder, then jumped when he pulled brutally away.
“So does mistrust,” he shot back at her as he slammed his feet into his running shoes. “You might think of that the next time you want to throw accusations around.”
“Cole—” She didn’t know what she was going to say, but he cut her off before she had the chance to get another word out.
“And while you’re at it, think about what it says about you that you fucked me while you had even the slightest suspicion that I was involved with raping and killing seven young women. I guess I’m not the only sick bastard around.”
“Three,” she said, faintly, trust in him coming too late.
“What?” He paused, glared at her.
“To my knowledge, there have only been three connected murders, not seven. Unless you’ve found something I haven’t—” She reached out a beseeching hand to him, but he knocked it away impatiently.
“My mistake. I researched seven murders—and from the way you’re acting, I figured they all must be related.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a glossy black business card and tossed it on the counter between them. “Here’s the Web site the studio set up to pimp the documentary. Kind of a behind-the-scenes thing. Look it up, if you don’t believe me. Maybe then we can work on trust.”
Then he was turning, banging out the back door without a backward glance, letting the small path in her backyard guide him out and into the street. She watched him until he disappeared around the corner. Then wrapped her arms around herself as she sank to the floor.
She needed to get up, to get to work, but her body refused to cooperate. Rocking back and forth, she listened to the sounds of the French Quarter drifting in through the open window, struggling to get control of her emotions. Cole Adams had lodged himself well and truly inside her head and she could no longer think straight. Eventually, she peeled herself up off the floor and moved across to the computer. Logged on to the Internet and found the Web site Cole had told her about. His studio had gone all out as it documented the steps that went into making his documentary.
It was all true. Guilt gnawed at her stomach and she swallowed down the taste of bile as she switched off the screen. By the time she stepped into the shower, Genevieve was nearly sick. As she soaped up, her mind played over the scene with Cole again and again. She hadn’t meant to handle it so badly, had simply been so overwhelmed by him sexually that she’d wanted to prove—to herself and to him—that she could still think like a cop. Still be a cop.
After all the shit she’d taken from the guys at the station, after all the innuendos that had implied she couldn’t keep her hormones off the job, it grated that she couldn’t help wondering—even for a moment—if they’d been right all along.
Of course, with Cole long gone and her head completely clear for the first time in twelve hours, she knew all that was bullshit. She could compartmentalize just fine; had done so in this case from the very beginning.
She’d known Cole was innocent and now she had the proof—the Web site set up by his studio to follow every aspect of the documentary and his obvious lack of information about the case.
Still, as lead detective on a string of homicides that were skating dangerously close to being unsolvable, she’d had every right to question him about his involvement. Of course, she acknowledged ruefully as she turned off the spray and climbed out of the shower, she could have handled it better—a lot better. Perhaps waiting for longer than five minutes to pass since he was inside her would have been a good place to start.
Screw that, she decided as she wrapped a towel around her wet hair. She had a killer to catch, and Cole had to understand that. If she ended up stepping on some of his toes in the course of the investigation—or all of them, for that matter—his best bet was to invest in some steel-toed work boots.
Grabbing a lightweight gray suit out of her closet, she headed into the bedroom, only to be brought up short when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror for the first time.
Was that really her body?
Walking forward slowly, she put a shaky hand against the coolness of the mirror. Stared at the bruises and red marks covering patches of her skin. She looked like she’d been through a war—and lost.
Hickeys lined her throat, dotted her breasts and part of her stomach. Purple bands circled her wrists where Cole had held her arms in place and—she turned—her ass still had the pink imprint of his hand.
Her knees trembled and she collapsed in front of the mirror, staring wide-eyed at the stranger’s body reflected back at her. How was this possible? If she’d seen these marks on another woman she would have freaked out, assumed abuse, but there hadn’t been any.
Cole hadn’t done anything she hadn’t wanted—and enjoyed. Every touch, every kiss, every bite had been calculated to bring her the maximum amount of pleasure. And he had succeeded—she’d never known she was capable of the kind of response he drew so effortlessly from her. Of orgasms so intense and plentiful.
Reaching out, she traced a soft finger over a bruise on her upper thigh. She vaguely remembered Cole holding her legs apart as he went down on her, but she hadn’t felt any pain. Only the most intense pleasure of her life.
Taking a few deep breaths for courage, Genevi
eve stared into the mirror as she ran her hands over her breasts, down her stomach and arms. Skimmed her fingers up her thighs and over her buttocks as she tried to come to terms with this new side of her.
Had she really lost it so completely in Cole’s arms that she had demanded this kind of response from him? That she’d reveled in it? Had she really driven him so crazy that he’d felt the need to mark her? To brand her?
The evidence that she had was all over her body.
And, bizarre as it was, she loved it—absolutely adored this proof that the Ice Queen could drive a man to such desperate lengths. That she could take him outside of himself to the point that he did this to her. That she could go outside herself to the point that she didn’t even notice as it happened.
Besides, the bruises didn’t hurt—hell, she hadn’t even known most of them were there until she’d looked into the mirror. It would be worse than hypocritical to hold them against him, when last night she’d screamed his name more times than she could count.
Turning away, she began to dress. But as she slipped into her underwear, and then the suit that would cover all evidence of the previous night, she couldn’t help stealing little glances down at her body and longer looks into the mirror behind her.
She couldn’t forget that the love bites were there, nor could she forget the man who had given them to her—as, perhaps, had been Cole’s intention all along.
When finally her blouse was buttoned and all her skin was covered up, she slipped into her jacket. Twisted her curls into a loose chignon. Slid her feet into a pair of sensible loafers. And then shifted the collar of her shirt aside so that she could see the marks one more time.
It was going to be a long day, and every second of it would be spent thinking of Cole Adams and his undeniable, unbelievable, highly arousing claim on her body and her soul.
Chapter Nine
Two days later, it was disconcerting to realize just how right she’d been. She was knee-deep in three unsolved homicides, and all she could think of was Cole. Every shift in her chair made her wince as her well-used body protested any sudden movement. Every glance at her watch revealed the lightly bruised skin of her wrist, had her remembering just how fabulous it had been to be restrained by Cole’s hands. And still he hadn’t called.
She’d spent the last forty-eight hours waiting for the phone to ring, expecting to hear Cole’s voice on the other end. But it hadn’t—and she didn’t know if she was furious about that or relieved. What she felt for him was intense, too intense, and part of her wondered if she was better off without him—even if he did make her feel more than anyone ever had.
Shuffling through Cyndi Priner’s file for what seemed like the millionth time, Genevieve scowled in disgust. There was nothing here, nothing she and Shawn had missed. Nothing that might actually connect Cyndi to Jessica and Lorelei’s murders.
Not that she’d expected to find anything—she had gone over the file nearly every day since Cyndi had been killed and could quote its contents by heart.
Still, a smoking gun would have been nice—something, anything that might actually convince Chastian to move on this sometime before the next century.
“Hey, partner, you’re looking mighty serious there.”
Glancing up, she did a double take as her partner, Shawn, swaggered toward her. With his surfer-boy hair and brightly colored polo, he looked more like a San Diego beach bum than a New Orleans cop, but his instincts in homicide were right-on and had been for nearly a decade. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a few more vacation days left.”
He shrugged, then flashed her the grin that had gotten him everything he’d ever wanted. “I missed you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. Though the alligators in the bayou did have a sweeter temperament.”
She snorted. “Bite me.”
“It would be my very great pleasure.”
“I don’t know about that. The last guy who did said I was pretty bitter.”
“Nah.” He reached across the desk and picked up the small bag of chocolate chip cookies that was currently passing as lunch. “You’re not bitter—just an acquired taste.” He popped a cookie into his mouth.
“Oh, really? And you think you’ve acquired that taste?” She yanked her cookies back.
“More than most of the guys here have.”
“Like that’s hard?” She shot him a wry look.
“Not really.” He stole the last cookie from the bag and hopped off her desk. Then, after settling behind his own desk, said, “So, catch me up. I hear it’s been a hell of a week.”
“You have no idea.”
After briefing him on the cases she’d caught earlier in the week, she slid Jessica’s folder in front of him. “Look through it. Tell me what you think.”
Shawn spent a few minutes going over her notes and the details of the case. She tried not to watch him, tried not to react to every muffled curse or sigh. But it was hard—she was so wired about this one, so anxious for her partner to see what she saw, that she was afraid she’d jump out of her skin.
But when he raised his eyes to hers ten minutes later, there was no hint of recognition in them. Just an angry disgust he didn’t even try to hide. “I swear to God, these guys are getting sicker every fucking day.”
“A new day, a new perversion.” She repeated the words that were all but a mantra in the precinct.
“Isn’t that the truth?” Leaning back in his chair, Shawn studied her for a minute. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. Fess up.”
“I don’t think she’s the only one.”
His eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “You think there’s another body out there we don’t know about?”
“Maybe.” She grabbed her lukewarm Dr Pepper, took a long, slow sip as she formulated what she wanted to say. “I was thinking about those cases we never closed. You know, Lorelei DuFray and Cyndi Priner.”
Shawn froze, staring at her as if she’d grown another head. “What makes you think the cases are related?”
“The level of sadism. The obvious humiliation of the victims.” She shrugged. “Sheer gut instinct.”
“Yeah, well, we can set a clock by your gut instincts, so why hasn’t Chastian done anything about this yet?”
“He doesn’t believe me. Thinks I’m making things up.”
“ ’Don’t take his bullshit to heart. The lieutenant wouldn’t be able to find his ass with both hands and a mirror the size of the fucking moon.”
Genevieve giggled despite herself, and felt her tense muscles relaxing for the first time in days. His sense of humor and ability to call things like he saw them were just two of the many reasons she loved having Shawn as a partner.
“I know. I had the same thought yesterday.” She clicked into her email, scrolled through it. “That’s what has me so afraid.”
Her heart started pounding as she realized she had an answer from Jose. She opened it, felt her stomach cramp at the two terse sentences. Call made from unregistered, untraceable, prepaid cell phone. What the hell’s going on?
Cursing under her breath, Genevieve sat back in her chair and stared at the computer screen with blank eyes. Shawn was still talking, but she couldn’t hear a word he was saying. All of her concentration was focused on Jose’s cryptic email.
So her instincts about the phone call had been right on, after all. Not some kids being stupid, but someone who had something to hide. No other reason to use such a deliberately anonymous phone.
But was it the killer—or just someone with a grudge against her? God knew she’d made her fair share of enemies on the job these last few years.
Her gut screamed that the call had come straight from the man she was searching for, and she couldn’t ignore it—no matter how much she wanted to.
“Shawn,” she said, quietly breaking into his long-winded diatribe. “I think we’ve got a problem.”
“Be
sides a psychotic killer and no leads?” But his blue eyes narrowed, stared at her with an intensity that belied his laid-back looks. “What is it?”
She told him about the prank call—and Jose’s response to it—as succinctly as possible, and wasn’t the least bit surprised when he exploded.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before now?” he demanded.
“I didn’t know if it was important.”
“You have some woman-killing psycho calling you and you don’t think it’s important that he’s fixated on you?”
“Two phone calls is far from fixated! What I’m concerned about is what he said.”
The reminder stopped Shawn mid-diatribe, as she’d intended. “That there’s another body out there? Do you believe him?”
“I don’t think we can afford not to. Not at this point.”
He nodded his agreement, his eyes grim. “So where do we start looking for her?”
“That’s the kicker, isn’t it?”
They stared at each other for long seconds. Dismay and anger were winding themselves through Genevieve, and she could tell from the look on Shawn’s face that he felt exactly the same way.
Some woman was out there right now—either being tortured or already dead—and they could do nothing about it but wait. Wait for the next phone call, wait until the body turned up, wait until it was too late for another girl, another family.
Screw that! She had to do something—they had to do something. And at this point, their best chance of catching this sick bastard was to work the cases they already had.
Springing up, Genevieve strode to the large board parked against the back wall. Rolling it back to her desk, she pulled some thumbtacks and dry-erase markers out of her top drawer. “Let’s spread it all out, look at the time line.”
Shawn must have had the same thought, because he already had the case files open. “If you’re right and this is the same guy, it all starts with Lorelei DuFray.”
He grabbed the first folder on his desk, pulled out two pictures. One of thirty-three-year-old Lorelei as she’d been before July fifth—smiling and pretty and alive. And one of her after the killer had gotten done with her.
