by Tracy Wolff
Spinning back to her computer, she typed in Adams under Old Crimes and waited for something to pop. Nothing did, and then she remembered Cole’s comment about taking care of his younger half sister.
Her heart cracked wide open at the thought of him losing her. His clenched fists made much more sense, as did his inability to look at her while he’d talked about his family.
You must be close to your family, she’d said to him.
Not so much anymore had been his laconic reply.
Pulling up cold homicides, she went through all of them from 2002, but nothing popped. Went back to 2001 and forward to 2003 and still couldn’t find anything with Cole’s name on it. She knew he would have been involved in the investigation, knew the man she’d slept with four nights before would have been right in the middle of the case, raising hell. And yet there was nothing here, in the city. Nothing in the whole state of Louisiana.
Which got her curious enough to double-check his case from California. No, the detectives had verified that Cole’s sister had been murdered in the French Quarter in July of 2002, a few months before he’d been arrested. The last page of the report listed her name—Samantha Diaz—and Genevieve reared back in shock for the second time.
Though she hadn’t been on homicide at the time, she remembered that case, remembered—with perfect clarity—the terrible things that had been done to the young woman. She had been the fourth victim of a serial killer, one who had gone on to claim two more before disappearing. He’d never been caught.
So where the hell was the file, she wondered. Turning back to the computer, she typed in Samantha’s name, but nothing hit. Typed in the two other names she could remember from the time period and still got nothing.
Suspicions aroused, Genevieve spent the next hour poking around for some clue as to where the files might have gone, but she could find nothing—not even proof that they had ever existed. Which was bullshit, because she knew the crimes had happened. Had watched the task force assemble every day as they tried to find the killer, all to no avail.
No wonder Cole was so dark and moody and controlling. With this in his past, it was a miracle he was as sane as he was. Murder like this—particularly unsolved—had a tendency to drive even the best-adjusted people to the edge of insanity.
“Hey, I was just talking to Jose.” Shawn came back all business, though he kept his distance. “He wants to poke around, see what he can find.”
“I’ll do that right now.” Smiling at Shawn so that he knew it was safe to return to his desk, Genevieve closed Cole’s file with a sigh. She didn’t have time to deal with his sister’s case right now, but she would get back to it. No one should have to go seven years without justice.
Chapter Eleven
It was nearly six hours later when Genevieve finally shut her computer off for the night. Shawn had already left, claiming he had a lead to check out on his way home. Luc and Roberto had followed closely after.
She had stayed on, running through the files one more time in an effort to find the clues the killer said were there. Then had started on missing persons in an effort to figure out who he’d chosen for his latest victim.
But without clues and without the body, how could she decide if it was the teenager who looked like a runaway or the divorcée out for a good time? Either way, she hadn’t been able to leave—not when some woman’s body was out there, just waiting to be discovered.
Enough was enough—her stomach was grumbling, her head was pounding, and all she really wanted to do was crawl under her desk and sleep for about eight hours. But it was too early for bed, and she had something to do first. An apology that needed to be made before she could settle down for the night. It wounded her that she’d accused Cole of being insensitive to victim’s’ families when he himself was the member of one.
Outside, the heat and humidity were still going strong despite the waning sun, and she couldn’t help thinking about the body they had yet to find. If it was outside somewhere, they were in huge trouble—any evidence the guy might have left for them would be destroyed by the ever-present rain, humidity, and insects that were a part of everyday life in New Orleans. And they’d be right back at square one.
She shook her head, grimaced. Hard to be anywhere else when they’d never left the starting gate. Hard to believe she was waist-deep—and sinking fast—in the homicide investigation from hell, and she still couldn’t get Cole out of her mind.
Despite her determination to remain calm, her heart started pounding as she thought of him. Of her destination. It had been four days, more than eighty hours, since she’d seen him—not that the Ice Queen was counting—and since they’d had their blowup, and their conversation today hadn’t exactly gone smoothly. It was up to her to make things right.
A cab cruised by and she hailed it, knowing if she walked home for her car she’d end up talking herself out of what she had to do. And she was exhausted, totally worn out—she didn’t have the energy to spend another night staring at the ceiling above her bed as she thought about Cole.
After finding out about his sister’s murder and rereading that sick email until she was nearly blind, it seemed ridiculous that she had ever thought Cole was the killer. The note wasn’t his voice or his style, and believing him guilty of murder seemed utterly ridiculous when she thought back on how tenderly he’d treated her.
Oh, it might not be another woman’s definition of tender, but Cole had understood her better than she’d understood herself. He’d given her everything she’d always craved in a sexual partner and hadn’t known to ask for, but had stopped the second she’d asked him to.
She would apologize and hope that he could forgive her doubts. Her only excuse was the fact that he messed with her head, her need for him so unprecedented—so outside the scope of her experience—that she wasn’t able to deal with it.
Yeah, it was lame, but it was also the truth. She didn’t know if Cole would believe her, but anything was better than not knowing.
* * *
He’d blown it. The first relationship he’d been interested in pursuing in more years than he could count and he’d completely screwed it up. Could he have been more of a jackass?
He hadn’t meant to lose his temper when he’d talked to Genevieve—any more than he’d meant to order her around—but the idea of her in danger made him crazy. Losing Samantha the way he did had made him paranoid, particularly about the safety of the women he cared about. Just the thought that some sick asshole had targeted Genevieve made him want to punch his way through a wall.
But she didn’t know that, had taken his reaction as proof that he was a domineering asshole. Sitting moodily at his kitchen table, Cole tossed back a shot of Patrón and reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. Flipping it open, he stared at the photograph he’d been carrying around for the better part of a decade. Rubbed a finger over the smiling face as he tried to think his way out of the disaster he’d created.
But for the first time in years, he couldn’t find a way out. He had pushed Genevieve too far, too fast, and had given her nothing in return. Nothing but bruises and half-truths and bristling masculine outrage. Was it any wonder she didn’t trust him?
With a shaking hand, he picked up the wide-bottomed bottle and poured a second shot. He needed to fix this, to go to Genevieve and apologize and hope she was understanding enough to forget about the fiasco of his phone call apology. He owed her that much.
Tossing back the second shot, he followed it with a lime chaser. Normally, he wasn’t much of a drinker, but he’d been going through tequila like it was water since hitting this town.
He grimaced. Who was he kidding? It was the situation, not the city. And while getting drunk might not be his first choice of ways to spend the evening, it was currently the best option he had. Because he doubted—severely—whether Genevieve would let him anywhere near her ever again.
His laugh, when it came, was harsh. Yeah, there was no way she’d let him do everything h
e wanted to her. No way she’d let him tie her up and fuck her hot, luscious body the way he was aching to. Dying to. Not after he’d told her to fuck off—and not in a good way.
When the doorbell rang, he was tempted to ignore it. He had the makings of a hell of a pity party going on and he hated to ruin that by letting some stranger into his lair, even temporarily.
But whoever it was was persistent, hitting the doorbell time and again until he finally gave up any hope of peace and solitude. He headed toward the front door with a growl, prepared to take his displeasure out on whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other side.
He was already cursing when he threw open the door. “What the fuck—” His voice died in midquestion, his eyes running over the familiar figure on his porch in disbelief.
“Can I come in?” Genevieve smiled uncertainly as she waited for him to pick his jaw up off the floor.
“Sure. Of course.” He opened the door wider, moved aside so she could enter. And tried to get his alcohol- and lust-fogged brain to function.
But it was no use—he was too overwhelmed by the idea that she was standing in his house of her own volition. That she had spent the time seeking him out when she could easily have forgotten he existed.
He’d certainly been a big enough ass to deserve just that. Not to mention a hell of a lot more.
“I’m sorry I jumped down your throat this afternoon.” She said the words quickly, as if they tasted bad.
“I thought that was my line.”
She shrugged. “Maybe both of ours?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“So go ahead and say it.” She watched him expectantly.
“I’m sorry I was an ass this afternoon?”
“You’re not supposed to say it like it’s a question.”
He grinned because he couldn’t help himself. Then reached for her hand and tugged. “Come on in.” He dragged her through the living room and down the hallway to the kitchen. “You want a drink?” He nodded to the bottle of tequila on the counter.
She glanced at the discarded lime peels. “It looks like you’ve been drinking enough of that for both of us.”
“Not even close.” Then, because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself for one second longer, he pulled her into his arms. “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
He rested his chin on the top of her head for a minute and just breathed in the sweet honey scent of her.
She shoved against his chest, pushed him away. And for a brief moment he felt bereft, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.
Striving for control, needing to keep his hands busy with something other than her, he reached into the bar cabinet and pulled out a shot glass. “You ever tried Patrón?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a big tequila drinker.”
“This isn’t any ordinary tequila.” He poured a shot, handed it to her. But stopped her when she started to sip.
“If you’re going to do a shot, you’ve got to do it right.”
Genevieve lifted one cool brow as she laid the shot glass on the counter, licked her full lower lip. And nearly had him coming in his fucking jeans. “I didn’t realize there was a wrong way to do this.”
“Sweetheart, there’s a wrong way to do everything.” And then he was putting his hands on her waist and lifting her up so that her sweet ass was on the center island, her legs just a little bit open.
Stepping between them before she could change her mind, he slipped yet another god-awful suit jacket off her shoulders—he was seriously going to have to do something about her wardrobe. Maybe if he ripped it all off her …
Licking a trail from the hollow of her throat to her breastbone, he savored the taste of her.
“Mmm, salty.”
She blushed, then leaned back on her hands so that her breasts were thrust forward. “It’s a hundred degrees in the shade. Hard not to sweat.”
It took all his self-control to take things slowly when all he really wanted to do was to eat her alive.
“I wasn’t complaining,” he murmured as he trailed his tongue over the curve of first one breast and then the other. Then he slammed back the shot of tequila he’d poured for her and finished it off by biting into a lime slice.
Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes wide as she stared at his lips. “That’s the right way to do a tequila shot?”
He loved her voice, the syrupy sweetness was a turn-on even without the hard-ass tone she deliberately injected into it. With the hard-ass tone, it was irresistible. “It’s the best way.”
“I bet.”
He poured another shot. Handed it to her. “Here. You try.”
He shrugged out of his T-shirt and nearly smiled as she did the same. Would have, if his first look at her body hadn’t brought him all the way to the edge. She was still covered in little bruises, the love bites he’d given her the last time they’d been together. It was hard to imagine that he’d done that to her, had marked her as he’d marked no other woman. Had claimed her as he’d never had the desire to do before.
Maybe he was a Neanderthal, because looking at her covered in his marks—seeing her proudly wearing the evidence of his desire for her—turned him so hard and fast his vision blurred.
Shit, how he wanted this woman. Was dangerously close to becoming obsessed with her.
Her sexy pink tongue darted out, swiped across her top lip and then her bottom one, as if she couldn’t quite decide where to lick. And every thought he had or might have had got lost in the wild need pumping through him.
Groaning, he tangled a hand in her hair and urged her closer. “Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Taste me.”
And she did, her mouth lowering to his chest so slowly that he wanted to howl. Then her tongue was on him, swirling in circles over his right pec, darting out to tease his nipple. Once, twice. Again and again until it was all he could do to keep from ripping off her pants and sliding into her right there.
“You taste good, Cole.” It was a whisper, but he heard it and his body reacted, his arousal ratcheting up another notch. Or twelve. Fuck—who would have thought it was possible to be this turned on and not come?
“So do you, baby. God, so do you.” He reached over, put a lime slice in his mouth. Concentrated on the bitterness of it as her sweet mouth fastened on to his neck and began to suck.
When she lifted her lips from his skin, he nearly shouted in disappointment. But it was so damn sexy to see her take the shot glass, to watch as she rubbed the cool glass over one cheek and then the other.
He felt himself grow harder, felt himself leak just a little as she dipped her tongue into the icy cold liquid. He clenched his fists, told himself not to rush her. That it would be sweeter if she took her time.
And was it ever. Her eyes met his, clung, for long seconds before she tossed her head back and slid the tequila down her throat. Then she was reaching up, grabbing the back of his head, pulling his mouth down to hers. And biting the lime he still had between his lips.
He nearly came, had to grit his teeth against the orgasm that rose in him—sharp and clean and demanding. Fuck, this woman was turning him inside out.
And he was loving every second of it.
“You want another one?” Was that his voice? So low and feral, as if all that was civilized had been stripped from him.
“I’d rather have you.”
Her bold honesty went straight through him, turning up the raging inferno inside of him until he feared spontaneous combustion.
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.” He tipped the tequila bottle slightly, let a few drops dribble onto her breasts and down her stomach.
She gasped as the cold liquid hit her, arched her back so that her nipples were front and center. Because he was dying for another taste of her, he bent down, followed the trail the alcohol had made with delicate flicks of his tongue.
Then, because he couldn’t resist, he tilted the bottle so that the tequ
ila coated his index finger. He swirled it first over one of her nipples and then the other before bending his head and circling the hard buds with his tongue. He sucked until all the alcohol was gone, savoring its rich burn as it slid down his throat.
Bringing his hands to Genevieve’s shoulders, he pressed her back slowly until she was fully open to him, resting on her elbows, her beautiful breasts bare to him. He paused for a moment, couldn’t move, was transfixed by the picture she made.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes heavy with desire, her lips slick from the shot she’d taken. Laid out on his counter like the most delectable of desserts, her legs open and dangling over the edge, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“I may never take a shot any other way.” He lifted the bottle, poured a steady stream of the liquor over her stomach.
She gasped as it ran down her sides, pooled in her navel, and he bent forward, sipping from her slowly. Savoring the spicy-sweet taste of her that mingled with the smooth heat of the aged tequila.
She moaned, a low, sexy sound that had him glancing up, wanting to see her face. Needing to know that she was as into this as he was.
She had a slice of lime clenched between her front teeth and he groaned as he swooped down, bit it, taking it into his mouth as he longed to take her.
“My turn,” she whispered, grabbing his hand and sucking his tequila-coated finger into her mouth.
His knees actually shook as she twirled her tongue around his long finger, stroking it up and down in the same rhythm she’d used four nights before on his dick. His heart was pounding out of control, the need to fuck her an all-consuming ache inside of him.
“Genevieve, baby.” He tried to retrieve his hand—along with his sanity—but she lifted her arms and curled her body around his arm, holding him like he was a prize she had won. And then, just when he didn’t think he could get any more turned on, just when his knees were locking and his cock throbbing, she bit down, hard, on the tip of his finger and shot his lust-crazed body into overdrive.
