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 br**sts 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, Genevieve stared into the mirror as she ran her hands over her br**sts, 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 f**king 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 f**king 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.”
“Besides 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.
She’d been laid out n**ed in Jackson Square, her legs and arms bound behind her with thick rope, her body severely bruised. Her throat had been slashed—not deep enough to kill her instantly, but more than enough to let her bleed out slowly. Next to her in the photo was the long length of black satin she had been covered with when she was discovered.
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 br**sts 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, Genevieve stared into the mirror as she ran her hands over her br**sts, 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 f**king 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 f**king 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.”
“Besides 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.
She’d been laid out n**ed in Jackson Square, her legs and arms bound behind her with thick rope, her body severely bruised. Her throat had been slashed—not deep enough to kill her instantly, but more than enough to let her bleed out slowly. Next to her in the photo was the long length of black satin she had been covered with when she was discovered.
