Tie Me Down: A Loveswept Contemporary Erotic Romance (31 page)

Struggling to her knees, she crawled across the bed to him. Threw one leg over his hips and climbed on. Without the use of her hands it was strange, yet somehow even more erotic.

Rising on her knees, she lowered herself onto him slowly. Savored the feel of him slipping between her legs and into the hot recesses of her sex. Her muscles clenched around him, pulled him deeper until he was in her to the hilt and there was nothing more to take.

She felt full, magnificently, sexily stretched by him, until she couldn’t breathe without feeling him inside her. And then she began to move, a soft rocking of her hips that had him groaning and clawing the comforter beneath him.

“Faster, Genevieve,” he said, his hands moving to her hips to guide her.

But she shook him off, refused to be rushed. And continued the slow, languorous rhythm until they were both panting, sweat dripping off of them as their bodies strained for the climax that was tantalizingly out of reach.

“Sweetheart, you’re killing me.” He gasped the words between harsh, shuddering breaths. “You have to go faster. You have to—”

She raised her hips until he was almost out of her, then slammed down on him. He groaned, arched his hips and she did it again. And again. Until there was no Cole and no Genevieve, no suspension and no killer. Until there was nothing but two bodies moving as one and an ecstasy that spun wildly out of control.

“Are you ever going to tell me the truth, Cole?” Genevieve stared at him across her kitchen island, a glass of white wine in her hand and an outraged look on her face.

He’d had all day to think about how to tell her, but now that the time was here, the words just wouldn’t come. Finally deciding to just start at the beginning, he murmured, “I wasn’t completely honest about why I’m in New Orleans—why I needed your help.”

“No kidding.” The glass of wine froze halfway to her lips. “I’ve only been asking you about your agenda since the first day we met. Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you’re ready to just clear the air.”

He shrugged. “I don’t have much of a choice, seeing as how we’re becoming interconnected in this thing.”

“Interconnected, huh?” She took another sip of the crisp, cool wine. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Stop it, Genevieve.” His voice was dark, his eyes darker. “I want to talk about what’s going on, about how I’m afraid I might have something to do with it.”

“So talk. If you’re the reason these things have been happening to me, then I’m all ears.”

So wrapped up in the memories of his past—and the misery that came with them—he almost didn’t catch the significance of what Genevieve had said. But then something clicked and sent fury and fear slamming through him. “What’s that supposed to mean? Exactly what has been happening to you—besides the flowers?”

“I thought you were going to tell me.”

“Don’t do that.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do what, exactly?”

“Don’t
push
me on this, Genevieve.” He crossed the kitchen, grabbed her upper arms and pulled her against his chest—so that he could feel her heart beat and know that she was alive. And that she was going to stay that way, no matter what he had to do.

But her hands shoved against his chest, and the look on her face was angrier than
he had ever seen. “No, you don’t push me. Not after everything I’ve given you and everything I’ve done to get you to tell me the truth.”

He clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to shake her until she did exactly what he wanted of her. But she was giving as good as she got, and he could tell there was no backup in his little hard-ass tonight. She was all bristling femininity and outraged pride—and he could either go with it or get pulled under.

Gritting his teeth, determined to get through it as quickly as possible, he spit out, “Seven years ago, my sister was murdered. Her name was Samantha Diaz.”

The fight seemed to drain out of her as she reached for his hand. “Thank you for telling me that.”

“That’s it?” he asked, shocked. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Cole, and for what you had to see today. But I already knew. I’ve known almost from the beginning.”

Pain, raw and elemental, slammed through him. “How?”

“Your police report. It mentions Samantha.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was using you! I wanted to get you to reopen Samantha’s case, to look into it.”

“I already have.” Her eyes were the deep, mysterious blue of the ocean as she told him what he’d waited so desperately long to hear.

He felt tears burning behind his eyes, but refused to shed them. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was waiting for you to trust me enough to tell me about her, to tell me that you were really here to find her killer. But after what happened today, I figured we had to get it in the open. I had to force you to tell me, or somehow find a way to tell you that I already knew.”

“You know, when the studio talked to me about doing this documentary, I thought maybe it was a sign. If I could come down here and find out who the best detective was, and somehow get him—or her—to look at the case file, maybe we’d find something the other cops had missed. Maybe we’d find out who’d killed Samantha.”

“So why did you lie to me? Again and again and again? For a while, I was really afraid you were a murderer—or at least in league with one. This—” It was her turn to shake her head. “This wouldn’t have even raised my radar.”

“I didn’t know if you’d help me; my faith in the NOPD was pretty much nonexistent. And then by the time I’d figured out how different you were from the rest, you’d come to mean too much to me. I was afraid you’d be so offended by the lies that I’d never see you again.

“I’m sorry.” He spread his hands. “I was wrong.”

“Yes, you were.” She stared at him for long minutes, then walked around the island and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Cole. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through—losing your sister in such a brutal fashion.”

Her sadness for him was nearly palpable, her sorrow for Samantha just as obvious. But she still wasn’t getting it, still wasn’t understanding what he was saying. “I let her go. I convinced our mom and her dad to let her come down here on her own. I ignored my mom when she told me something was wrong with Sam, that I needed to come down and check it out.”

“You didn’t know.”

“Do you think that makes it any better? Especially now, when I feel like I’m set to relive it all over again?” His hands clamped convulsively on her shoulders.

But she shrugged him off, shoved at him until he dropped his arms and she could stand. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He sent you flowers, Genevieve. I’ve been researching violent crime long enough to know what it means when a serial killer gets fixated on someone. Then the murder like Samantha’s—it’s because of me.”

She stared at him for long moments, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth as if she were debating how much to say. It pissed him off. “Tell me.”

“He’s been fixated on me for a while, Cole. It’s not your doing. This was just one of his newest ideas to get my attention.”

The blood rushed from his head so quickly that for a second he was afraid he might actually pass out. “What does that mean? Fixated on you for
a while
?” He reached for her, but she shrugged him off. “Genevieve?” He made sure his voice was as hard as
he was, made sure she knew that one way or the other, she was telling him the truth.

“He’s done a number of things to get my attention—threats, presents. He’s been after me since I figured out what was going on.”

“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.”