But he couldn’t do any more tonight; his brain was fried, his body hot and hard and craving Genevieve. He hadn’t bothered her since he’d dropped her off at the Hotel Monteleone a few nights before, had known she’d be immersed in the investigation.
But he wanted to see her, was … lonely, if he admitted the truth. For a man who had never needed anything but his own company, it was a hell of an admission.
Screw it. He picked up the phone, dialed Genevieve’s cell. The worst she could tell him was to go to hell.
“Delacroix.” Her voice—clipped and soft and oh, so exhausted—trailed languorous fingers down his spine. Had his arousal ratcheting up a notch, as well as his need to see her. To take care of her.
“Hey, sweetheart. How are you?”
“Cole.” Her voice warmed up instantly, sent a softness spiraling through him that he didn’t recognize.
“I miss you.” He didn’t know where the words had come from, but they felt right.
“God, I miss you too.” Her voice caught on what sounded like a sob.
His body went on red alert. Eyes narrowed, breathing shallow, he demanded, “What’s wrong? What has you so upset?”
There was a long pause, then a watery laugh. “It’s just been a really long day. And it’s not done yet.”
“Come to me.”
Another laugh, sadder than the first. “Oh, God, I can’t. I’m stuck here, running out of time, and I have so much more to sort through.”
“You’re exhausted.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, but I’ve been tired before. Will be again.”
He gritted his teeth, fought against the urge to head to the station and demand that she get some rest. “Come to me,” he said again.
“Cole …”
She sounded too weary to argue, and that was when alarm and guilt really took hold of him. She was drained—emotionally and physically. He was part of what had drained her, he knew that, and hated that he’d contributed to the sad, broken tears he knew she was fighting so hard to keep inside.
“When you’re done—whatever time that is—come to me. Let me take care of you. I’ll be waiting.” It was a request, not an order, and he held his breath as he waited for her answer.
Another long pause, another shuddering breath. “Okay.”
It was a sigh so soft he had to strain to hear it, but it was enough. “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”
“See you … soon.” Then she hung up, leaving him staring at the phone and fighting the need to go get her and bring her back here with him.
He glanced at the clock—ten thirty—and headed to the kitchen. She wouldn’t be here until after midnight; he was sure of it. But still, she deserved a home-cooked meal, a little pampering. And to his everlasting surprise, he was just the man to give them to her.
Chapter Seventeen
For the second time in less than a week, Genevieve stood staring up at Cole’s house on St. Charles. This time, however, she wasn’t nervous or aroused or any of the other excited emotions that had rioted through her three days ago. Today, she was exhausted—mentally and physically drained—and it was taking all her concentration just to think about climbing the impressive row of steps up to his house.
With an effort born from willpower alone, she put a foot on the bottom step and pressed up. Only twelve more to go.
But the front door flew open before she could try to take the second step, and then Cole was rushing down the stairs. Hauling her into his arms and carrying her the rest of the way into his house.
As he carried her through the foyer, the large grandfather clock near the door clanged once. Shit, she thought, laying her weary head on Cole’s broad shoulder. It was one o’clock—almost seventy-two hours since Cole had dropped her off at the latest crime scene. How had the days passed in such a blur?
“I can walk,” she said, struggling to push against him. It was ridiculous, really, to head to her lover’s house when it was too much effort to keep her eyes open, let alone make love to him.
But she’d been so sad, so tired, so f**ked-up when he’d called, that she hadn’t been able to resist his order to come to him when she wrapped up what she was working on. It was a frightening thought—this urge for comfort, for the peace she had been able to find only with Cole, despite the doubt and confusion that had marked so much of their short time together.
He snorted. “I can tell.” His steps never faltered as he led her down the hallway to his bedroom. Then he was laying her gently on the bed with the soft command “Don’t go to sleep yet.”
She watched him walk away, wondered how long it would be before he walked away permanently, when he realized he couldn’t protect her any more than he had protected his sister. And fought the urge to weep.
She was no closer to finding the killer, no closer to saving her job. Chastian had spent the rest of the day looking at her like she was a cross between a hooker and an alien, while Torres had skulked after her when she left the station. He didn’t think she’d seen him. But she knew when she was being followed. What she couldn’t understand—and at that point was too tired to care about—was why.
Cole came back into the bedroom and she blinked away the exhausted tears. He’d already seen her cry twice—which was two times more than she usually did. She’d be damned if she did it again.
He started to undress her, slipping off her work shoes, followed by her pants and blouse. But when he reached for her underwear, she laid a soft hand on his. “I don’t know how good I’ll be tonight. I’m sorry. I should have just gone home.”
The curse that split the air was vile, even for Cole. And then he was ripping her panties and bra off her before divesting himself of his clothes almost as quickly. “Is that what you think of me?” he demanded. “That I would force sex on you when you’re nearly catatonic?”
He picked her up, headed into the bathroom. “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”
“It’s not—” She struggled to lift her head from where it was pillowed on his chest.
“Ssh, don’t talk now. Just let me take care of you.”
And then he was stepping into the shower, letting hot water cascade over her from all directions. “Can you stand?” he asked, sliding her slowly down his body.
“Of course I can stand!” She tried to be outraged at the suggestion of her weakness, but as soon as her feet hit the floor, she swayed alarmingly.
Cole cursed again, then settled her on the long bench that ran the length of the shower. Turned the various jets so that they were flowing over her from neck to ankles. “Let’s just try this, shall we?”
Her eyes were closed, her head resting against the shower wall as Cole slid soapy hands over her shoulders and down her arms. He was so sweet, his fingers so gentle as they glided over her br**sts and stomach, that she had trouble reconciling him with the man who had strapped her to his bed and pushed her body harder than it had ever been pushed before.
As his fingers glanced over her mons before moving between her legs, she felt a flicker of response. Amazing. How she could want him when her body was half-dead, maybe more?
In that moment, when she was so exhausted she could barely hold her head up, she saw their entire relationship as it flashed before her eyes. She saw it, and with one shuddering breath, slipped helplessly over the edge of lust into love.
It wasn’t a bad fall, as she’d always imagined it would be. Nor was it terrifying or any of the other things she’d always assumed giving control of her body to another would mean.
With Cole it felt right. Natural. As right as his hands caressing every part of her, as perfect as his eyes lingering on each sweet spot she had.
The words trembled on her lips, the need to share with him what she’d only just discovered nearly overwhelming. But she was beginning to know Cole, to understand how he worked. And she was smart enough to understand that he could not accept how she felt about him—not yet. Whatever his demons were, they were riding him hard. All she could do was hang on and hope to somehow, some way, gentle him into returning her feelings.
With this newfound knowledge burning inside of her, Genevieve felt the body she’d thought too tired to function begin to respond to Cole’s tender ministrations.
Arching her hips, she moaned a little, but he ignored the signs. Instead he rinsed the soap from her body slowly, letting the hot water ease aches and pains she hadn’t even known were there.
He leaned forward, moving the handheld showerhead up so that water cascaded over first one shoulder and then the other. Little rivulets ran over her br**sts, down her stomach, and she arched her back, enjoying the sensual warmth of the water as it touched every part of her.
Soon, too soon, he turned off the water and wrapped her in a huge black towel. She was in a daze, so tired that she could barely hold her head up, so disconsolate that she wanted to crawl into bed and pull the sheet over her head until she could once again face the world.
Cole’s hands were gentle as they dried the water from her; gentler still as he carried her back to his bed. After crossing to his dresser and yanking out a huge T-shirt, he pulled it over her head and then slipped her between the covers.
“Cole?” she asked, her hands reaching for him despite the exhaustion.
“Sleep, sweetheart.”
“Don’t leave me.” Her hand clutched at his and she curled herself around it, trying desperately to hold him to her. If she’d been more aware, such neediness would have appalled her. As it was, all she knew was that she didn’t want to be alone. Would pull into a ball and sob if Cole left her after taking such sweet care of her.
“I’m right here, Genevieve. I’m not going anywhere.”
He climbed into the bed beside her, pulling her into his chest. His warmth seeped into her, and she sighed as she rested her head on his chest, heard his heart beating steadily beneath her ear. She drifted to sleep feeling safer than she ever had before.
* * *
Cole smiled as he watched Genevieve sleep, trailed a finger over her high cheekbones and across that lush, relaxed mouth. She looked like hell—dark circles beneath her eyes, tension drawing her skin tight across her forehead and cheekbones, even in sleep. But she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, this woman who wore herself to exhaustion and beyond in her quest for justice.
She’d say it was her job, and maybe it was, but for Genevieve it was a calling, one she took incredibly seriously. Even if she weren’t beautiful and intelligent and the most exciting lover he’d ever had, he would still be intrigued by her, simply because of the way she fought for her victims. For their families. Her raw, unadulterated, uncompromising view of right and wrong—of justice and injustice—appealed to a man who had been forced to see the world in too many shades of gray for much too long.
He brushed his lips over her crazy curls, careful not to wake her despite his need to keep touching her. To feel her against him. To know that she was here, with him, safe in a world that was anything but.
If he’d held Samantha closer, had forced her to—He cut off abruptly, unwilling to take that train of thought any further. Not now, when Genevieve’s body was curled so trustingly against his. Not tonight, when his emotions and fears were much too close to the surface.
He squashed a momentary longing for the bottle of tequila in the next room. He’d relied too heavily on the clear liquor since he’d gotten to this godforsaken city, and enough was enough. If he couldn’t deal with his problems, couldn’t control what was happening now and what had happened seven years before, then what good was he? As a director or a man?
He didn’t know how long he lay there like that, watching Genevieve. Winding her curls around his fingers in an effort to hold her to him. Touching her just to reassure himself that she was still alive, still with him.
But dawn was streaking the sky outside his windows before she stirred. He didn’t move for long seconds, hoping that she wouldn’t wake up. She needed to sleep so badly, needed to heal her tired body and wounded psyche with a little time away from her responsibilities. From the case.
His caution was for nothing, though, as her beautiful sapphire eyes blinked open. She stared at him owlishly for a moment, confusion evident on her beautiful features. He knew the exact moment she realized where she was and how she’d gotten there—a warm, becoming flush crept up from beneath his T-shirt to cover her neck and cheeks.
“Hi there.” He tightened his arms around her as he whispered the words, so that she was snuggled—full-length—against him.
“Hi yourself.” Her voice was husky with sleep and so sexy he felt the semi-hard-on he’d been ignoring for hours twitch in reaction, growing fuller.
“Go back to sleep.” He kissed her eyes, trailed his lips over her soft pink cheeks. “You need more rest.”