Another scream ripped through the house, had him clenching his teeth and shuddering. “Where is she?” he demanded between clenched teeth, his voice almost silent despite the torment ripping him apart with needle-thin claws.
Torres pointed at the hallway and they crept down it, keeping as low as possible. Horror was a sickness inside of him, twisting his stomach into knots as the need to get to Genevieve ripped into him. Only the knowledge that she was still alive kept him sane.
“Just go ahead and kill me, then!” Her voice came loud and clear down the narrow hallway, had him and Roberto freezing in their tracks. “Do it! I’d rather die than spend one second of the life I have left with you inside me!”
For one long second, time stood still. He and Roberto stared at each other in terror, the long hallway looming in front of them as they both wondered if there was any way they could get to her in time.
And then they were running full-out, desperate to reach Genevieve before it was too late. A low scream of insane rage echoed down the hallway, chilled his blood. Nearly stopped his heart.
They all but flew into the room, guns drawn.
“Freeze!” Roberto shouted, but he was too late. Genevieve’s lieutenant was on the bed, hovering over her nak*d, spread-eagled form, a long knife clutched in one hand as he hung, poised, over her heart.
Cole took aim without being aware that he did so, squeezed the trigger one, two, three times. Watched as the bastard’s body jerked from the impact of the bullets before falling, lifeless, on top of Genevieve.
For long seconds nobody moved, and then she shouted, “Get him off, get him off! Oh, God, Cole, get him off!”
Chapter Twenty-five
Genevieve shut down her computer with a sigh. It was well past nine o’clock, and she was exhausted—she and Roberto and Luc had been tying up loose ends for nearly twenty-four hours. And not once, in all that time, had she heard from Cole.
Roberto had brought him into the station after the shooting, had let Luc take his statement to keep things as clean as possible. But with both her and Shawn at the hospital, the questioning had been a mere formality. Cole had saved both of their lives, and the entire department knew it. As it was, Shawn was still in the hospital with a concussion, and the doctor had let her go only after it became apparent that keeping her was making her more upset. She was injured, but not so severely that she it demanded a hospital stay.
Besides, she’d needed to see this thing through, had needed to help finish the investigation that had nearly cost her her life.
By the time she’d gotten to the station, Cole was gone—and no matter how many times she called him, she couldn’t get him on the phone.
She knew he was shaken up, knew that seeing her strapped down like that had put an image in his head of his sister in the same position. Still, she’d expected him to call her or to answer the hundred and one phone calls she’d given him. But he hadn’t; had, in fact, sent each of her calls directly to voice mail.
He was brooding, trying to come to terms with the idea that he’d done all this and still hadn’t found Samantha’s killer. Roberto and Torres had called him right after they had gotten back from Chastian’s house, had told him that there was no evidence Chastian had murdered his sister. They’d also told him that they weren’t giving up, that—with Genevieve—they would work the case again, from the ground up.
He’d seemed to accept that, but then her still-shaken friends had blown it. They’d told him of the pictures of him they’d found in Chastian’s apartment, of the plans Chastian had had to murder Genevieve and frame Cole for her murder, and the other ones as well. With his bloody history, he’d seemed the perfect fall guy.
According to Roberto, Cole hadn’t said a word when they’d told him. He’d simply hung up the phone without a fuss. But no one had heard from him since.
She’d started out being understanding—after all, he’d done everything imaginable to find his sister’s killer and his single-minded attention had ended up attracting another psychopath, one with an agenda that had threatened his current lover. That had to be hard to swallow—that all the time he thought he’d been in control, someone else had been pulling the strings.
But after a few hours had gone by, she’d progressed to worried and had now hit downright pissed. He had no right to ignore her like this, not after he’d rushed to her rescue and saved her life in such a dramatic fashion. And from such a monster.
When Roberto and Luc had raided Chastian’s house, they’d found every sick and twisted thing imaginable. Photos of the each of his victims as he was torturing them, mementos from each of his murders—and there had been a lot of them. In Louisiana and Mississippi, Alabama and Florida. Nearly seventy-five girls through the years, and he’d kept pictures and personal items from each of them.
They’d been so shocked at what they’d found that they’d barely been able to get through the evidence, let alone censor their thoughts. Luc had let it spill that there had also been a slew of pictures of Genevieve, along with a few things she’d thought she’d lost through the years—a gold earring, a scarf, a couple of books, including a collection of Tennessee Williams plays.
The whole place—walls, ceilings, every available space—had been plastered with pictures of women being hurt. Roberto had sworn he’d never seen anything as disturbing in his entire life. Luc kept muttering that he didn’t see how it was possible that they’d worked for Chastian for so long—for years—without ever figuring out what a sick bastard he really was.
The entire squad room—hell, the whole precinct—was in shock. Chastian had received numerous commendations through the years, and the idea that he had come to work every day, had talked and laughed and joked with them when he was torturing and killing women on the side, seemed too much for many of the cops to accept.
Genevieve was having the easiest time believing it, but then, she’d gotten a chance to meet his psychoses up close and personal. She couldn’t stop the shudder that ripped through her. And she prayed that she would never have to live through something like that again.
But looking on the bright side—if there was one—at least it was finally over. Case closed. Chastian was dead, the paperwork was finished and she was dying to get to her lover. Only now she wasn’t so sure that he felt the same way about her.
Genevieve slowly gathered up her belongings as she pondered what to do—how to shake Cole out of whatever self-imposed funk he’d descended into. How to show him that losing control wasn’t always the terrible thing he thought it was.
Somewhere between her desk and the front door, the solution finally hit her.
* * *
Cole woke from a fitful sleep—one filled with nightmares and what-could-have-beens—to find his arms stretched above his head. With a groan, he started to roll over, only to find that he couldn’t move.
Struggling to consciousness, he tried to get his sleep-fogged brain to function. The last thing he remembered was shutting off his cell and house phone and climbing into his bed, where he’d stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours.
He’d been disgusted with himself, furious that he hadn’t made it to Genevieve before that psychopath had gotten his hands on her. He’d been so wrapped up in his sister’s death and his documentary that he hadn’t seen the threat to Genevieve until it was almost too late, and it made him feel like a failure—worse, as if the last seven years of his life hadn’t taught him a damn thing.
Again he tried to roll onto his stomach, and again he realized he couldn’t move. Alarm shot through the self-pity and disgust, had him raising his head off the bed and looking around wildly.
What he found could have come directly from his fantasies—or his nightmares.
Genevieve was standing at the foot of his bed, her golden curls tumbling sexily down her back. Her beautiful body was encased in a black lace thong and see-through corset, while black stockings ran the length of her long legs. In her hands was a bottle of God only knew what.
Not sure if she was real or just the remnant of a dream, he started to reach out for her, only to finally figure out that he was bound—hand and foot—to the bed.
“Hello, lover.” Genevieve’s voice was low and husky, and it worked its way through his body like an electric shock. “It’s about time you woke up.”
“What—” His voice was hoarse from sleep, and from the nerves just beginning to set in. “What are you doing? Let me go!”
She shook her head, and he trembled as her silken curls caressed her shoulders and br**sts. “Oh, I don’t think so. At least not yet.”
He strained against the bonds, but they didn’t move—in fact, got tighter the more he struggled. Panic exploded in his chest. “Genevieve—”
She shook her head again and the smile she gave him was part siren, part queen. And all predator. “You might as well give it up. I was a Girl Scout, you know. And guess what I got my first merit badge in?”
“Knot tying?” His c*ck throbbed at the erotic promise of her voice, his early morning erection tightening to the point of pain.
“Bingo.”
“Let me up, Genevieve.” The words came out as a command. “Don’t do this.”
Reaching forward, she slid a hand languorously over his abdomen before following the light trail of hair down below his navel. He arched, involuntarily, as her fingers burrowed into the crisp hair at the base of his straining dick—caught between arousal and anger, hunger and hostility.
“I don’t think you’re in any position to be issuing commands, do you?” She brushed against his erection and electricity shot straight through his dick. Along with a need so strong he had to grit his teeth to keep from begging.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked from between clenched teeth.
She licked her perfect, strawberry pink lips and grinned at him. “Why not?”
“Genevieve.” His voice was low, warning. “When I get out of here, I’m going to spank your ass for this.”
Smiling wickedly, she leaned over and licked him from navel to collarbone. “Well, that’s not much incentive for me to let you go, is it?” she murmured. “Maybe I’ll just keep you here, turn you into my own personal plaything.”
As she threw his own words back at him, Cole felt his body ratchet up another notch, desire thundering through him until it was all he could do to think. All he could do to breathe without strangling.
“Baby, please,” he gasped out as he trembled—fear and fury mixing with a lust so strong he didn’t think he could survive it.
Genevieve’s lips pursed in mock surprise. “Are you begging already? But I’ve barely gotten started.”
He let out a low, warning growl, but she only laughed. Then sunk her teeth into his right pec hard enough to have him shouting. Her tongue darted out to soothe the small hurt before circling first one nipple and then the other.
“Fuck!” he ground out, his body spinning rapidly out of his control. He felt his c*ck jerk, felt himself leak, and he couldn’t believe she’d gotten him so hard, so fast. For a minute he was afraid he was going to embarrass himself and he began to strain against the bonds in earnest.
“Stop fighting, Cole.” Genevieve laid a soothing hand against his cheek. “It’ll make this so much easier.”
“Make what easier?” Was that his voice? he wondered. It sounded more animal than human.
“The loss of control. I know how much you love being in charge, but tonight it’s my turn.”
Cole swore, long and viciously, but Genevieve only laughed. “That’ll cost you,” she murmured as she tipped the bottle in her hands over. A honey-scented liquid squirted out and she rubbed it slowly between her palms.
He watched, mesmerized, as her pink tongue darted out and swiped a taste. And when she murmured, “Mmm, delicious,” his mouth actually watered.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to get free of these damn ties. He’d swoop her into his lap, paddle her gorgeous ass and then spend the rest of the night showing her exactly who was boss in this—
“Fuck!” It was both a curse and a prayer as Genevieve began rubbing the oil onto his c*ck in slow, thorough strokes that had his eyes crossing and his back arching convulsively.
“Stop!” he demanded, but it sounded more like a plea. “Don’t—” His voice broke and he sucked in huge gulps of air, trying to get enough oxygen to steady his breathing. But Genevieve was only getting warmed up, and as her hands glided down to his testicles, began rubbing the oil into the delicate flesh, he nearly whimpered.
The touch of her hands was amazing, the feel of the oil even more so as it warmed on contact with his flesh. Heat sizzled along his most sensitive nerve endings, nearly burning him alive.
His balls tightened. His c*ck throbbed. The urge to come was nearly overwhelming, but he fought it back. Genevieve might have the upper hand—for now—but there was no way he was going to give in that easy. No way in hell.