Shock ricocheted through her, had her dropping the file as if it had suddenly grown fangs and a long, rattling tail.

Cole’s sister had been murdered.

Brutally murdered.

Seven years before.

In New Orleans.

The words chased each other around her head, jockeying for position as she tried desperately to wrap her mind around them, her anger draining away in the face of her horror. Cole’s sister had been killed here. He was here, doing a documentary on sex and violence—trying to make sense of his sister’s death.

Was it any wonder he’d been so offended when she’d admitted she thought he might be a killer? Or that he’d freaked out when she’d told him she was being targeted? Knowing what she now did, she realized he’d exercised great control in reacting as calmly as he had.

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 as**ole 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 as**ole. 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 he wanted to her. No way she’d let him tie her up and f**k her hot, luscious body the way he was aching to. Dying to. Not after he’d told her to f**k 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 f**k—” 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.