Ugh. Since when did she have a thing against nice, comfortable bedroom sex? Already she could feel new bruises blooming on her back, souvenirs from when she’d pushed Cole past reason and he’d pushed her back against the wall. Literally.

Just the memory had heat spreading between her thighs, and she squeezed her legs shut in an effort to alleviate the ache. A quick glance at Cole as he sliced and diced told her just how aware of her predicament he was. And that he would be more than happy to help her out with it.

Through sheer strength of will, she forced her mind back to the topic at hand. She knew he had his secrets about his sister, just as she knew he would only tell her about Samantha when—and if—he was ready to. But still, she couldn’t help pushing. It couldn’t be healthy for him to be carrying all that around with him all the time.

“So.” She forced herself back on task. “The documentary.”

He popped a piece of zucchini into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. “It’s taking longer than I thought to get everything together. But I think I figured some stuff out the last couple days—got the beginning cemented in my head.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“Yeah.” He paused in his slicing and dicing for a minute, stared at her with unreadable eyes. “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about a few days ago?”

She crossed the kitchen, snagged a slice of carrot. “What is that, exactly?”

“I’d love to have you in the documentary, talking about the murders. The city.”

“I’m not an actress.” She grabbed another carrot.

“I don’t want an actress.” He finished slicing the vegetables and started on a crusty loaf of French bread. “But I do want the feminine perspective on the whole sex and violence thing. It’ll be a nice contrast to my own commentary. Male, female. Dark, light. It’ll be a good story.”

“A good story?” Fury sang through her veins as he hit on one of her hot buttons—no less dangerous for the fact that it was completely unexpected. “Is that all these women are to you? They’re dead, Cole. Some of them brutally murdered—that’s not just a good story.”

When he turned to her, she saw the banked rage in his own eyes as he dropped the knife on the cutting board. He reached for her and she tried to elude him, but he was too fast, the grip on her biceps too tight for her to do anything but struggle futilely. She refused to give him that satisfaction.

“Who are you to say that to me?” he demanded, shaking her softly. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m just a woman trying to find justice!”

“Justice?” His laugh was unpleasant as he eyed her with such contempt it had her blood running cold. “There’s no justice for what was done to those girls. Nothing that can make what they suffered in their last hours on earth okay. And I find it pretty goddamned absurd that you can think differently—and then stand in my kitchen and accuse me of making light of their deaths.”

“Finding their killers is all I can give them and their families!”

“Well, that’s just too little too late, isn’t it?” His hands tightened on her shoulders, and for one fleeting moment she was afraid. There was such intensity in him, such darkness, that she could almost be afraid of him. Almost think him capable of anything.

“Yes, I write documentaries. Yes, I make movies. But I dare you to find one movie that I’ve been a part of that treats death as callously as you do.

“Oh, you talk a good game, Genevieve, but that’s all it is. Justice? You call spending three years chasing a killer justice? Or plea bargains that let him walk free in three or five or ten years. Is that justice? You call him sitting on death row for twenty years justice? Fuck that; that’s not justice. That’s a mockery of justice and an insult to the dead.”

His grip loosened and then he was thrusting her away from him with enough strength to make her stumble, throwing an arm out to catch herself.

“And then you come here, into my house, into my kitchen, where we have just been as intimate as two people can be, and accuse me of not having the proper amount of respect for the dead? I find that pretty goddamned offensive—not to mention completely beneath you.”

When he was finished, the only sound in the house was his harsh breathing as he stared her down. His eyes were fiery, livid. They reached inside of her, set her on fire as his words echoed in her head.

She wanted to defend herself, to tell him that he was wrong. To tell him to go to hell. But he hadn’t said anything she hadn’t been thinking for years, hadn’t accused her of anything she didn’t think about regularly.

So what was she supposed to say to him? How was she supposed to defend herself against accusations that were far from baseless? She couldn’t believe she’d ever doubted him, couldn’t believe she’d ever thought him capable of committing crimes as evil as those she was investigating.

Genevieve reached out a hand and laid it gently on his arm. “I’m sorry. I was out of line. I don’t want to have another fight.”

His eyes were blacker than night as they met her blue ones. But they were calmer than they had been. “You were out of line.”

Annoyance danced through her at the snap in his tone, but she pushed it down. She’d accused him of not caring for the victims or their families. For a man like Cole, that was tantamount to a full frontal attack. He had a God-given, constitutional right to be pissed at her.

For a while. Her eyes narrowed as his mouth thinned into an even narrower line. For a very little while.

“Do you see where I’m coming from at all?” The question slipped out before she could censor herself, but once it was asked, she wouldn’t have taken it back. “You’re not exactly the most forthcoming guy on the block, you know.”

“There’s a huge leap between not being forthcoming and being completely cold and closed off.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” He smirked, an obnoxious twist of his lips that set her blood on simmer.

“You can stop being a sanctimonious prick right about now,” she answered. “It doesn’t become you nearly as well as the dominant as**ole does.”

She froze almost before she was done speaking. Had those words actually come from her mouth? Had she tossed such a blatant f**k-you in Cole’s face when she’d been sure she just wanted to apologize?

She closed her eyes for a second, prayed that she’d only thought the words. But when she opened her eyes again, Cole had shed any pretense of making dinner. Instead, he was prowling toward her, the predator she’d seen from the very beginning very much in evidence.

She opened her mouth to attempt some damage control, but she couldn’t get the words out. Not when he was looking at her like he wanted to throttle her and f**k her all at the same time. But she wouldn’t back down. She had a right to her opinions, even if he—

Any and all thoughts she had fled the second his hands made contact with her upper arms. The pressure wasn’t hard, just enough to let her know he meant business. As if the gleaming onyx of his eyes and the grim set of his mouth weren’t evidence enough.

“You like the dominant as**ole, do you?” he asked as he backed her out of the room.

“I didn’t say that.” She tried to dig in her heels, but he was unyielding as he used his body to keep her moving backward.

“Sure you did, sweetheart.” He lifted one hand to her face, stroked it softly down her cheek. “Interesting, isn’t it, how the big, bad cop gets off on someone else being in control?”

His hand slipped around to cup her neck. Once again his grip wasn’t hard, but the unmistakable dominance of the gesture was obvious—and infuriating. She tried to shrug him off, but his fingers bit into her tender flesh.

“Don’t push me, Cole.” Again she tried to stand her ground. Again he moved her with nothing but the pressure of his body against hers.

“How can I not, when I know how much you like it?”

They were moving down the hallway now, heading—she was sure—for his bedroom. Panic flitted through her, along with an excitement that nearly shamed her.

How could she get off on his controlling behavior when, before him she’d always been the one in control? For a brief moment, trepidation turned to fear and she pressed her hands firmly to his chest as she said, “Stop!”

It wasn’t the firmest command she’d ever uttered, but it checked Cole instantly. Had him stopping on a dime even as his eyes narrowed dangerously. “You sure that’s what you want to say, Genevieve?” He pulled his hand from her neck, and she immediately felt bereft. “Because you don’t get a second chance to change your mind.”

“Give it a rest! This isn’t the world according to Cole, you know.”

His grin was wolfish. “My house, my bed, my rules.” He stepped aside. “But you’re free to leave any time, Genevieve. You know where the door is.”

Shit. He’d called her bluff. Called it? Hell, he’d trumped her. Left her with only two choices: leave, which he seemed more than willing to let her do, or surrender herself to him totally. Let him call all the shots.

Could she do that? Could she, who had always prided herself on her icy control, give herself completely to someone else? Could she give herself to Cole, even knowing there were parts of him she was unable to reach?

Glancing behind her, she eyed the hallway that led to the front door. Should she leave? She knew deep down that if she chose to stop things, Cole would walk her to the door like a perfect gentleman. But he’d never touch her again. She would spend the rest of her life without the incredible pleasure he gave her so unstintingly.

The pleasure was insidious, addicting. Even now her body was crying out for his touch, for the sharp bite of his teeth, the slow stroke of his tongue. Could she live the rest of her life without it?

Frustration welled up in her, frustration and need and an overwhelming confusion that was as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome. “Do you have to push me all the time? Can’t we ever just be normal?”

She glanced up at Cole’s face, saw the softening in his eyes before he steeled himself again. “I’d never force you, sweetheart. You know that as well as I do. But I can’t be some guy you sleep with and forget about either. If you give yourself to me, you give all of yourself. You have to trust me that much, at least. Have to trust me to keep you safe.”

“And if I can’t?” It was a whisper, a cry from her battered, frightened soul.

“Then you can’t. And you’re better off without me. Without this.” He cupped her breast, smoothed his thumb over her hard nipple.

“This isn’t fair.” She hated the desperation in her tone, hated more that she’d been reduced to a child’s argument.

He tilted his head, watched her with those black-magic eyes that had somehow wound themselves into her soul. “No, it isn’t. But I can’t change that.”

“You mean, you won’t change it.”

“Maybe.”

She sagged in defeat, knew her decision had been made before she’d ever tried to argue. Reaching a hand out, she placed her palm on his. “Damn you, Cole, don’t you hurt me.”

He yanked her to him, held her against his chest as he stroked a soothing hand down her hair. “I could never hurt you. Don’t you know that yet?”

She merely shook her head, burying her face in his chest. Because she knew the truth, even if he didn’t. Cole could do so much more than merely hurt her. He could break her into so many pieces she would never recover.

Chapter Thirteen

It took every ounce of self-control Cole had to keep from showing his relief. For a minute there he was sure she’d call his bluff, tell him that he and his high-handed tendencies didn’t have a chance with her. And that would have killed him. He was beginning to think that there was no way he’d be able to let Genevieve go when this was all over.