Or should he mention the guy currently cutting up women in this godforsaken town? And how eerily close his MO seemed to be to the bastard’s who had killed Samantha?

In the end, he didn’t say any of it, couldn’t say it—even to his best friend. Instead, he cleared his own throat. Answered, “I don’t know. Everything’s completely f**ked-up down here.”

“Isn’t it always? That city’s never been good for you.”

He thought of Genevieve and the trust she’d put in him despite the odds. “It’s not all bad.”

“Do you need some help? I can hop a plane—”

“Thanks, Andrew. Really. I’m okay, just frustrated as shit.”

“Come home, back to L.A. It’s a balmy seventy-eight degrees here and everything is looking beautiful. That heat down there fries your brain cells, makes it impossible to think.”

“I don’t think it’s the heat.”

There was a long pause. “Yeah. Maybe not.”

“Look, I’ll call you in a few days. By then I’ll have a better idea if the script is working or not.”

“Great. And in the meantime, seriously. I can be there in, like, five hours.”

“I’m solid. Really.”

He hung up the phone a few minutes later, though he didn’t immediately get back to work. He couldn’t. Thoughts of Samantha were in his head, but hell, that was nothing unusual. She had haunted him for seven years now, and he had become pretty good at compartmentalizing so that he would work, talk, live around her place in his heart and mind.

But Genevieve—she was something else entirely. She took him over, drove almost everything from his head but the need to see her, to talk to her, to be inside her until everything faded away—even his past.

What is she doing now? he wondered. His kick-ass cop with the soft, vulnerable center. What was he supposed to do with her?

What was he supposed to do without her?

Just the thought had his stomach rolling, his fists clenching. No other woman had ever gotten under his skin like this. No other woman had ever touched him so deeply or made him feel so much. He wanted to resent her for it—and the attachment he was forming for her—but he couldn’t.

Their relationship was inconvenient, tempestuous, and hotter than hell. It was also more important to him than he could have dreamed possible even two weeks before. With her sassy mouth, deep thoughts, and hotter-than-hell body, Genevieve fit him. She made him whole in a way he’d never imagined, in a way he hadn’t known he could be after Samantha.

She hadn’t replaced his sister in his heart, nor had she made him any less determined to find Samantha’s killer. But knowing Genevieve, being with her, had somehow lessened the pain. Had made it easier for him to face each day, when before, getting out of bed to a world without Samantha in it had been unbearably difficult.

Leaning forward, Cole pressed a few computer keys and pulled up the statistics on New Orleans violence. Before Katrina, they had finally made some progress in lowering the homicide rate in the city, but now it was higher than it had ever been—higher than D.C. and Philadelphia, even Compton.

He was building his documentary around it—that even with half its population missing, New Orleans was a city where violence was endemic. Why? What made the dark and deadly so seductive when the motto of the place was Laissez les bon temps rouler? Let the good times roll.

The city wasn’t having a good time anymore. Oh, the tourists showed up and drank themselves stupid, claimed to be having a blast. But there was something missing in the frivolity—a lightheartedness that had once gone hand in hand with partying in the Big Easy. Like the ladies of the night that she was once known for, New Orleans was beautiful at night, as the stars sparkled against the darkness. In the cold light of day, she just looked cheap and used.

Maybe it was him. He no longer had a lighthearted bone in his body, so perhaps he couldn’t see the fun anymore. He thought back to the empty-eyed people he’d seen the other night on Bourbon Street, to the kids who hung out on Decatur near Café du Monde and tried so desperately to be something they weren’t. To the women dying such painful, senseless deaths.

No, something was missing from this city now; there was no disputing it. The question was whether it had always been missing. If he found out that answer, he’d have the documentary he and the studio were looking for.

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.