by Tracy Wolff
Today, she’d awakened to a ringing phone, news of a brutal, sex-related homicide the first thing she’d heard as she surfaced from a sleep so deep it was almost like death itself. Yesterday it had been a murder-suicide. Two days before that, a domestic dispute turned deadly.
Not to mention the bizarre call she’d gotten earlier that afternoon promising her—with sexually graphic delight—that the caller would be seeing her very soon. As the only female on the homicide squad, she got her fair share of calls from weirdos, and this one was nothing unusual—but it still put her back up, as they all did.
Sighing, she rubbed a weary hand over her eyes. This week, the Big Easy was anything but.
Taking the precinct steps two at a time, Genevieve glanced around the French Quarter, where she’d worked and lived for most of her life.
Tonight she could see none of the beauty the Quarter was known for. The architecture, the colors, the history—it all faded beside the sickness she’d witnessed that morning. The most recent in a long line of fucked-up and twisted crimes that ate away at the city’s population like a cancer.
Her argument with the lieutenant rang clearly in her head as her long legs ate up Royal Street’s narrow sidewalks.
Not enough similarities in the causes of death in the murders.
Not enough similarities in the three victims.
Not enough evidence, in her boss’s not-so-humble opinion.
But in the eleven years she’d been on the force, Genevieve’s gut had never been wrong, and right now her instincts were screaming that the case she’d caught this morning—the brutal rape and murder of a nineteen-year-old Tulane student—wasn’t a freak event. A serial killer was at large.
True, the causes of death in all three murders had been different, as had the body dumps—Jackson Square, a bar called Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, Senator Mouline’s house—but the feel of the scenes had felt too similar for it to have been a fluke. The evident, full-out rage the killer had been in when he’d inflicted the wounds had been the same, as had the desperate need to cause as much pain and humiliation to his victims as possible.
Without knowing where she was going, Genevieve made a quick left on St. Peter. She knew only that that she couldn’t face going home and reliving the whole damn day over and over in her head until she wanted to scream—or sob.
The image of Jessica Robbins’s body was in front of her eyes, the atrocities done to her burned into Genevieve’s brain by the hours and hours she’d spent working the case. By the helpless anger she felt at not being able to stop the crime.
By the failure she was already anticipating.
If this was the work of a serial killer—and her experience and instincts shouted that it was—then he was damn good at his job. Maybe the best she’d ever run across. And she’d need more than a condescending smile and a load of denial from her egotistical boss if she was going to catch the bastard.
Sickness churned in her stomach and turned her legs weak. Chastian couldn’t be allowed to sweep this under the rug, like he did so many of the other ideas she went to him with. He couldn’t be allowed to discount her ideas just because she was a woman and in his screwed-up opinion didn’t belong in homicide. She knew how to do her job, and would be damned if she was going to let his sexist bullshit stand in the way of her doing what she knew was right.
A couple of frat boys cruised by, jostling her, and Genevieve nearly jumped out of her skin. One more sign that she was wound tight enough to break.
“Hey, baby, let me buy you a drink.” One of them leered at her, his vacant eyes testimony to just how many drinks he’d already bought.
“I think you’ve had enough.” She started to move away from him.
“Aww, come on, darlin’, don’t be like that.” The second one blocked her way, and Genevieve sighed as she saw her day going from miserable to excruciating in the blink of an eye.
“Guys, you’re already drunk off your asses and it’s only”—she glanced at her watch—“seven-thirty. Why don’t you head back uptown and sleep it off?”
“Is that an invitation?” the first one asked, leaning in so close that she could almost identify the brand of beer he’d been slamming back.
“Not the kind you’re looking for.” Straightening up, she shoved past them. “Now scram.”
With much grumbling, they did, and Genevieve started to walk away. But now the idea of a drink had begun to sound entirely too good to pass up. Maybe a hurricane—or three—would help get Jessica out of her head.
Shouldering around the crush of tourists standing in front of Pat O’s, she slunk into the much less raucous bar a few doors down. If she couldn’t force the memories out of her head, maybe she could drink them away. At least for tonight.
* * *
Cole Adams slid onto the barstool next to the blond bombshell with more curves than a baseball and wondered how to start up the conversation he was dying to have.
Should he open with the truth? He wasn’t sure how well this beautiful woman would take to the fact that he’d been researching her for months. That he’d followed her from the police station. That he’d been lurking around outside the precinct, waiting for her to come out for nearly an hour.
That he wanted a whole lot more from her than she’d be willing to give.
He’d meant to stop her there, to tell her what he wanted right from the start. But she’d looked so enraged—and miserable—that he couldn’t help wondering what had caused the devastation written so clearly on her face.
But before he could decide how to approach her, Genevieve had started off at a walk so fast it was nearly a run, and he’d been forced to follow her or lose his chance.
He couldn’t afford to mess this up. Not now, when he’d finally gotten everything set up the way he wanted it.
Glancing at Genevieve out of the corner of his eye, he nearly snorted. Yeah, right. Things were going exactly as he’d planned.
Except that she looked more likely to shoot him than listen to him.
Plus, the speech he’d prepared sounded incredibly stupid now. Like a bad pickup line instead of the appeal to her conscience he’d intended.
Maybe he was just paranoid—and who could blame him? He’d done his homework on the NOPD so thoroughly that the face of every homicide detective on the force was familiar to him by now. But Genevieve’s picture hadn’t done her justice. On the computer screen, her hair had looked more of a dirty gray than the honey blond it really was, and her ample curves had been hidden under an ill-fitting suit. Now Cole was struggling to deal with the arousal that had wrapped around his gut like a fist at his first sight of her, and had only gotten worse as he’d watched her sinuous glide through the Quarter.
Looking at her from beneath his lashes, he watched her long, unpainted fingernails tap an impatient rhythm on the bar as she leaned back on her barstool in a parody of relaxation. What did it say about him that the guarded accessibility of her frame—combined with the sight of those loose, feminine fingers—had him longing for the feel of her against him? For the feel of her hand on his suddenly—and unexpectedly—hard cock?
Fuck, damn, shit. What was he, a horny teenager who couldn’t keep his dick under control? Or a man who knew what he wanted, one with a secret to unravel and could find only one woman to help him do it?
This couldn’t be happening. Not now, when he was so close to getting the ball rolling. Not now, when he had Detective Genevieve Delacroix almost exactly where he wanted her.
But it was happening, his body spinning rapidly out of control while his mind struggled to find a way to approach her that she wouldn’t find threatening—or annoying.
“So, can I buy you a drink?” Her question came out of nowhere, in a no-nonsense tone and a voice that was pure, sugary Georgia peach. Smooth and silky and sweetly delicious, despite the hint of hard-ass he heard just below the surface.
Surprise swept through him, and he wondered if she would taste as good as she sounded. The contrast betwe
en her voice and her tone intrigued him, one more example of the numerous contradictions that seemed to make her up.
The lush body covered by that ridiculous suit.
The indolent pose belied by the watchful eyes.
The gorgeous voice with the don’t-fuck-with-me tone.
It made him wonder who the real Genevieve Delacroix was. Made him want to fuck with her—to fuck her—and to hell with the consequences.
As he struggled to regain control—to keep his eye on the prize—the wicked curve of her lips kept interfering with his concentration.
“What are you offering?” He kept his voice low as he angled his body toward hers, savoring the rush of arousal pouring through him. Inconvenient or not, it had been far too long since he’d felt this instantaneous reaction to a woman.
Her barely-there smile turned into a smirk. “That depends what you ask for.”
He nodded to the bartender who had sidled up to the other side of the bar. “A shot of Patrón Silver.”
“Interesting choice.” Genevieve quirked a brow before turning to the bartender. “I’ll take an Absolut and cranberry.”
After the bartender moved away, she leveled a pair of deep blue eyes at him and Cole fought the urge to squirm. Genevieve had cop eyes—world-weary, cynical and more than willing to believe the worst.
For a split second, it was like looking into a mirror, his own tormented emotions of the past few years staring back at him. But then a shutter came down, blocking him from seeing anything but a sardonic amusement that sent shivers up his spine.
“So,” she demanded as she leaned forward until her mouth was only inches from his own. “Do you often drink alone?”
It was his turn to raise a brow. “I’m new in town. I don’t have anyone else to drink with.”
“I’d feel sorry for you, but I get the impression that’s more by choice than necessity.” Her cerulean eyes glowed as they swept over him, and he couldn’t stop his body from clenching in response.
“So what about you?”
She inclined her head. “What about me?” Her peaches-and-cream voice was ripe with approval, and he felt his cock throb. Shifting a little, he tried to adjust himself so his hard-on wasn’t so obvious—or painful. But a quick glance at Genevieve told him that she was more than aware of his dilemma—and that she was enjoying it.
“Do you often drink alone?” He parroted her words back at her, determined to gain control of the conversation.
“Who says I’m alone? I could be waiting for someone.”
She was bluffing—pushing him hard with her fuck-off voice and come-hither body language—and normally he’d be more than happy to go along for the ride. But now wasn’t the time for this, he reminded himself forcibly.
“Should I leave?” He started to stand.
“No!” For just a moment her façade slipped, giving him one more glimpse of the frustrated, tired, too-pissed-off-to-be-alone woman behind the mask.
He sank back into his chair. “I’m Cole, by the way.” He held out a hand.
“Genevieve.” She hesitated before placing her hand against his.
“Afraid?” he asked with a smirk, unable to stop himself.
“Of you?” Her hand met his in a firm, no-nonsense clasp, her eyes narrowing in derision.
“Is there someone else here?” She tried to tug her hand back, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go, any more than he could stop the cocky, shit-eating grin from crossing his face. It was going to be fun as hell testing her, seeing what she was made of.
Seeing just how far he could push before she began to shove back.
It might not be the wisest course of action, but then again, he’d given up being smart when he came to this hellhole of a city, intent on finding a truth that had eluded him for seven long years.
“I don’t know.” She glanced around the bar, let her eyes linger teasingly on some guy near the door. “Is there?”
As the guy straightened up and made a move toward them, Cole scowled fiercely. Then gave a sharp tug on Genevieve’s hand that had her out of her chair and between his legs before she knew what was happening. He wrapped his free hand around her hip and pulled her even closer, so that her thighs rested against his aroused cock.
Those blue eyes sparked with a fury that was cold as ice, and he expected her to struggle—for one brief moment, even wanted her to. His brain was sending all kinds of messages, calling him every name in the book, even as it warned him that he was blowing everything before his plan had a chance to get off the ground.
But for the first time in his life, his body had sole possession of the driver’s seat, his suddenly unruly libido shrugging off the warning signs like they didn’t exist—even as he fought for control.
For one brief, terrifying moment, he thought about forgetting the whole thing, about saying “Fuck it” and just reveling in the moment. About taking this woman any and every way he could have her and letting the chips fall where they may.
How had she gotten him so hot so quickly? In the long years following Samantha’s death, he’d never let anyone get under his skin. Ever.
And this wasn’t how their first meeting was supposed to turn out—with him fantasizing about what she looked like in the throes of one orgasm after another.
He was supposed to be laying the groundwork. Feeling her out. Checking to see if she really was as good as her record said she was. An hour ago her competence—or lack thereof—had been the most important thing on his mind. But now all he could think about was what it would feel like to come in her mouth. In her pussy. In her lush, gorgeous ass.
He tried to tamp down on the arousal, but that was like trying to put out a wildfire with a spray bottle—especially since he could feel the heat and arousal coming off her. Could see her nipples peaking beneath the thin material of her blouse. Could hear the hitch in her breathing as she too struggled for control.
He’d come to New Orleans looking for peace, had sought Genevieve out for just that purpose. But the aroused, out-of-control, gotta-have-her-now feeling that had grabbed him by the balls the second he laid eyes on her was anything but peaceful.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself back from the edge. It wasn’t easy when he wanted to be inside of her more than he wanted his next breath. More than he wanted the answers he’d come here to get.
But the look on Genevieve’s face said she’d been pushed—or pulled—as far as she was going to allow. Aroused or not, her next move would be to take a swing at him.
For a minute, he could almost taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. It might be worth it.
“You’re going to want to let go of me.” Her voice was low and hot, a warning if he’d ever heard one.
“I’m not so sure about that.” His hands tightened—on her hip and her palm—holding her to him for one endless moment. The image of what she would look like spread-eagle on his bed, her pale skin gleaming against the midnight silk of the sheets, roared through him, and for a second he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to let her go.
But his brain was screaming at him, the warning signals having turned into bright red flags of alarm, and somehow he found the strength to release her.
The bartender chose that second to drop their drinks on the bar, and he grabbed the ice-cold shot of tequila like it was a lifeline. Slammed it back and gestured for another one. He was teetering on the brink of madness, his body out of his control. His desire for Genevieve nearly palpable in the small distance she’d created between them.
What was wrong with him? he wondered, tossing back the second shot as quickly as he had the first. He’d never reacted like this to a woman before, had never felt like he would give anything—and everything—just to be inside one.
But Genevieve…in a few brief moments, Genevieve had turned him inside out. It was ridiculous, absurd. And he—
“You’re not as uncomplicated as you look.” Her voice broke into his self-flagellation, had him turning to her with hot eyes
he couldn’t hope to cool down.
“I could say the same thing about you.” He forced a calm into his voice that he was far from feeling.
“Yeah, well, I had a crappy day.” She stuck out her chin at him. “What’s your excuse?”
“I wasn’t aware I needed one.”
Very deliberately, she glanced down at where his hands were clenched into fists before taking a long sip of her drink. “It’s pretty obvious that you need something.”
Her words—cold and taunting—slammed through him. God, she was amazing—her icy control housed a hot fire that was tempting as hell.
“And what is it you think I need?”
For the first time, he saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes and couldn’t help wondering at its cause. A heavy silence stretched between them, long and taut and more than a little uncomfortable. Just when he’d decided that he’d blown it—that she wasn’t going to answer—Genevieve took a deep breath.
“Me,” she said, in a voice that was as steady as it was unexpected.
Read on for an excerpt from Tina Wainscott’s
Wild on You
The last time Rick Yarbrough got into this limo was right after the Navy court hearing that had made him and four members of his team officially ex-SEAL. The man who provided that limo, Chase Justiss, had offered all five of them an intriguing job opportunity. Six and a half weeks later, Risk was an operational member of the Justiss Alliance. They were unofficially called J-Men, because two of Chase’s operatives had a thing for some cult-classic movie called J-Men Forever.
Risk, Saxby, and Knox had undergone a week of orientation and training at Chase’s Miami estate, nothing compared to the grueling thirty months of becoming a SEAL. Then again, they already possessed most of the requisite skills.
Chase leaned forward from the limo’s plush interior and shook his hand. “Welcome to your first mission, Risk.”