Breakpoint Read online

  “Sounds like a jolly time was had by all.”

  “I’ve never been claustrophobic, but having toured a couple subs, I think I’d rather be set on fire than spend even a few days on one. Let alone an entire cruise,” she said. “Especially the way they share hot racks.”

  “I’m guessing that isn’t the kind of ‘hot’ that springs to mind when one thinks of sharing a rack.”

  “Even if they allowed women on subs, which they don’t, a lack of privacy would pretty much make that impossible. Hot-racking is two submariners sharing a rack by shifts. And getting back to our case, we really need to get out to the O’Halloran before it makes Pearl, given that any evidence concerning that pilot’s death could be disappearing as we speak.”

  “Are you thinking murder?”

  Just as he’d let the SEALs he’d worked with during that mission in the Kush call the shots, he was willing to acknowledge that Juls knew more about investigating a crime than he ever would.

  “I learned early on never to prejudge a case,” she said. “Because no matter how cut-and-dried facts seem to appear, there’s always room for surprises. Which means that at the moment I’m staying open-minded.”

  “Well, add this into whatever equation you’ve got going in that open mind,” he said. “Seems the LSO, guy named Lane Manning, has been written up for sexist behavior.”

  “Harassment?”

  “Not of the grab-and-grope sexual kind.” He skimmed through the PDF file. “More along the lines of letting folks know that he doesn’t believe women belong in cockpits.”

  “Being a chauvinist doesn’t necessarily make him a murderer. Though the commander did mention a brief confrontation.”

  “Brushed over it,” Dallas remembered. “Very briefly. Before moving on to telling us about those shipboard Muslims.”

  “Who also get added to the list. But, despite that domestic assault charge, which is damning, her husband’s pretty much off the hook.”

  “Why?”

  She scrolled down her own screen. After an initial reluctance to go hacking into government records, she’d proven a whiz. “Because the guy’s currently stationed in Iraq.”

  “We’ve already agreed that murder for hire isn’t unheard-of,” Dallas pointed out. “He could’ve had a friend do it.”

  “That would have to be one very close friend, given that premeditated felony murder is one of the Uniform Code of Military Justice’s fifteen offenses that can earn a military death sentence. And even without that, while a murderer was once eligible for parole in ten years, some 1997 legislation added an amendment allowing for life imprisonment without parole.”

  Dallas had always been a leg man. But he was discovering that brains were damn sexy, as well. The woman he’d gone out with before taking the pop-star bodyguard gig, had been a Carolina Panthers cheerleader with big hair and bought-for boobs who’d undoubtedly thought pi was a dessert that came with ice cream on top.

  “That’s a hell of a risk,” he agreed. “Especially to take for someone else.”

  “Unless we’re talking quid pro quo.”

  “Like Strangers on a Train.”

  “Exactly.” She shot him a hard look in response to his raised brow. “Hey, I’m not all about work. I’ve been known to watch a movie. On occasion.”

  “I never said a thing.”

  “But you were thinking it.”

  “Actually, I was thinking how hot you are when you’re talking like a lawyer.”

  “I am a lawyer.”

  Brow furrowed, she returned to looking at her monitor, but not before allowing Dallas to catch a glimpse of the color rising attractively in her cheeks. He figured there probably weren’t many things capable of making the former JAG lieutenant blush. He liked being one of them.

  “The lucky thing—for us, not that pilot—is that there’s no such thing as a perfect crime,” Julianne said. “If she was killed, someone other than the killer knows something. Maybe something seemingly unimportant. Something random. Something that doesn’t appear to have anything to do with what happened.”

  “So it’s our job to find out what that something is. And connect the dots.”

  “Exactly.” She leaned back in her chair and took a long drink from the mug of what had to be stone-cold coffee. “I’m still not liking it being a murder for hire or an ‘I’ll kill your pesky wife if you’ll kill mine’ murder, because there aren’t that many Marines aboard a carrier. The odds of a guy in Iraq even knowing a jarhead on the O’Halloran are slim to none.”

  “Slim isn’t none.”

  “True. Which, if we don’t come up with clear answers, might actually mean a trip to the sandbox to talk to the husband in person.”

  “Wouldn’t that be fun?” Dallas drawled. “Of course, we could also test how much power this gig gives us by having the military send him back to the States to us.”

  “That’s definitely more appealing.”

  Putting down her coffee cup, she stretched, which did interesting things to her breasts. Just because he was becoming more and more attracted to her brains didn’t mean that Dallas had gone blind.

  Or dead below the waist.

  No, he thought as his dick stirred. Definitely not dead.

  “We’ve probably gotten enough background to hit the ground running,” he suggested.

  “Deck,” she corrected absently.

  Her words were a little slurred, which was an indication that she was nearing exhaustion. Not surprising, factoring in her long flight from the mainland. And what had to have been her less than pleasant surprise at discovering whom, exactly, she’d been partnered up with.

  “Hit the deck running,” he amended. “My point was, what would you say to going to bed?”

  Well, that got her attention. Her eyes, which had been drifting shut, opened and shot toward his.

  “Not that way. I meant, like, to sleep.”

  “Sleep.”

  She said it with the same anticipatory pleasure another woman might use when describing sex. Or, more likely, chocolate. Or, Dallas considered, as a fantasy of painting every inch of the LT’s body with Hershey’s syrup, then slowly licking it off danced in his mind, sex and chocolate.

  “I could definitely go for that.” She wrinkled her nose. “After a shower to scrub off the travel scum and get the cigarette smoke from that bar out of my hair.”

  “Good idea. You go first and I’ll take care of turndown duties.”

  She stiffened. Neck, arms, back.

  “Last I looked, you have your own room.”

  “And how will that look to anyone who might be watching us? Since we’ve already set up the lovey-dovey situation.”

  “Good point.” And one he could tell she wasn’t all that eager to endorse.

  “I’m not leaving you alone.” He crossed his arms to underscore his point. “While you might be trained to use a gun, like you said, that doesn’t mean that you could.”

  “I could if I had to.” She opened her suitcase and took out an oversize gray USN T-shirt printed with “the sea is ours” motto and what looked to be a pair of men’s boxers.

  “You could take another life?” Dallas asked skepti cally. “Without hesitation?”

  Her slight pause gave her away.

  “Look.” Knowing it wouldn’t win him any points, he refrained, just barely, from sighing. “If you’re worried about me trying to jump your bones, I can sleep on the floor. But I’m not leaving.”

  “You don’t have to sleep on the floor. It’s a big bed, with plenty of room for two. We’re both adults capable of controlling our impulses, and so long as you stay on your side and I stay on mine, we’ll be fine. And, although I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself—”

  “Which is probably what that dead pilot thought. Before someone may have killed her.”

  “It could still be suicide.” She took a nylon cosmetic case from her bag.

  “Sure. And I could be Captain America in disguise. But I’m not.”


  She’d been on her way into the bathroom, but paused to turn toward him. “I just realized something we have in common.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Trust doesn’t come easily for either one of us.”

  “I trust you.”

  She thought about that for a brief, silent moment.

  Then said, “Me, too. You, that is.”

  And with that, she left the room.

  He was making progress, Dallas decided as he stripped the cover off the bed and took his Dopp kit out of his duffel bag. Although he usually slept naked, he reluctantly decided that, under the circumstances, skivvies might be in order.

  He wasn’t sure where they were headed. But they’d come one hell of a long way since those days together in that JAG interrogation room.

  Although he felt regret for the loss of any life, a very strong part of Dallas couldn’t deny that he was grateful for whatever fate had thrown him and the very tasty LT together again.

  25

  Heaven.

  After the excruciatingly long day she’d been through, the shower felt fabulous. Beyond fabulous. It was sheer nirvana. As the hot water streamed over her body, Julianne washed the conditioner from her freshly shampooed hair and decided the only thing that could possibly improve the experience would be if the hands smoothing the liquid soap over her wet, slick skin were Dallas O’Halloran’s, rather than her own.

  “No.” That was dangerous thinking. “You’re not going there.”

  They had a case to solve. She couldn’t afford to lose concentration by dwelling on sexual thoughts about her partner. And worse yet, wondering what type of thoughts he might be having about her.

  He’d said she was hot.

  Did he mean that?

  Or was it just a proven line? She figured a lot of women might fall for such a declaration, especially when stated in such a deep, baritone drawl. Then again, the Air Force CCT didn’t need lines. Not with those heavily lidded bedroom eyes that invited you to drown in their melted chocolate depths.

  And his lips.

  She sighed—like a foolish schoolgirl!—as she remembered the taste and texture of those masculine lips, which were not the least bit hard and tight, but full and firm, while somehow managing to be soft at the same time.

  Later, she would try to convince herself that it was only exhaustion that had her going back to imagining that it was his practiced hands, not hers, smoothing the liquid soap over her body. And his wicked lips following that sensual path.

  When her sensual fantasy started slipping from R-rated to XXX, Julianne pulled her mutinous mind back from the brink.

  Although she knew many military couples, Julianne had never allowed herself to get involved with men she worked with. Granted, it wasn’t always easy, because, while she might have been a Navy lawyer, she was also a woman. A woman as susceptible as any other to those white dress uniforms.

  Except for a period in her teens, when she’d had a huge crush on an earring-wearing, motorcycle-riding high school bad boy—who’d never noticed she existed, which she later realized was probably a good thing—she’d always been drawn to military men.

  And it wasn’t just that there was something sexy about a male in uniform. Though there was. What attracted her was something that seemed to be in short supply these days—honor.

  As she dried off with a towel that could definitely use some fabric softener, which did nothing to soothe her aroused flesh, Julianne also considered that most of the military men she’d met over the years—except for the occasional miscreants who had slipped through the recruiting system whom she’d end up prosecuting—possessed an unwavering code of beliefs that had them willing to put themselves in harm’s way to protect, defend, and fight for what was right.

  She appreciated their absolute self-discipline, their decisiveness, and their integrity as tough as their bodies.

  There was also something more than a little appealing about a man who could commit to something outside himself, she decided as she took another towel and began squeezing the water from her hair. Although there were always exceptions—like the dead pilot’s husband—her parents’ strong marriage suggested that a man who could commit to something outside himself could also commit to a mate.

  Not that she was looking for one.

  And a good thing, too, since, with her hair hanging over her shoulder like wet rope, and her red-rimmed eyes practically bleeding caffeine, she doubted that the man on the other side of the door, the man she’d be sharing a bed with, would need any of that famous military self-discipline to keep his hands off her.

  He was standing next to the bed when she left the bathroom, his bare, oh-so-ripped chest sporting scars revealing that despite his claim of being a nerd, he’d experienced many more battles than that one in the Kush that had originally brought them together. And she’d never met a nerd who possessed such boulder-sized biceps. As an overabundance of he-man testosterone oozed from every warrior pore, Julianne’s body soared into an alert stage higher than the ultimate DEFCON 1.

  Even though she knew she was asking for trouble, her rebellious eyes followed the light arrowing of dark hair down to the open snap of the jeans he’d changed into.

  The jeans hugged lean hips and long, muscular runner’s legs. They also hugged a package that she could still remember pressed against her.

  Dammit. She never blushed. She’d taught herself not to allow emotions to show while practicing for moot court in law school. But even as she struggled to regain her cool persona, she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

  Dragging her gaze a long way up to his face, she was surprised not to find the “caught you” laughter she’d expected to find in his eyes, but a dark hunger that echoed the one reverberating through her own suddenly needy body.

  “The bathroom’s all yours,” she mumbled.

  Oddly, for a man with the amount of experience she suspected he possessed, Dallas appeared no more comfortable with the situation than she was as he left the room with more speed than she’d seen him move with since they’d first met.

  The sexual jolt she’d experienced was crushed by the exhaustion that had finally caught up with her.

  Deciding that this was no time to attempt to decode the male mind—especially this male’s—Julianne slid between the sheets, nearly moaning with pleasure to be finally horizontal.

  Then she crashed into sleep the moment her head hit the rock-hard pillow.

  26

  Did the woman realize she was driving him crazy? And not just normal, “Gee, I’d kinda like to jump your bones” crazy, but blood-boiling, blue-balled, mind-fogging insane, his head—not to mention other vital body parts—about to explode if he didn’t get some relief. ASAP.

  The funny thing, Dallas decided as he soaped down, then twisted the faucet all the way to cold, hoping to ice both his blood and his aching need, was that Juls didn’t even seem to notice how hot she was.

  Maybe it was because she’d spent so many years working in a male environment. Unless all those guys in JAG were dead below the waist, you’d think she’d have been hit on more than a time or two during her career. Then again, they were lawyers, so maybe they took all those politically correct regs seriously.

  Dallas had always been a politically correct guy when it came to the women he dated. If a female said she wasn’t interested, he left it alone. And he sure didn’t sit around telling his buddies about his exploits with the women who were interested.

  Except for that one time. Up in the Kush, when they’d all been sitting around in a bunker, waiting for a Marine who’d gotten shot up by terrorists after their copter had crashed to die.

  The Marine, whom Zach had dubbed Opie due to his resemblance to Ron Howard’s freckle-faced character from the TV show, had been talking about his hairdresser fiancée, which somehow had ended up with them all sharing stories about the women in their lives. Unwilling to admit that thanks to back-to-back tours he’d been celibate for so long
that he was thinking of naming his hand, Dallas had obliged by sharing his tricks for speed dating and juggling a harem.

  Not that he’d ever actually speed dated. He’d always preferred to take his time when it came to women.

  As for a harem, well, his reputation as a horn dog was definitely exaggerated. Sure, he liked females. Liked them a lot. And he wouldn’t deny that he’d once been far more willing to let himself be seduced into tangling the sheets with a sexually aggressive woman.

  But that time in the Kush had changed things. He’d seen guys die before; he’d even gotten himself into situations where he’d thought he might have his ticket punched. But there was something about the way that Marine had talked about the girl he planned to marry. Something—although it was corny to think so—pure about the depth of his love for the fiancée he’d never be having those planned-for sons with.

  The experience hadn’t made Dallas decide to go off the tracks, throw away a lifetime of avoiding commitment and propose to the first woman he met. Actually, when it came to marriage, he’d always agreed with SEAL Quinn McKade that if the military had wanted him to have a wife, they’d have issued him one.

  But he wasn’t in the military any longer. And while he wasn’t out there looking for a wife—far from it—he found himself getting choosier. And not just about women, but about life in general.

  Maybe, he thought as he rubbed the too small, too thin towel over his body, watching the other guys fall into “till death we do part” relationships had him thinking more and more back on his own parents. Unlike a lot of guys from broken homes he’d met in the military, he couldn’t say the people who’d taken him in and given him their name hadn’t set a good example.

  In fact, they could’ve been the poster couple for marriage. Which should balance out any sense that relationships sucked that he might have picked up from having been ditched at birth by his biological mother.

  But, even as he sort of envied the other guys their obvious wedded bliss—particularly when he’d come home and find his apartment a bit too quiet, or even lonely—the gambler in Dallas, the part of him that always had him raising his hand for the dirtiest, iffiest missions, couldn’t quite get beyond the fact that no matter how much you tweaked the numbers, the odds for marriage were pretty much fifty-fifty.