Breakpoint Read online

  She drew in a deep breath. Tapped a yellow pencil on her desktop for a long, thoughtful time.

  Julianne and Dallas waited.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  “Okay. Before we get to the point where you tell me you can get a judicial court order to command me to testify or move on to threatening to ship me off to Gitmo for waterboarding—”

  “No one is suggesting any of that,” Julianne snapped uncharacteristically.

  “Sorry.” The woman dragged her fingers through the brunette bob that stopped just short of her khaki collar. “This is just . . . difficult.”

  She sighed.

  More tapping.

  “I can swear to you, on my word as an officer,” she said finally, “that LSO Manning was not involved with Lieutenant Murphy in any sexual way. And I’d bet my commission that he didn’t have it in him to kill anyone. Especially over such a foolish incident.”

  “It sounded like a lot more than a foolish incident to Lieutenant Murphy,” Dallas pointed out.

  “True. But her temper was like a flash fire: quick, hot, and over as quickly as it began.”

  “I’m willing to go along with you, for now,” Julianne said. “With the understanding that you well could be risking your commission if you’re wrong. As for how you know that Manning wasn’t involved with the LSO in any sexual way, would that be because of your close, personal friendship with him?”

  “If you’re asking if we were lovers, the answer is that we weren’t. But yes, we were close enough that I know a great deal about his personal life. As you undoubtedly know about that of your friends. People feel the need to share what’s in their hearts and minds. It’s only natural.”

  “If you say so.”

  Although they were both female, both naval officers, that one exchange told Dallas the two women could have been from different planets. It was also when he realized that growing up the daughter of a tough-as-nails admiral might not exactly be a piece of cake.

  “Sounds as if you’re kept pretty busy,” Julianne suggested mildly. Too mildly, Dallas considered.

  “My days are longer than if I’d chosen a civilian practice. But, as they say, it’s not really work if you enjoy it. After dinner, we have evening sick call to provide treatment to those who work the night shift.”

  “Yet you’re not a medical doctor.”

  “No, but most nights at least one sailor will show up just to talk. Sometimes they’re homesick. Occasionally one will overdose or even cut his or her wrists because of the stress that comes with the constant monotony and the incredibly long hours. Without the concept of a weekend when we’re under way, everyone but the sailors in laundry works seven days a week. It’s pretty much work, grab some chow, sleep, then work again.”

  “Did LSO Manning drop by that night?”

  “No.” Those intelligent eyes narrowed. Glinted. “But that doesn’t mean he was off killing LT Murphy.”

  “Just covering all the bases,” Julianne said. “So, after these conversations with homesick or depressed sailors you finally get to sleep?”

  “I hit my rack around midnight. But that doesn’t mean I actually get to sleep. You try sleeping with the constant drone of the ship’s engines, the planes, the sailors working, doors slamming, and announcements. There’s never a moment’s silence. . . .

  “You know that saying about sailors needing to get their land legs back after a cruise?”

  “My father said it took him a few hours to acclimate to being back on land,” Julianne said.

  “Well, it often takes up to a week before I don’t feel as if the ground is shifting beneath my feet,” Stewart said. “But the most overwhelming thing is the sudden silence, as soon as I leave the ship.”

  An aide appeared at her door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” the sailor said. “But we’re starting to get some customers backing up.”

  “Just a moment,” she told him. “I’m sorry,” she said to Julianne and Dallas. “But unless you have more questions, I really do need to return to work.”

  “That’s enough for now,” Julianne said. “But we’ll probably be back.”

  “I’d be surprised if you weren’t,” Lieutenant Commander Annette Stewart said dryly.

  “Where next?” the ensign, who’d been waiting outside the door, asked when they left the psychologist’s office.

  “I’d like to return to the crime scene,” Dallas said before Julianne could speak.

  She glanced up at him, surprised. “Why?”

  “I’ve got an idea I want to check out.”

  “What?”

  He glanced over at the ensign, as if to remind her that anything they said could be circulating all around the carrier at light speed.

  “I’ll tell you when we get there,” he said.

  36

  “Man on premises,” the ensign announced loudly after knocking as they approached the women’s section of the carrier.

  Rack curtains were pulled shut, and one sailor, wearing a towel and flip-flops, who, from her wet hair, had just gotten out of the shower and was on the way back to her compartment from the head, paused just long enough to give Dallas one of those looks Julianne was getting used to.

  No doubt about it: The guy was a babe magnet.

  An intelligent woman would stay way clear of him.

  Julianne had always considered herself intelligent.

  But, dammit, she was admittedly attracted. And not just to his hot body, but to his mind. And what she was sensing was a deeply held sense of justice and duty. Something they both shared.

  “I’d appreciate your standing outside to guard the door, uh, hatch,” he instructed the ensign. “Keep others from interfering with our investigation.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man immediately agreed.

  “So, what are we doing back here?” Julianne asked as they entered the small compartment and Dallas shut the hatch behind them.

  “Mav’s roommate said she was off on a search-and-rescue flight, right?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So.” He crooked a finger. His grin was slow and sexy as hell. “Come here.”

  “Why?”

  But she knew. She could see the devilment dancing in those bad-boy eyes. Oh, yes, CCT Dallas O’Halloran was dangerous. Not just to the enemy. But to her.

  “Because I want to kiss you. And it’s a little difficult to do when you’re standing on the other side of the room.”

  “I’m not on the other side of the room.” Which would be only about eight feet if she were.

  “It sure as hell feels like it.”

  “We can’t do anything,” she insisted, even as she moved toward him as if pulled by a powerful, invisible force. “Not only is it against regs to have sex aboard ship, no way am I going to compromise a crime scene.” Even for you.

  “Did I say anything about having sex?”

  “You want to kiss me.”

  “Roger that.”

  “So, that’s just the first step.”

  “Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.” She was now close enough to allow him to brush his thumb over her tightly set lips. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been thinking about this?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. Sometimes it seems like forever, though.”

  “We kissed last night.”

  “That was playing a part.”

  It sure had felt real to her.

  “And we did a lot more than kiss this morning.”

  “True. But we were both asleep when it started.”

  He took hold of her upper arms and drew her even closer. So their bodies were touching. Chest to chest. Belly to belly. Thigh to thigh.

  “But I’m wide-awake now.”And aroused.“How about you?” he asked.

  “I’m awake, but—”

  He touched her lips again with his index finger, cutting off her planned protest. The one that, if she were to be perfectly honest with herself, she didn’t me
an.

  “Well, then.”

  He was smiling as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  He didn’t ravish, which would have made it too easy for her to stop the kiss before it got out of hand. He beguiled, taking his time, gently, slowly, his lips brushing against hers as delicately as they had at the beginning of this morning’s dream.

  Julianne was unaware that she’d been holding her breath until it shuddered out as her lips parted, inviting him to take the kiss deeper.

  But once again, he surprised her.

  Rather than invade her mouth with his tongue, he continued to draw things out, scattering scintillating kisses at each corner of her lips. Her chin. Along her jaw before moving up her cheek, leaving a trail of heat.

  “Dallas.” His name came out on a ragged breath. She couldn’t recognize her voice. It was too rough. Too needy.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist. Tilted her head back, inviting—no, begging—for more.

  Because she was afraid of drowning in the depths of his eyes, Julianne had closed hers. But she could feel his smile at her temple.

  “Just a bit more,” he crooned in a low drawl that vibrated all through her.

  Somehow, with just his wickedly clever mouth, he was muddling her usual steel-trap mind. Stirring up unruly, dangerous needs she’d always managed to keep tightly reined in.

  His mouth skimmed back down her face to pluck at her lips again.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third time.

  Teasing. Tempting. Tantalizing, until she wasn’t sure whether she was on the verge of screaming. Or melting into a puddle of desperation at his feet.

  And when he—finally!—kissed her, really kissed her, even then he demonstrated an almost otherworldly patience, drinking slowly, savoring her as he might a fine, outrageously expensive wine.

  And then, still achingly patient, he drank more deeply, stealing her breath, scattering what was left of her senses.

  Just when she found herself on the verge of giving him anything he might ask for, he stunned her yet again by pulling back.

  “You know what?” he asked as his long fingers stroked the back of her neck.

  “What?” She could barely push the word past tingling lips that could still taste him.

  “That was really nice.”

  “Nice?”

  Okay, that rankled. Admittedly, maybe they hadn’t gotten into the tongue-tangling, eat-each-other-up stage, but how could he possibly rate something that had managed to be the most devastating kiss she’d ever shared, merely nice?

  It made her feel like a failure. As if she hadn’t lived up to all the other women he’d locked lips with over the years.

  “Nice,” he repeated. “Like sinking into a soft feather bed after months lying on rocks in the Kush. Or a smooth, single-malt whisky at the end of a mission. Or an icy glass of lemonade on a sultry summer day. Not that there’s anything cold about you.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging.”

  Damn. She never sounded petulant. Then again, she was discovering a lot of firsts concerning this man.

  His grin was slow and charming. “Kissing you could become a habit, Juls.”

  “A bad habit,” she warned. Definitely petulant.

  “Those are sometimes the best kind.”

  With humor sparkling in his gaze, he bent his head again. This time the kiss was hard and fast, and instantly set her head spinning.

  “We’d better get back to work,” he said, after he’d ended the kiss much too soon. “If we close the case before this flattop reaches Pearl, we can find ourselves a private beach somewhere and move on to second base.”

  “You’re awfully sure of yourself,” she grumbled, even as the idea enticed.

  “Not that I want to argue. Especially while I’m still feelin’ pleasantly drunk from tasting you,” he said. “But you’re wrong about that, sweet cakes.”

  “There’s not an insecure bone in your body.”

  “Now, I wouldn’t know about that. There’s one I could mention that’s definitely hopeful.” She had to practically bite her lips to keep from smiling at the sexy suggestion. “But one thing I am sure about: We are going to make love, Juls. And when we do, it’s going to be off the Richter scale.”

  He might be the cockiest man she’d ever met.

  But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t occasionally be right.

  And in this, Julianne sensed, they were once again in full agreement.

  37

  “This isn’t going to work,” Dallas said as they left the quarters the two women pilots had shared.

  “What?”

  “The way we’re tackling this.”

  She stopped. Folded her arms and looked up at him. “You have a better idea?”

  “Instead of traipsing all over this place—which, by the way, is beginning to remind me of a fun house, where the floors are always rolling up and down and back and forth, but never the same way twice—we need to settle down somewhere.

  “So, since we’re supposed to be in charge, we should have the interviewees come to us. Or there’s no way we’re going to get to check all the suspects out before this boat reaches Pearl.”

  “Good point.” She turned toward the ensign. “Is there somewhere we can set up shop?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” His young brow furrowed. “But those orders would have to come down through the chain of command. I’m not authorized to assign such spaces.”

  “Well, then, who could authorize us an office?” Dallas asked.

  “That would be the captain, sir. Or at least the CDO.”

  “Well, then. Let’s go talk to them.”

  The furrows deepened. But, trained to obey orders, the ensign merely said, “Yes, sir. They’ll be on the island,” he said, then began leading them through another mind-dizzying series of turns and ladders.

  As they made their way upward to the tower, Dallas decided that while some people probably enjoyed carrier life, he’d chosen well by going into the Air Force. Because the fact of the matter was that along with all the rocking and rolling, the unpalatable fact was that the boat stank—of sweat, soap, grease, oil, jet fumes, cleansers, and a myriad of other odors that had probably been soaking into the steel walls, ceilings, and floors since the O’Halloran had been built.

  “My dad always said you get used to it,” Julianne said, when he mentioned it to her. “But you know, even though I know he took a shower before he met us in port, I could always smell his boat on him. So”—she shrugged—“to me it sorta smells good. Like family.”

  Dallas’s first thought was that she must’ve had a strange family. His second was that he didn’t exactly grow up with Pa and Aunt Bee in Mayberry R.F.D., either.

  “So,” he said, as they climbed yet another ladder, “the CDO is the command duty officer, right?”

  “Exactly. He’s the direct representative of the captain, with full and complete authority. All personnel, regardless of rank, are subordinate.”

  “When you’re talking full and complete authority, does that mean what it sounds like? He can do whatever the captain does?”

  “If the captain isn’t available. He also has release authority.”

  “A carrier carries weapons?”

  “Some defensive missiles. And some guns—probably six-barreled Mk-15s. Also some decoy launchers, which deploy infrared flares and chaff.”

  “And he can order the firing of missiles?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Without asking the captain?”

  “Well, that would depend on the circumstances, of course. Naturally, his orders don’t supersede his superior’s. But if an emergency occurs, yeah. He’s the guy who gives the order.”

  “How’s he chosen? By rank?”

  “No. By the captain. He needs to be an officer, but, depending on the circumstances and the captain’s trust in him, he could even be an ensign.”

  “That’s a lot of responsibility.”

  �
�Which is why most captains choose carefully. Captain Ramsey’s CDO, Lieutenant Commander Warren Wright, has been with him for the past ten years in various positions.”

  “You checked.”

  “While you were out getting breakfast. It seemed like knowing the players would be a good idea.”

  “I’m not going to argue there.”

  Dallas figured ten years must’ve bonded the two men. The same way he’d bonded with the troops he’d been with during that debacle in Afghanistan. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Zach Tremayne, Quinn McKade, Shane Garrett, or Sax Douchett. He also figured they felt the same way about him.

  Would he kill for them?

  Damn right he would. And he had.

  But that had been in war, when he’d had no other choice because the bad guys had started shooting at them first, beginning when they’d downed the helo.

  He ran some scenarios through his mind. What if the captain was the one who’d gotten the pilot pregnant? Would his CDO actually commit murder to cover it up?

  Possibly.

  Still, the flaw in that idea was that Lieutenant Murphy seemed to want to keep her pregnancy a secret every much as the still unknown father would’ve. So why bother to murder her over a problem that would disappear as soon as they returned to port?

  Maybe they were back to that lovers’ spat that had been suggested. Maybe whoever fathered the child wanted her to keep it. Maybe the guy even had a fantasy of a life together.

  After all, just because his own birth father had never been in the picture didn’t mean that all men felt the same way.

  Dallas thought back on the dead pilot’s body.

  “He or she would have to be strong,” he said.

  Julianne glanced back over her shoulder. “Who?”

  “Whoever killed Lieutenant Murphy. It’s not that easy strangling someone. Even if you know what you’re doing.” Which Dallas did. “Especially someone who’s going to fight back. Then, to lift them up onto a chair and tie a belt around their neck to fake a suicide ... well, that’s gotta involve some major muscle groups.”

  “Which would put nearly everyone on this boat at the top of the list,” she pointed out.