Breakpoint Page 5

  But, hell, being the kind of guy who was willing to try anything once, Dallas figured it might just be worth a try. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Right?

  Which was why having sex with some girl who hadn’t even realized Paul McCartney wasn’t really pop star and teen idol Jesse McCartney’s grandfather just wasn’t the least bit appealing.

  The second reason he hadn’t dragged the too-young blond songstress into that decadent, very un-Asian pillow-top bed was because, as he’d been telling her since Singapore, real life really wasn’t like a movie.

  His assignment was to keep her safe. To protect her. To essentially guard her body, not fuck it.

  She hadn’t been happy. In fact, she stomped her foot so hard on the bamboo floor, he’d expected the stiletto heel to snap.

  Then she’d turned on the waterworks and threatened, as she had innumerable times during the tour, to call Phoenix Team and demand a new bodyguard. Which, hoo-ah, would’ve made Dallas the happiest camper in the whole USA.

  But, proving that just when you thought you’d figured life out, it could throw you a few curves, the tears had stopped. Like water turned off at a spigot.

  Then she’d smiled at him. Not the sex-kitten one she’d been throwing his way since the tour had begun, or the dazzling, “you know you love me because I’m fabulous” one she bestowed upon her screaming fans every night.

  This was a sweet, warm, surprisingly mature smile that touched her eyes. Then she went up a bit more on the toes of those spindly red shoes and touched her lips against his.

  Not in any attempt to seduce. But in what felt—and tasted—like friendship. At least—thank you, Jesus—she’d kept her tongue out of his mouth.

  “Dammit, I like you, O’Halloran,” she’d said, her voice roughened from belting out lyrics that after six weeks he still couldn’t understand and that had made him feel a hundred years old. “You remind me of my father.”

  Oh, wow. And hadn’t that been a freaking fun idea?

  So much fun his partial involuntary erection had immediately deflated.

  “He has principles, too.” Frown lines had furrowed her young brow. “Or at least, I thought he did. Until he ran off with my agent and stole all my money.”

  Which had definitely landed the massively dysfunctional family on the front pages of all the tabloids, especially given that her mother was currently shacking up somewhere in the Bahamas with the kid who had, during last year’s European tour, been in charge of selling the concert T-shirts.

  Anyhow, having escaped what could have been career suicide and a huge personal failure, two days later, the minute the tour had ended, Dallas had seen her safely ensconced back in her Beverly Hills mansion and headed back to South Carolina.

  They’d been circling the airfield over Somersett Harbor when the second officer had come onto the cockpit intercom to announce that the plane was experiencing an engine fire. But that passengers were to stay in their seats and remain calm, because the crew had everything under control.

  Having experienced one crash in his life, Dallas wasn’t looking forward to another, but fortunately, as he learned afterwards, the pilot of the 737 had been one of those gray-haired former military pilots with a million hours logged.

  He’d not only landed with a minimum amount of jolt, but had kept the damaged jet on the runway, rather than letting it slide into the Lowcountry marsh. Which could have resulted in passenger fatalities.

  As it was, everyone had walked away from the crash, and all Dallas suffered was a nasty gash in the head from the oversize metal buckle on his seatmate’s alligator bag, which she hadn’t stowed under the seat, as instructed. That little bit of airline disobedience had actually turned out to be a good thing.

  Proving how quirky fate could be, the EMTs waiting on the ground had insisted on taking him to the hospital for stitches. Which was where he’d met Dr. Luscious Lips. Who, in every way that he’d been able to tell as she’d deftly sewn him up, definitely fit his new criteria.

  So, here they were. And Dr. Brenda Bishop’s plans for this evening obviously included more than a one-pot meal of boiled shrimp, sausage, corn, and potatoes, accompanied by butter-slathered cornbread and coleslaw.

  After a bit of feminine hair twisting, and some seemingly casual stroking of the back of his hand, she’d announced that she’d turned off both her pager and her cell phone and was looking forward to a rare night of recreation.

  Which was fine with him.

  Better than fine. Because, ever since that unexpected encounter at the cocktail party at the del Coronado, he’d been thinking about a certain former JAG officer too damn much.

  Although he’d managed to stay focused during the waking hours of his pop-star babysitting assignment, damned if Julianne Decatur hadn’t begun sneakily invading his dreams.

  Since Dallas figured he’d have a better chance of hooking up with Angelina Jolie than he would with the icy blonde who obviously would just as soon field dress him as have sex with him, somewhere over Kansas on the flight back from LA, he’d decided the best way to get the Navy legal eagle out of his head was to burn her out.

  And who better to provide the flame than this sexy and willing ER doc?

  Their decadent order of bread pudding had just arrived when a buzzing started up in his pants. Unfortunately, it wasn’t caused by any desire, but his phone, which he’d set to vibrate earlier this evening.

  Wishing he’d just turned the damn thing off, he did his best to ignore it and focused on the way the doctor was licking a dollop of whisky sauce off her lips with the tip of that tongue he’d fully intended to be playing with later.

  But as his phone continued to attack like a hive of killer bees, Dallas admitted that even his powers of compartmentalization weren’t that strong.

  “Is something the matter?” Her brown eyes immediately switched from those of a seductive female to those of an intelligent physician as they scanned his frustrated face for medical symptoms.

  “No. Not really . . . It’s just . . . damn . . . I need to check this.”

  Dallas yanked the phone out of his pocket and envisioned his plans for the rest of the evening flying out the window as he read the text message.

  THOR called, Zach had messaged. Get here. Like, yesterday.

  Fuck. Nothing like leaving him some wiggle room.

  Knowing the former SEAL had never been one for exaggeration, Dallas bit back a curse and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

  “I’m sorry.” And wasn’t that a damn understatement? “Duty calls.”

  She didn’t look exactly crushed, which backed up what she’d told him while stitching up his head: that her own work didn’t allow enough free time to commit to any emotional relationship. This was merely a hookup, which might, if things went well, lead to some booty calls down the road.

  Which had been just fine and dandy with him.

  “Another pop star needing protection?” she asked with a wicked smile that suggested that, despite her obvious intelligence, she’d bought into those bodyguard movie fantasies as well.

  “I don’t have any details,” he said. Deciding not to wait for the server to do the credit card thing, he tossed some bills onto the table. “But it’s a government job. So if I told you—”

  “You’d have to kill me.”

  As she stood up, prepared to leave, he gave himself the luxury of skimming a look over her.

  It was true, Dallas thought with an inner sigh. Timing was, indeed, everything. It could also be a real bitch.

  “And wouldn’t that be a damn waste,” he said.

  She laughed. Then just as quickly sobered.

  “Stay safe,” she said.

  “Always.”

  As disappointed as he was by the way the evening had been cut short, Dallas couldn’t deny the kick of adrenaline racing through him at the prospect of getting back into the terrorism-fighting business.

  7

  Having bounced around naval bases all over th
e world—Bremerton, Norfolk, San Diego, Pearl Harbor, even Yokosuka, Japan, and, most recently,Washington, D.C.—Julianne had never considered going to the hassle of buying a home only to have to sell it with her next transfer.

  But now that she’d left the Navy, she’d found herself actually considering the idea of settling down. And where better than here in San Diego, a mere thirty-five miles from Oceanside, which would allow her to play auntie to Merry’s twins, whose due date was a month away?

  She quickly discovered that the problem with that idea was that the real estate business resembled the military in that it used an entirely different language from the rest of the world.

  For instance, from what she’d seen so far, “charming” was Realtor-speak for “a broom closet would be bigger.”

  “Walk to stores” meant that not only was there nowhere to park her car, the store in question that had opened up next door sold adult books and videos. A “parklike setting” suggested that, just maybe, there might be some poor, sickly tree somewhere on the block; a security system stood for the barking dog next door; and “Hurry! Won’t last!” was shorthand for “about to collapse.”

  “You said you wanted more space,” the fifty-something, overly spray-tanned Realtor reminded her as she opened the door to a foreclosure condo that supposedly boasted a view of the ocean. “Although I haven’t been to this one personally, the listing reports a wide-open floor plan.”

  She undid the lockbox and they both walked in.

  Julianne had thought she’d seen everything. Obviously she’d been wrong.

  “That’s because the previous owner appears to have removed all the supporting walls,” she murmured. Along with the carpeting, kitchen appliances, and every light fixture in the place.

  “It does need some TLC,” the dogged saleswoman admitted. Then she deftly switched gears. “But the positive thing is that now you can fix it up exactly the way you want.”

  Thinking that the best thing that she could do for this place would be to call in some B-52s for a carpet bombing, Julianne walked across the empty space to the windows. Other than a rusting balcony that didn’t look safe to step out onto, the only view she saw was of a strip-mall parking lot.

  “What happened to the ocean view? Did they take that with them, too?”

  “It’s right there.” The Realtor pointed a French-manicured finger in the general direction of the asphalt lot.

  Julianne squinted. And spotted a faint glint that might, if you had a fighter pilot’s eyesight and great imagination, possibly be sunlight on water.

  “Oh, yeah. That narrow bit between the Costco and the A.C. Moore.”

  “At least you’d be close to shopping.” The Realtor tried yet again to put a positive spin on what could only charitably be called a dump. “My sister buys all her art supplies at that A.C. Moore.”

  “Maybe I can hire her to paint me a picture of the beach I can tape over the window.” Which, now that she noticed it, was not only filthy, but cracked. Julianne shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult—”

  “Oh, you’re not at all,” the woman responded, right on cue. “You’re merely selective. Which is good, because buying a home is one of the most important decisions you’ll ever make. I mean, it’s not exactly like buying a pair of shoes, then getting home and finding out you have nothing to wear with them.

  “Neither of us would want you to take on a thirty-year mortgage on a home you didn’t absolutely love. One that didn’t speak to you in some elemental way.”

  Thirty years. When she’d begun this quest, Julianne had convinced herself that she wasn’t truly signing on to a three-decade commitment. After all, people sold houses all the time. She’d never heard of anyone who’d actually paid off a mortgage.

  The problem was that if she bought a home, then decided to move later, she’d have to start a new search. And worse yet, she’d have to find someone to buy her house.

  This entire experiment in domesticity was becoming way too complicated.

  As for speaking to her, while none of the properties she’d looked at so far had cooed, “Take me, I’m yours,” this wreck of a condo was shouting out, “Run! Very fast and very far!”

  She was about to suggest that perhaps they just call it a day, when her phone started playing the theme song from JAG, which, while she might not be in the service anymore, Julianne still thought was the coolest TV theme song ever.

  The ID was blocked, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere.

  “Lieutenant Decatur,” her former superior officer, who’d been recruited to help establish THOR, said without bothering with any polite preliminaries. “You’re to report for duty at the Coronado naval station tomorrow morning at zero-seven-thirty. Bring a bag and your passport.”

  “Yes, sir.” She refrained, just barely, from saluting. She was also jazzed to learn that after nearly two months being stuck in an office reviewing intel reports from other agents, she was finally going to get to go out into the field.

  Since the Realtor was overtly eavesdropping, Julianne didn’t waste time asking for details. Besides, she’d find what her assignment was soon enough.

  Meanwhile, after she’d flipped the phone closed, she realized that the call got her out of house-shopping duty.

  Which just went to show that sometimes, timing really was everything.

  8

  “So, what’s up?” Dallas asked as he entered Zach’s office.

  “There was a death of a naval aviator aboard a carrier. While it was first thought to be a suicide, apparently there’s also been a claim of murder.”

  “Sounds like a job for NCIS,” Dallas said.

  “That was my first response. But from what little the guy from THOR told me, there’s also some indication that it could be terrorist related.”

  “Last I heard, NCIS handles terrorism.”

  “So it does. But apparently they want you.”

  “I’ve never even been on a carrier.”

  “Well, this will be a new experience. And guess what—the one you’re assigned to is the USS O’Halloran.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “Nope. Supposedly named after some naval hero. Any chance he could be a relative?”

  Dallas shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I remember my dad saying something about the O’Hallorans taking that biblical edict about going forth and multiplying literally, which means the clan’s pretty big, so I suppose anything’s possible.

  “But, getting back to the so-called murder, it seems like it’d be hard for a terrorist to get on board a carrier. Let alone kill someone and get away with it.”

  “I wasn’t given any details, though I tend to agree with you. Except for the getting-away part. If it was murder, then it’s going to be your job to find the killer.”

  “Me?” Dallas knew the government worked in mysterious ways. But this was way beyond his pay grade. “I was a CCT. My job was radios, computers, and shit like that. I’ve never investigated a crime in my life.”

  “I know. Maybe it has something to do with computers,” Zach suggested. “You being the emperor king of the propeller heads and all.”

  “Maybe.” Dallas rubbed his jaw. Fuck. After having reluctantly agreed to be Phoenix Team’s liaison to the ultrasecretive government agency, he’d begun to think that he’d never get tagged for an assignment. Now that he finally had, he had the uneasy concern he could be over his head.

  “If it eases your mind any, you’re not going to be handling this alone. THOR’s assigned you a partner.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Probably, Dallas guessed, from military police. “Did your caller happen to say who it is?”

  “No.” Zach’s lips pulled into a tight line that wasn’t the least bit encouraging. “But as it happens, McKade and Tremayne still have a lot of ties to the Spec Ops world. And Cait made a couple calls to some people she knows in the FBI.”

  Dallas struggled to rein in his natural impatience as Zach pause
d. “Who is he?”

  “She’s a former JAG officer.”

  Comprehension hit like a cluster bomb.

  “No way.”

  “Way. Proving that fickle fate does, indeed, have a sense of the ironic, your partner on this possible carrier-terrorist murder investigation is going to be none other than Julianne Decatur.”

  The weirdest thing was, Dallas thought, as Zach filled him in on his travel plans, that he couldn’t figure out if this news was good. Or bad.

  Whichever, he decided, it definitely wasn’t going to be boring.

  And, even though he’d been in enough battles not to take the loss of any life lightly, let alone the loss of a fellow military member, Dallas couldn’t help grinning when it occurred to him that maybe, right now, at this very same minute, the sexy former naval attorney was receiving the same orders.

  And learning that she was going to be partnered up with the very same man she’d spent three long days giving the third degree to—Air Force Combat Control Tech Sergeant Dallas O’Halloran.

  Oh, yeah. Fate might, indeed, be fickle.

  But it could also occasionally, like now, be really, really sweet.

  9

  It would be impossible to visit Naval Station Pearl Harbor and not think about all those who’d lost their lives during the bombing on what Franklin D. Roosevelt had called a “day of infamy.”

  The first family thing they’d done together when Julianne’s father was assigned to Pearl was to visit the USS Arizona Memorial. Of course, given that her father was a rising star in the officer ranks, they hadn’t had to bother with standing in any lines with tourists.

  When she’d boarded the plane in San Diego, Julianne had expected, upon landing, to be driven to command offices. Rather, after passing through the main Nimitz Gate and having her government ID checked and approved, the driver took her to the submarine base, pulling up in front of a nondescript white barge.

  “Commander Walsh is waiting to brief you,” her driver, a sailor in spiffy whites, informed her.