Breakpoint (13 page)

“When I was a kid, why?”

“I was just wondering if you ever took hula lessons.”

“I wasn’t the only girl on the island to.” Even she could hear the defensiveness in her tone. “And before you start picturing me in a grass skirt and a bikini top, I was eight years old.”

“Ouch.” He shook his head. Rubbed his chest.“Damn. I gotta tell you, Juls, you sure can bring a man’s sexual fantasy crashing back to earth really, really fast.”

That was, Julianne told herself, a good thing.

Then she wished she could totally make herself believe it.

“You’re not here to fantasize.” Unreasonably tempted in more ways than one, she caved in and plucked another shrimp from the box.

“Yes, ma’am.” He’d just snapped a salute when an ear-splitting alarm, like a ship’s Klaxon, began to scream.

“Shit.” His chair tipped over as he stood up and snatched up the files from the table. “That’s all we need. A fucking fire.”

“It’s probably a false alarm,” she said. “The building’s old. I remember hearing they were going to replace it, but then appropriations tightened up.”

“Yeah. Imagine. Spending money on bullets during a war.”

He was edgy. Surprisingly so, even though he was doing his damnedest to hide it. Then she remembered.

“That copter blew that day.”

“All the way to kingdom come,” he agreed. “Lit up the Kush like the Fourth of July on steroids. Of course, the fires before Garrett managed to pull off that miracle landing weren’t exactly a barrel of laughs, either.”

Had she been alone, Julianne probably would’ve stayed in her room. Waited a bit to see what, if anything, developed. The lodge was single-story; it wasn’t as if she’d be stuck in some high-rise flaming tower. There’d be plenty of time to get out if the alarm was real.

But she was intrigued by the little glimpse of vulnerability beneath the charming, sometimes exasperating Air Force combat controller.

It made him more human. More, well, likeable.

“Everyone else is going out on the lawn,” she observed. “I suppose we might as well join them.”

“Works for me,” he said quickly. A bit too quickly.

He stuck the folder back in the leather shoulder bag she used as part purse, part computer briefcase. “You’re in charge of our case. I’ll bring the food.”

Our case
. If anyone had told her, even six months ago, that she’d ever be working on a case with CCT Dallas O’Halloran, she would have strongly suggested they put in for what used to be called a Section 8 insanity discharge.

Now she was forced to wonder if she was the crazy one, even allowing a glimmer of optimism that this collaboration might not be as impossible as she’d first thought when she’d walked into that barge and seen him sitting there.

They’d just left when he said, “Do you think they’ll invite us to join them?”

Julianne had not risen so fast within the ranks of the Judge Advocate General’s unit without facing facts and observing all the evidence. The most crucial of which was that all the women at the private party were looking at the dark-haired hottie walking across the lawn as if they’d been stranded all alone on a desert island for years and Dallas O’Halloran were the chocolate fountain at an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet.

“I can’t imagine they won’t,” she said dryly, shoving her sunglasses on as she watched one enterprising redhead pluck a lei from a table. Then, after a moment’s pause, she picked up a second, looped them both over her head, and, with a plastic glass of Mai Tai in each hand, headed their way.

Aboard the USS
O’Halloran

The mission might not have gone entirely as planned. Then again, what mission ever did? The key was to be able to improvise when things went south. Then hope like hell for luck.

Unfortunately, his luck lately had been bad. Worse than bad. It had been so fucking miserable others involved were starting to get edgy and rethink the plan. Of course, that was easy for them to say when they were back stateside, leaving him all the responsibility.

But the new moon tonight had left both the sky over the flattop and the water under it a deep midnight black. And clouds from the storm, which had fortuitously been dumping buckets of rain like piss from a boot and causing the deck to pitch too much for any flights, had blocked out starlight. Which had him thinking that just perhaps the tide had finally turned his way.

He was waiting on the flight deck, in the shadows, hunkered beneath the fuselage of a plane. He knew that his wasn’t the only rendezvous to take place here. Despite the deck being the most restricted part of the carrier, he’d heard rumors of guys hooking up with women and having sex beneath the planes. There were even stories of fucking going on in the cockpits, though he still wasn’t sure that was physically possible. Still, having managed that same act in a Corvette back in the day, he figured anything was possible if people were horny enough.

Whatever, to his mind, both stories only underscored what he believed all along: that allowing women aboard a ship, especially one as massive as this one, with a population of nearly six thousand, could only result in a lack of discipline.

Napoleon Bonaparte might have stated that the army ran on its stomach, but to his view, the military ran on rules. Take away discipline, and what you had left was anarchy. And he’d sure as hell never heard of any anarchists winning wars.

Sure, sailors were known to blow off steam. But that was what ports were for. It was only natural that men crammed together in close quarters on a ship, without any female companionship, would feel the need to get drunk and fuck their brains out whenever they were on shore leave.

It might not be pretty. But it was good for morale. And what was good for morale was good for the Navy.

And female sailors were not good for morale.

And it wasn’t just his opinion. Hell, all you had to do was sit in on a few captains’ masts to have that verified. Too many of the infractions had to do with sexual matters. Accusations of sexual harassment. Men fighting over women sailors. Having inappropriate conduct with female sailors. Having sex with them. Even, God help them all, getting them knocked up.

Long before Las Vegas had come up with that catchy tourism slogan, the Navy had an unofficial one of its own: What happened on shore leave
stayed
on shore leave. Now it was as if the crew were bringing their shore-leave attitudes right back onto the ship with them, along with their hangovers.

And wasn’t the most recent proof of that right here on the USS
O’Halloran
?

One piece of good news was that the bitch pilot was dead. Which, as far as he was concerned, was her own damn fault for insisting on forcing her way into the boys’ club.

Hell, insurgents could’ve just as easily blown her out of the sky over the desert.

Or she could’ve crashed during a landing.

She wouldn’t have been the first pilot to die trying to return to ship.

She wouldn’t be the last.

Unfortunately, although he’d jump off the bridge tower before admitting it, Lieutenant Dana Murphy had turned out to be a far better pilot than anyone could have expected.

But that didn’t change the fact that the cock tease hadn’t deserved to be in the cockpit.

Cock tease.

Cockpit.

He was enjoying that little play on words when he heard footfalls on metal. He tensed, hoping that some couple wasn’t going to risk the weather and choose tonight to have themselves a fuckfest.

Because he had a job to do.

And time was running out.

“What the hell are we doing out here?” a male voice asked from the darkness.

“Lower your damn voice,” he hissed. “Do you want someone to hear you?”

“No one’s going to hear us. Even without the engine noise, the fucking rain sounds like a jackhammer on this metal deck.” There was a shrug in the voice. But it did lower. “Besides, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“That’s why you’re out here in a frigging rainstorm.”

“Any guy who’s got a problem with weather ought to join the Air Farce. So, what’s so important I’m giving up valuable rack time to chitchat with you?”

“I’ve received word that the government’s sending some investigators out here tomorrow to dig into that pilot’s suicide.”

“And this affects me how?”

“You’re the one who waved her off. Twice.”

“And I’d do the exact same thing again. If she’d crashed on the deck, we could’ve had one hell of a fire. Which would’ve resulted in a lot more deaths. And if my waving her off got her so down in the dumps that she felt she had to hang herself, well”—another verbal shrug—“she didn’t belong in a cockpit in the first place. Carrier landings aren’t for sissies.”

“I’m not going to argue that point. But everyone knows you two had what they call these days ‘issues.’ ”

“So?” the LSO asked, clearly uninterested. “There are thousands of sailors on this boat. Find me one who doesn’t have an issue with at least one other one. And how many have we lost on this cruise?”

“None. Until this. But rumors are circulating that you might have had a reason to kill her.”

“Fuck that.” The shrug was gone. In its place was a flash of temper. A temper that was well-known throughout the boat, which was why this new plan should work. “If either of us had considered murder, it would’ve been her wanting to kill me. As anyone who watched her light into me would testify.”

“There are those who are saying that the reason you waved her off was because you’d had a lovers’ spat. That you’d broken up with her, but she wouldn’t leave you alone. So you were trying to make your point that you were done with her by being as much of a bastard, in public, as possible.”

“Fuck that,” he said again. But with a great deal less conviction.

Oh, yes. This was definitely going to work.

“We can take care of this,” he assured the LSO, who was obviously worried but trying like hell not to show it. “We can ensure that your personal life stays private.”

“How?”

“Haven’t you ever heard the old pirate saying?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wrench he’d brought with him. “Dead men tell no tales.”

He slammed down with both hands. The blow hit home with the sound of a melon smashing.

LSO Lane Manning was dead before he hit the deck.

The sound the aviator’s body made as it hit the night-blackened sea was muffled by the hammering of the rain and the roar of the engines.

That little problem taken care of, the man looked up. And, although there were still more fires to put out, he smiled as he imagined a big red-white-and-blue MISSION ACCOMPLISHED banner hanging on the carrier’s bridge.

“Welcome to K-Bay.” The redhead wearing three minuscule triangles of blue-and-white hibiscus-printed material that could, just barely, be considered a string bikini greeted them with a blinding smile that belonged on a Miss Hawaii pageant contestant. She held out the two drinks. “Are y’all married?”

“No,” Julianne said. Although she hadn’t intended to risk alcohol dulling her mind, she couldn’t think of any way to refuse the Mai Tai without being rude. “We’re just working together.”

“Oh. Isn’t that nice?” The speculative gleam in eyes so emerald they had to be colored contacts brightened like a green laser as her gaze focused on Dallas. “Are you a Marine?” Her tone, as she took in his shaggy hair, sounded a bit puzzled.

“Former Air Force,” he said, accepting the other glass. “Now a civilian.”

“Oh.” Bee-stung lips pursed as she considered that. “But you’re staying in transient housing.” Her magnolia drawl went up a little on the end of the sentence, turning the statement into a question.

“We’re DoD,” Julianne said.

“Oh . . . Well . . . ” She swayed just a little, suggesting the Mai Tai she’d put down to pick up the leis hadn’t been her first. “That sounds interesting.”

There was a little pause. Then she took off the two leis created of yellow plumeria and white tuberose and looped one around Julianne’s neck. When she did the same to Dallas, going up on her toes to reach around his neck, her chest brushed against his. Which Julianne strongly doubted was an accident.

“Welcome to our little piece of paradise,” she said, greeting them yet again. “Are you staying long?”

“We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Oh.” Another little moue. “That’s too bad. Because this is a really fun place. There is so much to do, and the people are so friendly, and the beaches are just fab for sunbathing. At least, the one at the north end of the base is.”

She somehow frowned without furrowing her brow, which made Julianne wonder if twenty-somethings were already into Botox.

“Some of the others have a lot of lava that can be really rough on your feet.”

Both Julianne and Dallas obligingly followed her gaze down to her buffed and polished sun-bronzed feet that didn’t look the least bit roughened. Her pedicured toenails had been painted the same color coral as the necklace she wore beneath her own lei.

“That’s good to know,” Dallas said with an easy smile. “In case we come back.”

“Oh, I hope you do.” She looked up at him through lashes wearing at least three coats of mascara, which appeared a bit incongruous with the bikini. “Because you know what they say about all work and no play making Jack a dull boy.”

“Too bad for Jack.” He grinned as he lifted the glass to his lips.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Dallas.”

“Like the city?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s cool. I once dated a guy named Cody.”

“From Wyoming?” Julianne guessed.

“No.” The redhead looked back at her in moderate surprise, as if she’d forgotten her existence. She also looked puzzled. “He was from Oklahoma.”

“Works for me.” Dallas gave Julianne a wink over the top of the woman’s head as she started rattling on about the stereo surround sound in the base theater, the way-cool black lights in the bowling alley, golfing at the Kaneohe Klipper, which, if she was to be believed, and there was no reason not to, DoD employees had voted the number one military golf course in the world. Then there were the Kaneohe Bay cottages, which they must try to stay at the next time they visited the MCBH.