Breakpoint (21 page)

“No,” she murmured, twining that leg around him like a python. For a slender woman, she sure was strong. “Don’t stop now.”

He wasn’t certain whether or not she was still dreaming. Or awake. Or somewhere in between. But he still couldn’t—wouldn’t—risk it. Because even if he had a rubber handy, which he didn’t, if she wasn’t fully aware of what they were about to do, there’d be repercussions later.

Bad enough that she’d be pissed while they were trying to solve the crime of the dead pilot. If she believed, even a little, that he’d taken advantage of her while she’d been asleep, he might never get another chance.

“We gotta.”

Although it definitely wasn’t his first choice, he reluctantly shifted their positions so they were lying side to side. She still had that long, smooth leg over his hip, but at least he wasn’t pressed up against her crotch.

“Spoilsport.” Her eyes opened, and in the faint purple predawn glow slipping through the crack between the drapes, he could see both disappointment and a bit of humor in those eyes, which once again reminded him of the lagoon he’d been dreaming of.

“You’re awake.”

“I am now.” But not entirely, he decided, as she skimmed her fingers down the side of his face. “I don’t do this,” she said, her expression suddenly sobering.

It was a line he’d heard before. Too many times, and on most of the occasions the claim had been obviously false, making him wonder why women felt the need to lie about sexual experience. Hadn’t the days of guys wanting virgins gone out with those crinolines from
Happy Days
?

But knowing this woman’s feeling about truth, justice, and the American way, he believed her. And decided not to point out that she sure as hell almost had this time.

“You didn’t do it now,” he said instead.

“Thanks to you.”

She sighed heavily, removed her leg, and sat up in the bed. Although that oversize T-shirt covered up the breasts his fingers were itching to touch again, she still hitched the rumpled sheet beneath her arms.

Having learned when to keep his mouth shut, Dallas decided against pointing out that after having practically impaled herself on him, it was a little late for modesty.

“It would’ve been all right,” she said. “I’m on the pill.”

“Which isn’t one-hundred percent effective. And doesn’t prevent against STDs,” he pointed out. His realizing that he sounded like a damned PSA was all it took to cause his penis to deflate.

“True. But I’ve read your service record.”

“Only up until you interrogated me.”

“No.” Her lips quirked, just a little. “I got an update earlier.”

Dallas hadn’t thought she could surprise him. He was wrong. “You hacked into my records while we were supposed to be looking for clues?”

“It didn’t take long.” Her grin broke free.

She was actually proud of herself. Which, given her black-and-white temperament, was another surprise. He’d already discovered Juls wasn’t that ice-bitch lawyer she’d obviously worked overtime to appear to be. The lady was as complex and, although he suspected she’d argue the case, as beautiful as mathematician Helge von Koch’s famed fractal snowflake.

And every bit as individual as a snowflake created by Mother Nature.

“I did, after all, have a good teacher,” she was saying as he reluctantly dragged his sex-starved mind back from a vision of making love to Juls on a bear rug in front of a blazing fire inside some cozy mountain cabin while falling snow drifted, shutting them off from the outside world.

“You had a physical after leaving the service,” she reported. “And another before joining THOR. And you might be a risk taker, but you’re not reckless. Despite what that pop star coyly hinted about there being something going on between the two of you—”

“Shit. You read about that?”

“It would’ve been a little impossible not to at least see the headlines, since they were screaming out from magazines at every grocery store checkout register in the country. But they were just tabloid trash, because you never touched her.”

“And you’re sure of that why?”

“Because you might have a reputation for being a player. But you’re a stand-up guy. You’re not going to screw around on the job.”

“You called that one mostly right.” Because the dream was still lingering in his head, teasing him with seductive memories, Dallas couldn’t be this close to Juls without touching her.

So, deciding it couldn’t get him into too much trouble, he ran a hand down her arm, linked their fingers together, and lifted her knuckles to his lips. Then he met her eyes over their entwined hands. “I’m more than willing to make an exception. When you’re fully awake. Because I want you totally aware of what I’m doing to you.”

He turned their hands and touched his mouth to the inside of her wrist and felt her pulse leap. “What we’re doing to each other.”

“I’m awake now.” She was trembling. Just a little. The funny thing was that, although he’d never experienced the sensation before, so was he.

“Yeah.” Oh, Christ. Temptation had a name. And it was Julianne Decatur. “But I also want time to do things right. Without having to worry about a bunch of Marines showing up at the door to remind us that we’ve got reservations on that plane out to the carrier.”

“You know, I really hate it when you’re right.”

Although this was not the typical pillow talk Dallas was used to, and certainly not the kind he’d been planning to have with this woman, he laughed.

“Believe me, sugar,” he said, “you’re not alone.”

What in heaven’s name had gotten into her? Not only had she been twined around O’Halloran like a python, even after they were both fully awake, she’d invited—actually come close to begging—him to make love to her.

No. What she’d wanted from him was hot, sweaty sex.

Nothing more.

Preferring to put things—even her own thoughts—into nice, tidy boxes, Julianne assured herself that what had happened between them had merely been a perfectly natural reaction between a man and a woman who, while stressed, exhausted, jet-lagged, and sharing a bed, found themselves on the brink of dream sex.

Dream sex so erotic that the real thing couldn’t possibly live up to the fantasy. At least, that was what she told herself as she dressed in the adjoining bathroom, leaving the bedroom to the man she’d jumped.

The trick was to keep reminding herself of the difference between fact and fantasy and she’d stay out of trouble.

Since she would be going aboard the carrier, she tied her hair into a ponytail, then twisted it into the bun she’d learned at the academy. That first day she had struggled for ten minutes with her fine blond hair. She’d nearly bitten the bullet and hacked it off, but having inherited her father’s stubborn trait, she’d refused to give up a challenge; now she could pull it off in seconds without even thinking about it.

She left the bathroom and saw him standing there, looking too sexy for that white T-shirt that displayed his buff body and showcased his rock-hard biceps in a way that had her on the verge of drooling. Or maybe dropping to her knees and unzipping those khaki trousers and taking him in her hands and . . .

No! What on earth was the matter with her? Evidently, the change to civilian life had caused her to lose her mind as well as the discipline she’d always worn like a second skin.

Dragging her eyes from the part of his body that had, only minutes earlier, been hot and heavy against her, she met his gaze.

But instead of the humor or ego once again, it was hunger—raw, primal, and as seductive as sin—she viewed in those dark brown eyes.

Seeking something, anything, to say, she could only come up with, “I’m starving.”

Which was not only lame, but recklessly suggestive.

A suggestion that didn’t go unnoticed as his eyes lit up with the humor she’d expected.

“We’ve got time for chow before we go wheels-up,” he said, saving her the embarrassment of his picking up on her unintended double entendre. “But I don’t think we should leave this room unoccupied. Just in case.”

In case whoever had placed the listening device came back.

“Although a free continental breakfast comes with our rooms, I doubt a couple sweet rolls will be enough fuel for today. Especially when we don’t have any idea when we’re going to eat next. So, what would you say to me rustling us up some chow at the base Mickey D’s while you hold down the fort?”

“That works for me. Do you think it could’ve been those NCIS guys who bugged us?” she asked as the thought belatedly occurred to her. She’d been so focused on the investigation into the pilot’s death, she hadn’t zeroed in on them as possible bad guys.

“Could’ve been.” He, on the other hand, didn’t sound at all surprised. “In fact, our friendly Luau Barbie could even be part of the agency.”

Another thing she hadn’t considered. “That bikini wasn’t exactly naval NCIS regs.”

He shrugged, the gesture stretching the seams of the cotton knit in a way that once again drew her attention to his broad shoulders. Shoulders that looked capable of carrying a great deal of responsibility.

“She could’ve been working undercover. I’ve gone into countries disguised as a woman.”

“Sure you have.” She’d be more likely to believe he’d posed as the Jolly Green Giant.

“Hey, if I’m lying, I’m dying.” He held up his right hand as if taking an oath. “As unattractive and heavy as they are, you can hide a lot beneath those black burkas. Add to that the fact that women are pretty much invisible in a lot of Middle Eastern countries, and it’s not that hard to get around where you need to go. Do what you have to do.”

And what he’d had to do, she suspected, wasn’t pretty.

“I don’t suppose you wore your uniform under the burka?”

It was mostly a rhetorical question, so he didn’t exactly answer, but his “you gotta be kidding me” look told her what she’d already suspected.

“And before you start quoting the Geneva Convention code to me—”

“I wasn’t going to quote anything,” she cut off his planned protest. “However, since you mentioned it, there is an American military pamphlet on the law of war that describes soldiers who fight out of uniform as unlawful combatants.”

“Given that it’s the same American military that teaches Spec Ops guys how to make ghillie suits and other tricks to blend into their surroundings, I exactly didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about dotting all my Is and crossing my Ts.”

As she’d always done. But although they’d both served in the military, their duties were worlds apart.

“Believe it or not, I do realize the importance of covert operations,” she said dryly. “I also suspect that your CCT ‘First in’ motto undoubtedly saved a lot of lives. I was just considering how, if you’d been captured, the enemy would have had international law behind them if they decided to execute you as a spy.”

“We’re not exactly fighting against Boy Scouts. If I’d been captured in uniform, screw any Geneva Convention rules; I undoubtedly would’ve been beheaded as an enemy combatant,” he pointed out. “So, the way I looked at it, it was pretty much six of one and a half dozen of the other.”

“Good point.” She pressed a hand against her stomach, which had just growled. “Perhaps, while you get breakfast, I might be able to investigate those two officers who showed up last night.”

“
Investigating
meaning hacking.”

“We’re THOR,” she said. “Since we’ve pretty much been given carte blanche, I’d say we had every right to go digging into the records of two men who may have bugged our rooms, then trailed us, and showed up at our door to conduct an interrogation. Two guys who might not even be real military.”

“The plates were official.”

“Plates can be stolen. Switched.”

“True. But I’d bet a month’s pay that those two were actually NCIS. They had that same pissed-off attitude the dead commander showed. I’ve seen that military competitiveness enough to recognize it.”

“I have, too. JAG tends to attract a lot of competitive types. And then, of course, no one’s thrilled when we show up—”

“Maybe because that’s because you’re not exactly there to hand out shiny medals.”

“True. And I’m used to sensing that defensive dislike. We aren’t here as adversaries to NCIS, but this was different. There was something about them—”

“Something hinky,” Dallas agreed. “I got the same vibes. Not so much about the younger one, but Lobster Face definitely had an agenda.”

“That was my impression, too.” And one she believed even more this morning. “And I was thinking . . . if the pilot’s death wasn’t suicide—”

“Then maybe the commander’s wasn’t either.”

“You’ve already considered that.”

“From the minute they told us. Then again, Spec Ops tends to make you suspicious of just about everyone.”

“Prosecuting people can make you the same way.”Another thing they had in common, Julianne considered.

“I can see that. I have an uncle who’s a deputy sheriff. His own kids can tell him the sky’s blue and he’ll probably look up and check it out before he buys the claim. Still, according to the statistics, suicides are soaring higher than ever in the military these days. Maybe the commander—hell, maybe both of them—are just statistics.”

“Maybe.”

Had it been only yesterday that she’d been hoping to close this case as soon as possible so she could get on with her life? As far away from CCT Dallas O’Halloran as possible?

Now she was actually looking forward to spending more time with him—both professionally and, yes, dammit, personally.

And not just because, although she hated to admit it, outside of the military, and now THOR, she didn’t really have a life.

Which was something she’d have to work on.

Later.

Once they solved this case.

Which she had no doubt they’d do.