Breakpoint (3 page)

Neither of them would’ve lasted a day in Spec Ops, either. Because their attempt at surreptitious examination of the blonde standing next to them was about as subtle as Godzilla checking out Tokyo.

Not that it was going to do them a bit of good. Because Dallas didn’t need to see her face to realize that she’d encased herself in enough ice to cover Jupiter several times over.

The good thing about ice princesses, he told himself optimistically, was that they melted when hot.

And, if he had his way—and Tech Sergeant Dallas O’Halloran usually did when it came to the female persuasion—things were about to heat up.

Majorly.

One of the things his years in the military had taught him was that the axiom about timing being everything might not always be a hard-and-fast rule, but good timing was definitely helpful.

And his was right on the money as she turned toward him just as he reached her.

And
pow!
Just like a lightning bolt from the blue, it struck.

But damn . . . It wasn’t lust he viewed in her bluish green gaze.

Not even polite interest.

Just immediate, straight-to-the-gut recognition.

The last time he’d seen Navy JAG Lieutenant Julianne Decatur, she’d been attempting to court-martial his buddies, and now fellow Phoenix Team members. And, although he’d managed, just barely, to restrain his disgust over the entire situation, he’d been legally declared a “hostile” witness.

Which was pretty much how he’d felt about the proceedings.

He rocked back on his heels. The LT was probably the last woman in the world—hell, make that the entire universe—he should be feeling anything but intense, unrelenting dislike for.

But, dammit, for some reason, the sudden lack of blood to his brain was keeping the big head from sending that message to the little head.

Even as she squared her bare shoulders, as if preparing for battle, his eyes were drawn to her breasts, which, while probably only B cups, were still damn fine.

“Talk about your small worlds,” he murmured. “You’re looking well, Lieutenant.”

Better than well.

Who’d have guessed that Lieutenant Julianne Decatur could be flat-out babelicious?

Her tropical lagoon eyes frosted as she skimmed a judicious look over him. Unlike most of the other women on the lawn, who’d been giving him frank “come do me, big boy” glances since he’d arrived at the hotel, she was looking at him as if he were something she’d scraped off the sole of those skyscraper stilettos.

“I’d thought you’d left the Air Force.”

It was the same tone she might have used while prosecuting an ax murderer. And while her statement wasn’t the sexy greeting he’d been optimistically counting on when he’d headed over here, or even a question, he answered it anyway.

“I did. I’m working for a private security firm these days, but, as someone well versed in military regs, you undoubtedly know they state that I earned the right to wear my old uniform for formal dress occasions. Which this seems to qualify as.”

Since she hadn’t held back while giving him the mur derously sharp icicle eyeball, he took an equally leisurely time checking her out from the top of that pale blond head down to her toes, painted in a coral shade that reminded him of the reefs off Maui where he’d spent some fine R & R scuba diving over the years.

“And may I take this opportunity to thank
you
for not wearing
your
uniform, Lieutenant.”

“I’m no longer in the service, either. Which, like you, allowed me a choice.”

Dallas was surprised by the news flash that she’d left the Navy. She’d seemed hugely suited to her job. Sort of like those interrogators back during the Spanish Inquisition. While she’d never exactly brought out physical thumbscrews, he’d gotten the impression that she would have been perfectly happy to see all the members of his failed mission end up on the rack.

“You chose well.”

Better than well. In fact, there was so much testosterone flooding his system, Dallas wouldn’t be surprised to be struck blind, deaf, and dumb from it in the next second.

“It’s my sister’s.”

His already overloaded hormones practically blasted off into the stratosphere as she skimmed a hand down her side, from breast to her slender hip. The part of his mind still working wondered if she knew the effect she was having on him, and was torturing him on purpose. Which wouldn’t have been out of place for the woman who’d spent the better part of three very long days grilling him during her pretrial investigation.

“Merry’s a designer who’s begun developing some buzz. I’m staying with her and her Marine husband in Oceanside while I find someplace to live. She pitched a small fit when I was about to leave tonight in my uniform, and since she’s pregnant with twins and subject to wide hormonal swings, plus, she’s always looking for an excuse to show off her clothes, I decided to play along with her
Project Runway
fantasy.”

“That was nice of you.”

If the sister-in-law’s husband wasn’t some bulked-up jarhead, Dallas would’ve been tempted to drive across the bridge and kiss Merry Whatever-her-last-name-was on the mouth.

“It was expeditious,” she corrected, as if being nice were a cardinal sin. Or maybe a military offense, along the lines of, say, breaking the rules of engagement. “Given that wasting time arguing would’ve made me late to this bash, it made more sense to just change.”

“Hoo-ah for expedience,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

As an uncomfortable silence settled over them, she began looking around the lawn, as if seeking an escape route.

Since lifting her over his shoulder and carrying her back to his room, caveman style, probably wouldn’t have won him any points, Dallas’s mind kicked into high gear, seeking something, anything, to say to keep her from walking away.

“Did you know this lawn was named after the Duke of Windsor?”

“So my sister told me. Because apparently local legend has it that this hotel is where he met Wallis Simpson. For some reason, she finds the idea of a king giving up his throne after a dalliance with a merry divorcée wildly romantic.”

Obviously her sister wasn’t alone, since the couple’s story continued to intrigue people nearly a century later.

“Must be those runaway hormones,” he suggested.

If looks could kill, Dallas figured he’d be six feet under the lush, putting-green-smooth grass.

“I’ve always wondered something,” she said.

“And what’s that?”

“Does the military put some sort of secret chauvinism chemical in Special Operations MREs? Or is there perhaps a Stone Age cave hidden away in the distant jungle where they find you guys?”

“Hey.” He held up his hands. “You’re the one who brought up your sister’s hormones.”

“Only to explain the dress.”

Meaning
she
could dis her sister, but he couldn’t. Which, although he and Lieutenant Julianne Decatur hadn’t agreed on much of anything—make that nothing—during their days locked in a military interrogation room together, he could sort of understand that. And decided it was probably time to change the subject.

“So, if you weren’t assigned to THOR by the Navy, what made you separate and join up?”

Her shrug drew his attention back to a bare shoulder he’d love to nip. “I was ready for a change. This seemed challenging.”

“Maybe we’ll end up working together.”

Her cool disdain slipped into outright horror. “I doubt that will happen.” He could tell she’d rather have a root canal, then strip down to her skivvies and mud-wrestle a pole dancer at some strip club. “Given how many people there are in the agency, the odds would probably be along the lines of being hit by lightning.”

“Which happens more than people think,” he said. “In fact, lightning strikes just happen to be the second cause of weather-related death in the U.S. each year. Even more than hurricanes or tornadoes, and right behind floods.”

It was his turn to shrug as she merely stared at him. “I’ve got a mind for details,” Dallas said. “Both trivial and important.” He tapped his temple. “Stuff gets in, but it doesn’t get out.”

“Which, no offense, brings to mind the old TV commercial about the Roach Motel.” Her tone was as dry as the Iraqi sandbox he’d spent too much time in.

He’d always believed that the minute anyone said “no offense,” it was time to put the shields up, because you were about to get seriously zapped. This case proved no exception.

“Ouch.” He splayed a hand on his heart. “I’m wounded.”

“From what I’ve witnessed, a Bradley tank wouldn’t be able to make a dent in that CCT ego,” she said. “Well, it’s been”—she paused—“interesting, Tech Sergeant.”

“Dallas,” he reminded her. “O’Halloran.”

Her smile, the first he’d ever witnessed from her, was thin and lacked so much as an iota of humor. “Believe me, that’s not a name I’m likely to forget anytime soon.”

With that she put an abrupt end to the conversation by turning on one of those skyscraper heels that had put her nearly at his eye level and walking away. The upside was that he was also treated to a really nice view of her ass swaying in that black dress.

Which, in turn, had him wondering if she was wearing anything but fragrant skin beneath it.

“Hell,” he murmured. “She forgot to leave behind a glass slipper.”

“Excuse me?” The dulcet tone came from behind him. Dallas glanced back over his left shoulder, then looked a long way down at a redhead who’d managed to pack an amazingly curvaceous body into a five-foot-two-inch frame. “Were you talking to me?”

Since he’d had his back to her when he commented on the Cinderella slipper deal, Dallas knew that she knew he hadn’t been. He could also tell, from the speculative gleam in those emerald green eyes, that if he wanted to get lucky, a roll in the hay was probably minutes away.

At any other time, he probably would’ve gone for it. Because, hey, this was one of the most fabulous resort hotels in the world, the night was young, he was male, and the redhead in question, whose scarlet-as-sin dress plunged below the navel, was really, really hot.

The problem was, she was the wrong woman.

“Sorry.” He faked a grimace. “I have this bad habit of talking to myself.” He flashed his dimples in an equally feigned grin. “It seems to be a souvenir of my days fighting terrorism, but my VA shrink assures me I’m not a danger to myself or others.”

He paused. “I mean, it’s only normal for a guy coming back from the sandbox to have some anger-management issues, right?”

“Right.” Her own smile was as phony as his had been. Her eyes began darting nervously toward the buffet table. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

She didn’t exactly run away. But despite her lack of height, her legs definitely ate up a lot of ground as she escaped.

After allowing himself a momentary twinge of regret, Dallas decided he might as well call it a night.

Julianne’s sister, Merry, was stretched out on one end of the double La-Z-Boy sofa, eyes red, nose even redder.

“What’s the matter?” Julianne asked, hoping the tears were merely another case of hormonal swings and not due to any serious problem.

“Nothing.” Belying the innate cheeriness that had earned her her nickname, Merry sniffled into a ragged tissue. “I’d forgotten how tragic
Truly Madly Deeply
is.”

Kicking off the ridiculously high shoes Merry had pushed on her along with the dress, Julianne sank down onto the other end of the couch. The shoes had been a total mistake in more ways than one, since the damn stiletto heels had kept sinking into the Windsor Lawn’s turf during the reception.

“There should probably be a twenty-four-hour waiting period required for any pregnant woman who tries to rent this movie.”

“Alan Rickman was the love of Juliet Stevenson’s life.” Her sister sniffled. “Her best friend and soul mate, who so adored her he continued to watch out for her after his death.”

Personally, Julianne found the idea of a dead spouse watching you from beyond the grave more than a little creepy, sort of an out-of-body stalking, but she had to admit that if the deceased husband in question possessed Alan Rickman’s resonant, drawn-out baritone and bedroom eyes, she might be more willing to have him hang around.

“He also had the ability to scare off rodents,” she said dryly. “Which, admittedly, made him handier than your usual ghost.”

“You are
so
cynical.” Merry sniffed.

“I’m merely realistic. Who the hell wants rats in their home? May I also point out that
I’m
not the sister who spent her childhood sewing two dozen wedding dresses for Bridal Barbie.” Julianne had always preferred playing with her brothers’ G.I. Joes.

“It was only nine. And the practice turned out to come in handy, since the maternity wear I added to my design line when I got pregnant has begun flying out of stores.”

“You’re definitely the Martha Stewart of the sewing machine,” Julianne agreed. She would be hard-pressed to sew on a button, and once, risking being caught in uniform inspection, had actually fixed a torn hem in her skirt with double-stick Scotch tape.

While, along with a maternity wardrobe that actually looked like something a grown-up would wear, and drawers full of admittedly darling baby clothes in waiting, her sister had, with a few yards of colorful fabric, turned a ho-hum typical military apartment into something that, had her true focus not been on fashion, could have made her a shoo-in to win
Design Star
.

“Where’s Tom?”

“Making a midnight run to Taco Bell.The tadpoles”—she patted her rounded belly—“are craving a nacho cheese chalupa.”

“He left you alone?”

Although Julianne had always prided herself on her independence, despite having started her own business, Merry had always been the more emotionally needy of the two sisters.