Breakpoint (6 page)

Maybe he’d been celibate for too long—nearly three months, not all of it willingly—but the sight of her red lips on that plastic straw she was drinking her salt-rimmed margarita from had him picturing that wide, glossy mouth on his body. Specifically a part that had been in semiarousal since she’d strolled into the pub wearing a plunging flowered dress that showed up her assets and was just long enough to keep her from getting arrested.

Not having wanted to sit around twiddling his thumbs while waiting to see if the powers that be at THOR were going to toss him an assignment, after that bash at the Del, he’d willingly—and stupidly—signed on to spend six weeks playing bodyguard to a twenty-something pop star.

How hard could it be? he’d asked himself at the time. Maybe he’d have to glare down some paparazzi, make sure no crazed fans got to her dressing room or hotel suite, and try to keep her from sneaking out to clubs, which, he’d been warned by a previous bodyguard he’d called for a consult, the girl had a tendency to do if not kept on a very tight leash.

The good news was that she hadn’t shown any desire to go clubbing. The bad news was that she’d zeroed in on him like a smart bomb and had tried every feminine ploy in the book to sleep with him.

“Sleep” being a politically correct euphemism for all the things she’d suggested they do together. Many of which he suspected were illegal in some of the countries she’d performed in.

Although he’d sent out his strongest “sorry, sugar, I’m really not interested” vibes, three days into the tour, eschewing the white terry-cloth robe offered by the twenty-four-hour butler provided by the five-star Singapore Mandarin Oriental hotel, she’d begun walking around the presidential suite topless in thong panties so skimpy that Dallas had wondered why she’d even bothered with them.

As she continued that sex-kitten behavior all across Asia, Dallas had spent so many hours grinding his teeth, he was amazed he had any molars left. If they’d moved on to Europe, as had initially been discussed, he would have been reduced to eating pablum by the end of the tour. As it was, he’d taken to popping antacids like Tic Tacs.

Last week, in Japan, pulling out all the stops in her attempt to break down his rigidly enforced barricades, after performing to a screaming, sold-out crowd in the Tokyo Dome, she’d returned to the suite, showered off the sweat and the sesame oil that caused the water her handlers kept spritzing her with to bead up on her spray-tanned skin, then stood before him wearing nothing but a pair of scarlet-as-sin skyscraper heels and a towel.

Then, wouldn’t you goddamn know it, she dropped the towel, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Well?”

Being one hundred percent male, Dallas wasn’t at all surprised when his body automatically responded to that buffed and polished naked female who, just an hour ago, had driven fifty-five thousand screaming fans into a frenzy.

But there were obstacles to what she was so blatantly offering.

During his younger, hormone-driven years, he’d admittedly been pretty much driven by the motto from the
Auntie Mame
movie his mother had coaxed him into watching on late-night cable: that life was a banquet and most poor suckers were starving to death.

But the thing was, even though his life might have become a smorgasbord of delights, like the kid in the proverbial candy store, Dallas had gradually come to the conclusion that even the most succulent treats could become boring after a time.

So, somewhere along the way, around his thirtieth birthday, he’d begun to get a little choosier. He’d decided that settling for merely a quick—or even long, drawn-out—roll in the hay wasn’t enough.

He wanted conversation. And not just what the breaking news might be on
ET
that evening, or who was appearing on the cover of
People
or
Vanity Fair
, or who got voted off the island. What he wanted was some intellectual connection. Even though he’d found that always agreeing with women was the easiest way to get along with them, he wouldn’t mind an occasional argument. Not the sort of pissy stuff about towels on the floor, or which made a better pet—a cat or a dog—but discussions of substance, topics that allowed for honest, even heated disagreement.

And not just because makeup sex could be really, really hot.

Making things even weirder, maybe it was because of Zach, Quinn, and most recently Shane taking the plunge into the deep end of the matrimonial pool, the past few weeks he’d begun wondering if connecting on an emotional level—which was, as every guy knew, the first step on that dangerous road to a relationship, which, in turn, led to the even more dreaded idea of commitment—might not be such a bad thing.

Which had weirded him out a little, since, being a champion compartmentalizer, he’d always avoided that locked box labeled “feelings.”

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.

Having bounced around naval bases all over the 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
.
”