by Ross, JoAnn
“Not Taliban,” their informant insisted yet again, hitting his chest with a hand that was missing all five fingers, which, unfortunately, wasn’t all that uncommon here in these mountains, where there were probably more land mines than people.
He then rattled off another string of Farsi.
“He says his grandson lives in the States,” Chaffee translated. “He’s going to school to become a doctor, then bring the rest of the family over once he gets a practice established.”
Maybe all the years in black ops had made him cynical, but Dallas asked what school this so-called grandson was supposedly attending.
“Vanderbilt.” The old guy puffed out a bony chest, his family pride obvious.
Given that the Tennessee university did, indeed, have a medical school, the claim could be true.
Since the SEALs were technically in charge of the rescue mission, Dallas, who had his own ideas, held his tongue and waited.
“We’re going to risk it,” Chaffee decided.
“Hooyah,” the second agreed.
“Roger that.” Knowing they were all thinking of the imprisoned pilot and the Spec Ops “leave no man behind” creed, Dallas had been hoping for that decision.
Reporters might be expendable, but there was no way they’d come this close to evacuating one of their own only to walk away because things might get a little dicey.
Unlike his last debacle of a mission in these mountains, the raid went off like clockwork. The armed-to-the-teeth Rangers and Marines, looking intimidating as hell, as if they’d just leaped out of a Rambo flick, didn’t end up firing a shot.
With a lot of shouting, the SEALs kicked open the door of the house, handcuffed the occupants, then went downstairs into a mud-floored cellar and found the journalist tied to a support post.
After Chaffee declared both legs indeed broken, they strapped him onto the evacuation board while another contingent located and untied the pilot, who, other than some really ugly bruising, two missing front teeth, a cut over his right eye, and a flight suit that stank as if it had been dragged through goat dung, appeared to be in pretty good shape for someone who’d been held prisoner for three long weeks that must have seemed like years.
“What kept you?” he asked mildly.
The raiding force was on the ground in less than twenty minutes.
Intent on getting the former hostages to safety, Dallas lowered the imaginary cone of silence that helped keep him in the zone, effectively shutting out the shouts, wails from the townspeople’s women, curses from their men, along with the ear-blasting rotor noise from the helo he’d called in.
Which was why he never heard the rapid-fire click-click-click of a camera shutter.
Two days later Dallas’s rain- and mud-streaked face ended up plastered on Web sites and the front pages of newspapers from Seattle to Singapore. And everywhere in between, along with the damn rescued journalist’s over-the-top “firsthand” account of the event.
Belatedly realizing that Mr. Not Taliban had probably been paid to take those shots, Dallas wished to hell they’d just left that bastard reporter in the damn mountains.
With his cover effectively burned, it didn’t take a brainiac to realize that Dallas O’Halloran’s illustrious ultrasecret Spec Ops career had just turned to toast.
2
Coronado, California
Most of Dallas’s missions had been top-level black-ops classified, meaning that while he might not have been some CIA spook, neither was he allowed to talk about with whom he worked, what he’d done, or the places he’d gone. Which tended to be the most dangerous in the world.
It also left him without much of a repertoire of cocktail-party chat topics.
Which was only one of the many reasons why he wasn’t happy about having to put on his midnight blue dress uniform with its embarrassing show of fruit-salad service ribbons, show up at some dog and pony show at Coronado’s famed Hotel del Coronado—a white, Queen Anne Revival wedding-cake confection of a sprawling wooden building—and make nice with military officers and high-security-clearance civilians.
He’d thought he’d escaped such command performances after he’d separated from the Air Force and joined Phoenix Team, an international security agency based on Swann Island, off the coast of South Carolina.
But then the government had created THOR (and what would the brass in command do without acronyms?), standing for Team High-risk Operational Resources. And yeah, there was technically an R missing in that, but no one had either noticed or cared.
The cockamamie idea, obviously created by some wacky think-tank group in the bowels of the Pentagon, which had never actually gone on a real mission, theoretically would get the best and brightest civilian and military minds working together to hunt down terrorists all over the world.
Like sure, that was going to happen.
Forget about Mars and Venus.
From what Dallas had witnessed over the years, civilians and military types didn’t even reside in the same galaxies.
But, like Shane Garrett, the Night Stalker pilot he’d gone down with on that copter in Afghanistan, was always saying, sometimes a guy just had to do what a guy had to do. Still, just because when assigned to be Phoenix Team’s liaison to THOR, he’d put on his former uniform and shown up at the hotel, didn’t mean he had to mingle.
After all, a lot more could be learned by observing than talking, which was what he told himself as he stood at the edge of the Windsor Lawn.
A private party was taking place on the nearby pool deck, and not only did the bevy of bikini-clad guests add to the scenery, the Nine Inch Nails wannabe rock band hired for that occasion was drowning out the more subdued harpist who’d been hired for this government shindig.
On the positive side, the canapés lived up to the hotel’s five-star reputation, and there was an open bar. Since Phoenix Team had actually sprung for a room at the hotel, he didn’t have to worry about driving across the bridge, so he was nursing his second Dos Equis when he saw, at least from this point of view—which, while from the back, was damned appealing—the most gorgeous female on the planet walk up to the bar.
She’d poured herself into, or maybe sprayed on, a short black dress with a plunging back showcasing creamy skin just like the waxy white flowers the hotel’s gardeners had planted along the walkways. But he’d bet those flower petals wouldn’t be as soft as that female back.
The black material hugged an ass that looked as if she’d spent a lot of time working out in front of the TV to a Buns of Steel video. Dallas had always considered himself a leg man, and this lady’s pins, which went all the way up to Alaska, were first-class.
Her pale hair was done up in some complicated twisty female braid thing that had him wanting to unravel its secrets and watch it tumble down.
Since he’d always had a good imagination, and wasn’t about to apologize for being a guy, Dallas imagined it draping over his wet bare thighs as the two of them recreated the still-way-hot Burt Lancaster-Deborah Kerr From Here to Eternity beach scene.
Hoo-ah. Things had just gotten a helluva lot more interesting.
He wove his way through the crowd to the bar and waited in line while two vice admirals wearing their white choker uniforms placed their orders for top-shelf Highlander’s Pride whisky they probably never would have sprung for if they were paying their own tab. From the way the taller of the two swayed a bit while he dug into his pocket and pulled out a buck tip, Dallas, using his well-honed observational skills, decided this wasn’t their first trip to the well.
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 optimist
ically, 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 s
aid “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.”
