Next to Die (7 page)

“Help me out here, Commander,” she said crisply. Pulling his hand under the water, she lathered him with the liquid soap found in the dispenser, noting the number of scabs and calluses. Could he have damaged his hands like this in a car accident? How, trying to pull someone from the wreckage? “Do you feel any residual glass in your fingers?” she asked, patting him dry.

“No.”

She grabbed up a handful of tissues and applied pressure.

“Feel stupid,” he admitted. Closing his eyes, he swayed on his feet.

She threw an arm around his waist. “Don’t fall again, sir. Here, do you want to sit down?”

“Yes.”

She helped him settle onto the closed toilet seat. “Keep pressure on your fingers while I take a look at your eye.”

His whiskey-laced breath could have lit a fire if she’d had a match. Oddly, the scent of it was not unpleasant as it rose into her nostrils. If anything, it made her feel a little intoxicated herself.

She wet a clean washcloth and gently dabbed the blood from his face while he sat in a silent stupor. “You really ought to get a stitch or two,” she commented, stifling her awareness of him. “This cut is deep.”

“No medic,” he insisted, coherent enough to make his wishes known.

She pursed her lips in disapproval, but she didn’t argue. The cut would leave a scar if it went unattended, but compared to the burn on his left cheek, who was going to notice?

“I don’t suppose you have a first-aid kit—”

Her request was cut short by the sudden weight of his head against her breasts. He’d nodded off, burrowing his nose into the deep V of her bathrobe.

Her heart leapt. Only in her wildest fantasies had she imagined her neighbor nuzzling her breasts. She cupped his face and forcibly brought his head up. “Do you have a first-aid kit?” she inquired firmly.

His deep green gaze tried to focus on her mouth. “Under the sink,” he said.

“Sit still,” she told him. “Don’t move.” She took her hands off him long enough to locate the box, marked with a red cross. “This is good,” she praised, finding it well stocked. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the SEAL assessing her figure in the frumpy velour robe.

“How’d you get in here?” he asked her, sounding suddenly more sober.

“Let’s not worry about that now,” she said in her best bedside voice. “Hold still while I put this bandage on you.” As she affixed it across his handsome eyebrow, she examined the wound on his cheek. “How did you burn your face?” she asked him casually.

“Shrapnel,” he said without giving it much thought.

“Not a car accident?” she queried. It wasn’t any of her business, she knew. But the only way to really comfort him was to know what he’d been through.

“No,” he said, his eyes growing glassy.

She sensed dark memories rising inside him and wondered if there was anything she could do to dispel them. Perhaps if he talked it through . . . “Let me see your fingers.” As she taped bandages over his cuts, she dared to ask him, “I take it you had a pretty tough day, huh?”

Moisture put a glitter in his bloodshot eyes. “Yeah,” he rasped.

“Where’d you go this morning?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

He was quiet so long, she thought he wouldn’t answer. “Funeral,” he said at last.

Her breath caught at his pained admission. “Who died?” she asked with gentle concern.

“One of my men,” he said in a hollow voice.

“I’m so sorry. That must have been awful for you.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. To her dismay, tears flooded his eyes, only he was too drunk to care or notice. But the sight of them tore at her heartstrings. She should have realized that Mighty Joe would be the kind of leader to take the loss of a junior SEAL seriously. “How old was he?” she asked, encouraging him to unburden himself.

“Like . . . twenty,” he answered as tears streaked his face.

Penny found herself smoothing a curl on the top of his head. Soft and silky, it was the color of maturing oak leaves. “He was just a baby,” she commiserated.

“Yeah.” With a start, he noticed that his face was wet. He wiped the tears with an impatient swipe of his hand. “Shit,” he swore, clearly perturbed that she’d caught him crying.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Penny recommended. “Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning. Where do you keep your pajamas?” she asked, eyeing his blood-stained button-up shirt.

The question seemed to confuse him. “My what?”

“Pajamas,” she repeated, checking the hook on the back of the door.

“I don’t wear any,” he said, preparing to push to his feet.

“Oh. Well, you can’t sleep in that.” She tackled his shirt buttons with efficiency, steeling herself against the thrill of baring his shoulders. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt that highlighted the breadth of his torso, making him look like a superhero, or every girl’s wet dream.

She filled his sink with cold water and left his shirt and washcloth soaking. “Would you like some privacy?”

He was squinting at her. “What for?”

“Never mind,” she said, hot in the face. “Let’s get you into bed.”

She helped him to his feet and, keeping a firm grip on his elbow, steered him toward his mammoth-sized bed. He’d lapsed into silence—embarrassed, no doubt. She pulled back the covers and moved him closer. “In you go.”

He put one hand on the mattress, but with his world still reeling, he lost his balance and grabbed her to slow his descent.

Penny ended up sprawled on top of him for the second time that night. Only he didn’t wrestle her down. Instead, he groaned with pain, his grip on her arm almost painful.

“Are you okay?” she asked in consternation.

“Don’t move,” he begged with his eyes squeezed shut.

She remained still, loath to cause him any more discomfort, but she couldn’t help but note that she was sprawled across his dense body like they were lovers.

Bit by bit, the grip on her arm eased, and then he gave a sigh, as if a spasm had passed.

“Go to sleep, sir,” she whispered, thinking he’d just passed out.

He rolled without warning, causing her to slip into his embrace as he turned onto his side, captured her face in one hand, and lowered his mouth.

She let it happen, stealing a purely selfish moment to gauge whether her fascination with this man was warranted. With stealth that made her gasp, he swept his tongue between her lips and kissed her, with one purpose only. Penny’s adrenaline skyrocketed. She told herself she would pull back shortly.

But the whiskey-laced kiss intoxicated her. It went on and on until the encroachment of his palm on her breast roused her to reality. “Good night, Commander,” she muttered, squirming away from him.

To her relief, he let her go. She slipped off the bed and scuttled to the door. Snapping off the light, she shut it behind her.

He didn’t say a word back. Perhaps he’d passed out already.

Penny tottered into his family room. Mercy! No wonder women flocked to his door! The man had skills that would make the devil jealous. Too bad
that
would never happen again; she was sure he hadn’t known he was kissing the lieutenant next door.

As she crossed his still-dark family room, she made out the silhouette of a table lamp, lying on the floor. Curious to see what other damage he’d done, she flicked the light switch and caught her breath.

The room was a disaster. It looked like a bomb had detonated, especially with all that blood smeared across the cream-colored carpet. “Oh, no,” she murmured. The carpet would be ruined by tomorrow—unless someone got the blood out tonight.

Envisioning Joe’s response tomorrow to the destruction he’d wrought, she groaned. He was already heartsick over the death of one of his men. He didn’t need to deal with this and what promised to be a monstrous hangover. That left only one thing to do.

With a sigh and a squaring of her shoulders, Penny headed for the kitchen in search of carpet cleaner.

Joe felt like he was being stabbed in the eye with a needle. It turned out to be a ray of sunlight piercing his blinds. He groaned and turned toward the wall. That move prompted pounding in his head and a wave of nausea.

Oh, God. What had he done to himself?

At least he was safe in his own bed, though he was still dressed in his clothes, for the most part.

What time was it? He blinked at the clock. It took several seconds to process that it was afternoon already—three o’clock in the afternoon, to be precise. Jesus. How late had he stayed up? He tried to remember and drew a blank.

Careful not to jar his pounding head, he scooted off the bed and plodded into the bathroom to pee. There was blood on the floor, under his feet. His shirt was soaking in blood-stained water.

He blinked at the bandages on his right hand. Glancing in the mirror, he found a third bandage crisscrossing his eyebrow. He leaned closer to the mirror in disbelief. Damn, he’d given himself quite a shiner.

A vision flickered and he seized it, recapturing a memory, followed by another, and then another. He cursed in dismay.

The lieutenant next door. She’d been in his house. She’d washed the cuts on his hand and patched up his brow, her tone both efficient and firm.

She’d asked him questions. Lots of questions.

He put a hand to his forehead, trying desperately to remember. What had she gotten out of him last night?

Shit, the last thing he needed was others to know who he was. The press was on a quest to find him, to publicize his story. Other SEALs knew better than to say anything. They would fiercely guard his identity. But what if his nosy neighbor was eager for money or fame? What would stop her from exposing him?

With his thoughts in a tailspin, Joe washed his hands and splashed water onto his face. He brushed his teeth and helped himself to headache medicine.

Resentment simmered. It was hard enough living with the thought that his choice to take Harlan’s place might have cost nineteen men their lives. Christ, he didn’t need the media asking him if he blamed himself. He shut the medicine cabinet with more force than necessary.

Obviously, he was going to have to face his ministering angel and find out just how much she knew.

Stalking out of his bedroom, Joe was halfway across his TV room when the realization hit him: The carpet under his feet was damp. Someone had scrubbed it. And the room smelled of rug cleaner.

His gaze flew to the kitchen. He knew he hadn’t left it like that, with every surface gleaming.

She had some gall cleaning up his house, like she was his wife or something. He’d planned on eating breakfast first—cancel, make that lunch. But with his temper at a boil, he couldn’t stomach any food.

He wanted an explanation, and he wanted it now.

Penny backed down her porch steps to admire the life-sized scarecrow she’d just stuffed. It guarded her front door from a lawn chair, a festive reminder that Halloween was less than a week away. All she needed now was a cornucopia of gourds and several pumpkins to complement the chrysanthemums that graced each step.

“We need to talk.”

With a gasp, Penny whirled to find her neighbor standing less than a yard away. Heavens, where had he come from? She put a hand to her pounding heart, aware that its beat was not subsiding beneath his glare. Sober and in the light of day, he looked ten times more dangerous, more forceful, and—God help her—more appealing than ever.

The memory of his kiss warmed her like a ray of sunlight.

“Of course,” she said, forcing a smile. Questions whirled, like just how much of last night did he remember and what, exactly, did he have an issue with? “Why don’t you come in?”

With neighbors taking advantage of the sunny Saturday, he nodded in favor of that suggestion.

She led the way inside, guiding him through her foyer to the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of cider?” she asked, hoping to set a friendly tone.

“This isn’t a social call.” He crossed his arms and planted his feet.

Penny drew a breath and turned to face him. He stood a foot taller than she, with a frown that formed a crease between his eyebrows. It was all she could do not to appear as intimidated as she felt. “Okay, then. How can I help you?”

“You broke into my house last night,” he accused quietly, his expression grim and watchful. “How’d you get in?”

“You keep a key under a flowerpot.” She’d put it right back where she found it. “I could tell by listening at your door that you were hurt, sir. I’m sorry for entering without permission.” Since he didn’t want to be neighborly, she fell back on military speak.

His eyes narrowed at the intentional formality. “Did it even occur to you that I would rather have been left alone?”

Penny considered whether that was true. “With all due respect, sir, you weren’t in any state to know what you wanted.”

Anger flashed in his khaki green eyes. “Whatever state I was in, in my own home, is none of your goddamn business, Lieutenant,” he growled back, addressing her by her inferior rank.

“Correct, sir,” she said, swallowing her intimidation, “but your physical well-being is my business, as is the well-being of any serviceman or woman,” she added, impersonalizing the incident.