Next to Die by Marliss Melton

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