Next to Die by Marliss Melton Page B

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