Next to Die by Marliss Melton Read Free Book Online Page B

legs were immobilized.
    “Who’re you?” he growled in her ear, his words slurring together.
    Something warm and wet plopped upon her cheek.
    “Lieutenant Penny Price, sir,” she said breathlessly, “from next door.” He was bleeding on her, she realized, catching the scent of blood.
    “Penny.” Some of the pressure eased from her spine. “Copper penny,” he mused on a strange note. “Never knew your eyes were blue.”
    There was no way he could see her eyes in the dark, which meant he’d noticed them the other day. “Sir, I believe you’re hurt. I’m in the medical profession. I can help you,” she added in a no-nonsense voice.
    “Cut my hand on glass,” he corroborated. He grew abruptly heavier, and she feared he was passing out on top of her, in which case, she might never get out from under him.
    “Commander!” she said sharply.
    He lurched to attention. “Hmmm?”
    “You’re hurting me. Do you mind getting off me, sir?”
    “Sorry.” He withdrew his weight, and she rolled to one side until she made him out, struggling to sit back on his heels. A dark stain streaked down one side of his face, coming from a cut above his right eye. He hadn’t gotten that by picking up glass.
    “Let me help you,” she repeated. Clambering to her feet, she sought to help him rise. “Up you go, sir, before you bleed all over your carpet.”
    He went up easily enough, but then he nearly pitched over again, and she had to muscle him upright, propping herself beneath his armpit. “Which way to a bathroom, sir?” she asked, wanting to avoid the kitchen and all that broken glass.
    “’hind you.”
    Sure enough, there was a door in the opposite wall. “Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.”
    She half-dragged, half-carried him toward the opening in the wall. It was impossible not to notice how hot, big, and lean his body felt, draped heavily over hers. “Watch your eyes,” she warned, fumbling inside the door for a light.
    As he flinched and groaned, she took in the room beyond her with second thoughts.
    Oh, dear, this was his bedroom.
    And what a bed he had, she marveled, her gaze momentarily glued to the California king. It was covered with a thick black comforter that reflected the rest of the room’s decor—black and khaki geometric patterns. His dressers and bed were of Scandinavian design, with clean, uncluttered surfaces.
    He started toward the wide, inviting bed.
    “Oh, no, in here,” she urged, tugging him toward what had to be the bathroom.
    As she wrestled him into the room and flicked on the light, she noticed more blood dripping from his right hand. So he
had
cut himself picking up glass. Was that before or after he cut his brow ridge?
    She positioned him in front of the vanity, noting in her peripheral vision the burgundy wallpaper and handsome brass-and-marble fixtures. “Let’s have a look at you.”
    Propping him against the sink, she craned her neck to assess the cut just beneath his eyebrow. Blood still pulsed in a sluggish trickle. Meanwhile, two fingers on his right hand were bleeding all over the tile floor.
    “We’re going to treat your hand first,” she decided, cranking on the water.
    “What happened?” he wondered, squinting at his reflection. He touched the cut. “Ow!”
    “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