He didn't doubt his ability to do his job, no matter the circumstances. But did she have to test his resolve to the limit? The occasional whiff of her peach scent chased away the acrid bite in the air, if for just a distracting second.
Gray drummed his fingers on a stack of ragtag charts while Lori offered nonsensical, soothing words to a child.
There wasn't anyone better suited than Lori to deal with the traumatized children he would evaluate. Odd how he trusted her more than others from the base he'd worked with countless times.
Even during the beyond-tense moment while he'd checked little Ladislov's ear, leaned too close, she'd never winced because that child needed her. Lori always put others' needs first. A bomb could have detonated, and Gray knew she wouldn't have moved.>Gray scratched a hand along his bristly jaw. "I'll need your help inside."
"Mine?"
"If you don't mind," he said, the best wicked grin back in place.
Ah, a gauntlet. "You're a bad boy, Grayson Clark."
"You're only just figuring that out?"
She ignored his question and parried with her own. "You want me to assist you for the next four hours while you check out these kids?"
"Why not? You and I can work together, probably better than I can with the others in your office, since we know each other. No sweat."
He met her with a challenging stare, as if daring her. To do what? To prove something by showing herself and everyone else they could work together, no sweat, like he'd said? Was he trying to convince himself, as well?
The mere thought scared her all the way to her hiking boots. "No sweat?"
"Of course not. We can focus on the job. I'll be getting the heavy-duty cases, greater injuries and traumatized kids. I can use your help. Put that social work degree of yours to good use. You're the boss after all. Shouldn't you take on the tougher ones?"
The kids. War orphans. How could she refuse? And he no doubt knew her well enough to realize she couldn't. "You're a bad boy, and you don't play fair."
He shrugged. "So tell my mom."
"A little late for that." Lori sucked in air like water. Her gaze shifted from Gray's handsome face to the landscape behind him—the rounded mountain peaks, the smattering of quaint stucco cottages. Beautiful, except half of the buildings were missing sides or bore gaping holes in their clay roofing. How many of those children in the hangar had lived here? Had they played with parents and siblings in the yard? Watched planes fly overhead?
Witnessed the devastation.
She'd seen more than her fair share of poverty and destruction in the world, following her parents from country to country. And it never failed to fist in her stomach, compacting within her a need to act, fix, change things.
Lori pointed to the hangar. "Let's get these children checked out and loaded up."
"Yes, ma'am." Gray charged after her, weaving through the crowd of military and relief workers.
Lori strode the last few feet to the shelter that housed seventy-two scared kids. Did Gray have to walk so close behind her? Too easily she could inhale that mixture of bay rum aftershave and just him tinged with sweat, a scent too reminiscent of summer afternoons spent making love, sleeping entangled, making love again.
She stepped inside, and any fanciful musings fell away. Controlled mass activity echoed up to the metal-beamed ceiling. The dark, muggy warehouse rumbled with voices, mingled languages, babies crying, children playing, others whimpering. The sheer magnitude of her responsibility for these seventy-two little lives nearly staggered Lori back a step into the strong support of Gray's broad chest.
She braced her shoulders and donned her training for support. More reliable, anyway. "Okay, Doe, where do we start?"
His hand hovered around her back, low, near her waist. She could feel the heat, although he never touched her as he ushered her forward.
"Atta girl. Knew I could count on you. If only you could say the same for me, huh?"
She shot a startled glance over her shoulder.
A half smile curved his mouth. "Broke the keep-it-light rule there for a second, didn't I?"
"Whose rule was that, anyway?"
Before Gray could answer, a loadmaster called to him. Tables, chairs, even a few stretchers had been set up at makeshift exam stations to triage patients. She studied one young face after another. The flight was only slated to transport ambulatory passengers.
And if someone needed care beyond what they could provide in-flight? How could she leave behind a sick child in a country where bombs and gunfire still whispered insidiously in the distance?