Ladislov thrust his bottom lip out mutinously and wriggled. Lori clasped the tiny hands in hers, her arms locked around little Ladislov. Gray canted toward her. He wheeled the chair forward until he was abreast with her legs.
No way in hell was she inching her knees apart for him to slide nearer. Lori angled forward.
In a horrifying flash, she realized just how close little Ladislov's ear was to her breast.
Before she could adjust the child into a different position, Gray leaned the rest of the way and slid the otoscope into the boy's ear. He peered inside. A scant two inches of air separated her breast from Gray's cheek. If she moved even the least bit…
Uncomfortable as hell, Lori held herself very still.
Ladislov wasn't as accommodating. He twisted. Squirmed. Tried to slide free.
Gray bobbed his head, keeping the instrument in place. "Hang tough, buddy," he mumbled words the child had no hope of understanding. "Almost through with this one. There's just so much wax, I've gotta…"
Gray's wrist brushed Lori's breast. Heat flooded her.
"Please, little guy." She whispered a tight plea. "Hold still."
Gray froze. His face tipped, and he peered up at her, his green eyes deepening to a glittering emerald. His brow lifted before he returned to make short order of the other ear.
With the heel of his boot, he pushed, rolling away. Far away. Not far enough. "All set."
Her shoulders sagged as she exhaled. "He's okay?"
Gray scribbled in the boy's thin chart. "Just a minor ear infection, a little fever and congestion. His ears might be uncomfortable when the plane descends, but nothing dangerous. I'll start him on antibiotics now. He'll feel better before we land." Gray passed the chart to one of the technicians and filled an eyedropper with pink, syrupy medicine. He reached for the boy. "Time to drink up, pal."
Lori passed Ladislov to Gray and couldn't stifle the taunting whisper in her mind. She'd once thought this man would be the father of her children. Now she knew with certainty this was the only child she would ever give Grayson Clark.
Damn his too charming soul.
* * *
Gray watched Lori pass over yet another newborn, her elegant hand bracing the little behind until he rested snuggly in a loadmaster's arms. She looked so damned right with a child. Why didn't she find some great guy and work on increasing the world population?
Sweat dribbled down Gray's forehead, stinging his eyes. He swiped his wrist over his brow. The hangar had turned into a furnace.
He whipped a red bandanna from the zippered thigh pocket of his flight suit. Three quick yanks and he'd knotted the do-rag around his head. "Bring on the next batch."
With inherent dancer-like grace, Lori knelt in front of a boy. She looked too good, even after being tugged, spit up on—clung to. Way too beautiful.
So much for his bright idea they should work together. He'd only wanted to prove to the crew … to himself … that he could be with her and remain unaffected.
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.
Only he would notice the hitch in her breathing—and wished like hell he didn't know her well enough to understand its significance.
Meanwhile, his patients had to be his priority, and that included ignoring the wisp of hair sneaking free from Lori's braid to caress her brow.
Gray opened the next file. "Okay, kiddo."
As he'd done in the plane, Gray escaped into the reliable routine of his job. He evaluated one child at a time, not a chart or a case, but a person. Nikola, Antonije, Goran, Vasiliji, Jelena, each the complete focus of Gray's attention for his or her ten minutes while he checked vitals, cleansed and bandaged cuts, assessed broken teeth, ground his own teeth at the sight of a partially healed gunshot wound on an eight-year-old.
Gray passed off a chart and stretched his shoulders, glancing at his watch as his arm arced up. An hour and a half until takeoff. The walls rattled with another burst of gunfire—and something else. A grenade? Or a land mine? Did they sound closer or were his heightened senses exaggerating?