Ready with a cannula, he pushed up her sleeve, revealed her creamy, supple forearm.
Hell! What was wrong with him when, in a situation as dire as this, all he wanted was to close those eyes and open those lips, taste her, drown in her life, drain all horror and desperation in her passion and compassion?
It was probably a stress reaction. That made no difference to its impact. Probably intensified it. After his accustomed apathy it was jarring to experience such searing urgency again. Again? Had he ever felt anything like that?
Not that he remembered.
He inserted the cannula, hooked the line, watched the fluid coursing through it and into her, willed it to revive her. He would die, and more, to see her safe, saved.
The most wonderful sound tickled him. Her giggle. “You have to admit, we look ridiculous, each hooked to a line and holding the other’s bag up.”
“We do look like broken-down machines in Maintenance.”
“We are.”
“You’re right. But what else are you? You’re not Azernian or Badovnan. And though your English is near perfect, it isn’t your mother tongue, is it? Right now I can’t access my geography and history, can’t think which country has been in a fifteen-year war and whose people have been displaced.”
She caressed an apology to the darkening stain where she’d shoved his cannula. “Don’t exert your memory. I’m Azerbaijani. Twice blighted since I don’t belong to the Muslim majority. During the last days of the Russian rule we moved to Armenia but when war came we shared the fate of our fellow Azerbaijanis there. I guess I’m still counted among the million who remain homeless and internally displaced in Azerbaijan. Not that I should any more. Ever since I left the refugee camp and joined GAO, that has been my home.”
Such a concise account. Such nonchalance. He’d thought her an enigma before, now…he just didn’t know. Couldn’t think. It was too much to take in. Impossible to imagine. Her life. A fifteen-year chunk of it. She must have been no more than thirteen or fourteen when it had all started. Had she lost her family? She’d said everyone she knew and loved. So she had. She’d been homeless and terrorized and abused, alone.
And there she was, surviving one war only to plunge, voluntarily, into another. Whatever her reasons for doing this, they had to be even more bizarre than his.
The fluid in both their bags had run through. She detached both lines, left the cannulae in and got up, avoiding his eyes. He watched her gathering instruments and supplies from his emergency bag and heading for the other casualties.
Dante felt the tug of oblivion, was tempted to just close his eyes and surrender to it. He couldn’t. He’d saved one of the lives he’d been allowed. He still had another.
Gulnar. That was the only name that filled his awareness now, the only face he saw. Hundreds of people, all lives worth saving. But he had to choose one. He chose her. He had to.
A hand on his shoulder made him flinch. “It’s me.” He knew that. His body had thrilled to her touch. He’d know it anywhere now. She sank to her knees before him, exhaustion pinching her open face, hunching her strong shoulders. “I checked all the injured people and gave them antibiotics and tetanus boosters. Your blood seems to be of premium quality, too. They’re reviving. And they all thank you. One told me to tell you that no matter what happens to them from now on, in her book you’ve saved them.”
Dante’s insides clenched. No, he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. In his book, all he’d done was torture them with false hope, prolong their suffering.
She cocked her head at him. “What now?”
Dante’s focus relinquished his internal agony for Gulnar’s eyes. Could there be anything more beautiful? Was this why he’d decided on making her the lottery survival winner? Was he that basic?
No. She was more than a rarity of divine art. She was also a blinding manifestation of good. Few people had the capacity, the willingness to make a difference, to put themselves on the line for others. If he had to choose, it stood to reason he would choose the one most of use…
What was he thinking? How did he know that every other person here wasn’t as useful in his or her own way? Who was he to decide who would do more good, who was more needed, more valuable?
It was more than cruel. Beyond monstrous. To be forced to choose. But he had to…
“Dr. Dante? Are you all right?” Her solicitous stroke over his hand spread through him, the simple contact dousing him in unlikely, untimely sensations. Peace, pleasure. Arousal. It was just too funny to rediscover his libido now. But it wasn’t why he wanted to save her. It wasn’t!
He caught the hand covering his, stroked it back. “I’m all right. Are you?”
Answering contentment softened her face, tightened her hand on his. “I’m alive and conscious. So I’m all right.”
He nodded, groping for a way to disclose his grisly verdict.
He didn’t have the chance. A probing expression invaded her eyes. “I told you what I am. You told me who you are, sort of, but you didn’t tell me how you were allowed in here. The rebels have so far answered any approaches with a hail of gunfire and threats. It’s why I thought you were with them in the beginning.”
So she’d saved him the effort of stumbling through explanations, given him the shortcut to come clean after all. Answering her would still lead to confessing. “I have a…special deal with their leader.”
Those eyes widened on astonishment and what else—suspicion? No. Just curiosity. “How so?”
So she didn’t consider it even a possibility he was affiliated with the rebels! Good to know. “Two years ago, during an Azernian raid on his village, his wife and oldest child were almost fatally injured. I was roaming the area with another aid organization at the time and I happened to be in the right place in the right time. I saved their lives.”