Diana Whitney - Who's That Baby?

Perhaps the Creator was displeased. Johnny’s grandfather would have commanded a four-day fast, along with communion into the dreamworld, a place where spirits of earth, sun and sky might bestow spiritual awakening to those who’d broken their spiritual harmony with the earth.

To Grandfather, all living things were one, and all knowledge was bestowed by ancestral whispers to those who had the courage to listen.

Johnny respected that philosophy. He simply had a different approach—easy come, easy go. Not particularly profound, but it worked. And it kept him sane.

Returning to his nightly routine, Johnny poured his usual nightcap—two fingers of amber whiskey served in an etched-crystal brandy snifter—then he methodically turned on both the stereo and the television, cranking the volume until every square foot of the expansive house vibrated with sound. A glance at a gold-and-diamond watch worth more than his grandfather had earned in a year confirmed that it was barely 10:00 p.m. The night was young.

He settled at the table, opened a fat, triangular valise stuffed with documents and went to work.

An hour later, he’d finished his first drink and poured himself another when the doorbell jangled above the din from the stereo and television. He pushed away from the table, swearing under his breath. No visitors announcing themselves an hour before midnight brought good news. The last time it had been this late, he’d found a sheepish neighbor on the doorstep, reeling drunk and slurring apologies for having flattened Johnny’s mailbox.

Johnny hadn’t cared about the mailbox. He had, however, been furious that the intoxicated fool had gotten behind the wheel of a car, and Johnny had said so. Explicitly.

There had also been a late-night prank that resulted in half the neighborhood being draped with toilet paper, and an unpleasant visit by the doddering widow from down the street, who’d been served with a small-claims-court summons and had actually scolded him for working late, thus forcing her to stay up past her bedtime for the free legal advice to which she felt utterly entitled.

Steeling himself, Johnny strode to the door, prepared for a drunken neighbor, a mountain of toilet paper or a wild-eyed widow clutching a summons. He was, in fact, prepared for just about anything. Anything, that is, except a wailing infant with a note pinned to its blanket.

It really had been that kind of day.

Stifling a yawn, Claire Davis stuffed her stethoscope in the pocket of her lab coat and had nearly made her escape when she heard the desk phone ring.

Nurse Jansen intercepted the call. “Buttonwood Baby Clinic. How may I help you?”

Claire dodged the nurses’ station and slipped into the doctors’ lounge. She was so tired she could have slept standing up. Her back ached, her eyes burned and her contact lenses felt as if they’d been fused to her eyeballs with Super Glue.

If she hadn’t been such a sucker for a panicky new mom who couldn’t tell the difference between scarlet fever and prickly heat, she’d have been home by now lounging in a hot bubble bath and preparing to sleep through her first day off in a week. Instead, she’d spent the past two hours soothing a frantic Mrs. Martinez, and explaining that a newborn really didn’t need three layers of clothing in an overheated room.

Now Claire leaned against the cool metal locker, weary to the bone. The bubbles beckoned. She could practically smell the steam, feel the sensual slither of silky soap caressing her skin. The image lent momentary buoyance, bestowing enough energy for her to exchange her lab coat for a warm sweater and the lumpy canvas backpack that served as a portable communications center, research facility, office and purse.

The lounge door creaked open. Claire heaved a sigh, spoke without turning around. “Unless it’s an emergency, just page whoever is on call. I’m officially off duty.”

“You’ve been officially off duty since five this afternoon,” came the cheery feminine reply. “That didn’t keep you from coming back in to see the Martinez baby.”

“Personal patients get personal perks.”

“Then you may want to take this call.”

A teasing lilt to Nurse Jeri Jansen’s voice made Claire glance over her shoulder. “Is it one of my patients?”

The young woman sported a taunting grin and a gleam of sheer mischief in her huge hazel eyes. “Nope.”

“Is it an emergency?”

“It doesn’t seem to be.”

“Doesn’t seem to be?”

“It’s a little difficult to tell. All the caller says is that he wishes to speak with a physician.” Jeri lowered her voice, which quivered with a peculiar hint of amusement. “I heard a baby fussing in the background.”

If curiosity hadn’t taken so much energy, Claire might have been intrigued by the gleam in the young nurse’s eye and the sparkle in her voice. She cast a weary glance at the marker board to see whose name had been written in for the evening calls. “Page Dr. Parker. He’s great with fussy babies.”

Jeri’s grin widened. “Are you sure you don’t want to take this call yourself?”

“I’m positive.” Closing the locker, Claire shouldered her backpack, dug out her car keys and displayed them with a provocative jangle. “My bubble bath awaits.”

“Ah, a bubble bath, is it?” Jeri sidestepped neatly as Claire exited the lounge. “Well, no one can say you haven’t earned it,” she called as Claire hurried down the hallway toward the elevator. “Don’t worry about a thing. You just enjoy your evening, and have a nice day off tomorrow.”

A prick of guilt slowed Claire’s progress. Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder just as Jeri returned to the phone at the nurses’ station.

The nurse grinned, winked, mouthed “Good night” before picking up the receiver.

Claire responded with a nod and a smile, then poked the elevator call button before she changed her mind. She could already feel those fragrant bubbles massaging her aching body.

Jeri’s voice filtered down the hallway. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Winterhawk—”

Claire went rigid. Mr. Winterhawk?

“I’m afraid we don’t have a pediatrician available at the moment. However, I’d be happy to take a message and have Dr. Parker return your call.”

The remainder of Nurse Jansen’s voice floated around Claire in a fog. All she could think about were the images spinning through her mind. Obsidian eyes, shoulders to die for, lips so sensual that the merest curve of a smile turned her knees to water and melted her heart like warm butter.

She spun on her heel, her pulse pounding, to make eye contact with the nurse whose gaze twinkled with amusement. “I understand, Mr. Winterhawk. I will impress upon Dr. Parker the urgency of your situation.”

It was him, the one man on earth who possessed a mystical power to turn a no-nonsense, professional pediatrician into a quivering mass of longing with no more than a quiet gaze, a stoic glance in her direction.

The moment Claire leaped forward, Jeri crooned into the receiver. “Oh, wait a moment. I do believe Dr. Davis is now free to assist you.” With that, Jeri pushed the hold button, uttered a slightly maniacal laugh and held out the receiver.

Claire snatched it out of her hand, stupidly found herself smoothing her hair. Few things on earth were more enticing to Claire Davis than a hot bubble bath. Johnny Winterhawk was one of them.

He loomed in the doorway, not a tall man but a powerful one, bronze and obsidian, copper and jet, so male that every ounce of moisture evaporated from Claire’s mouth and the icy night air steamed against her heated skin.

“Good evening, Mr. Davis. I’m Dr. Winterhawk.” At his blank stare, her smile stuck to her cheeks as if stapled. “I mean, I’m Dr. Davis. You’re Mr. Winter-hawk. Of course, you already know that.” Was that a giggle? Claire felt dizzy. She’d giggled, actually tittered like an idiot schoolgirl. “I mean you know who you are. You certainly don’t know who I am. Except that I’ve just told you—”