Diana Whitney - Who's That Baby?

Claire wondered how much of the formula had actually gotten into the bottle the indomitable Mr. Winterhawk had gamely prepared. She had to hand it to him; he’d certainly given it the old college try.

An irked squeak brought her attention back to the infant, who kicked her fat legs wildly and flailed a tiny fist against her tummy. Claire’s heart felt as if it had been squeezed. Babies were her business. She’d seen hundreds of them, all beautiful, all adorable.

There was something special about this black-eyed, button-nosed babe, something almost mythical and chilling. It was as if this tiny infant had the power of a magus, the eyes of an old soul trapped in a newborn body. She felt a kinship to the child, an instant bonding so sudden and forceful that her own body vibrated with it.

She brushed her knuckles across the silky soft baby cheek. “What is her name?”

Johnny yanked at his collar, skewing his tie to the side. “Lucy.”

“Lucy,” Claire crooned. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” At that moment, Claire fell utterly and completely in love with this precious infant. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t even rational. But it was nonetheless real. And it would change the course of her life forever.

The coffee dripped quietly, its fragrance wafting through the kitchen to mingle with the peculiar aroma of warm milk and sweet powder. Johnny slumped against the counter, willed his trembling knees to stay the course. From his vantage point, he could see through the open door into the dining room where a lovely Titian-haired doctor nurtured the now content infant with heartrending tenderness.

Claire Davis. So that was her name. It was a good name—strong, independent, yet delicate and feminine, like the woman who wore it.

Johnny remembered her from the clinic. She was not a woman one could easily forget. He vividly recalled the first time he’d seen her. While idly glancing out the glass door of Rose McBride’s office, he’d been surprised to discover a gorgeous redhead in a lab coat staring back at him. She’d blushed prettily, walked into a counter and dropped an armful of charts on the floor.

Johnny had been fascinated by the wreath of color circling her porcelain complexion, the dazzling impact of her embarrassed glow as a nurse bent to assist her. She’d angled a glance at him, seen him staring at her, then flushed to a bright fuchsia, scooped up the strewn folders and fled.

From that moment on, he’d searched for the beautiful redhead every time he’d gone to the clinic, and made it a point to study her when she wasn’t looking. Now she was here, in his home, with light from his dining-room chandelier dancing in her hair with the sparkling hues of warm sherry in sunlight.

Every nuance was alluring, every smile, every dimple, every twist of auburn brow, every whisper from moist, full lips. Few women were natural beauties, but this one was. Her blue eyes were large, round, exquisitely framed with thick dark lashes that didn’t appear to have been coated with black goo that so many women seemed obliged to paint on themselves. A pale smattering of freckles shone golden across otherwise alabaster skin untinted by makeup. Her brows were pale, neatly plucked, but otherwise natural.

Yes, she was pleasing to the eye. But it was her manner that held Johnny’s rapt attention, the radiance as she whispered to her tiny patient, the expertise with which her slender fingers caressed and stroked and gently probed. Professionalism was evident in every movement, efficiency in every touch. She turned the child competently, positioned the stethoscope around the small, bare back.

Johnny flinched at how easily she’d managed to unwrap the infant that he had been too cowardly even to remove from the car seat.

Claire Davis. Here. In his home. Holding both his past and his future in her very competent hands. He wondered if he could trust her with either.

Then realized that he had no choice.

Claire set her coffee cup aside and reread the note Johnny had shown her.

Please take care of Lucy. I have faith in you.

Samantha.

She swallowed hard, handed the note back to him. “This was pinned to her blanket?”

Johnny nodded, sat heavily in a plush lounge chair across from the sofa where Claire held the sleeping infant.

“May I assume that you are familiar with this Samantha person?” Although Claire had meant the question to be kind, Johnny flinched at the inference. Evasive banter was a waste of time even when performed as a courtesy, so she cut to the chase. “Is Lucy your daughter?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I presume so.”

“Presume?”

His shoulders squared slightly, increasing their impressive width. A powerful man, she noted, with an extraordinarily well-muscled upper body that provided a potent contrast to provocatively slim hips and lean legs that probably weren’t as long as they appeared. “Samantha and I were involved during the time the child was apparently conceived,” he said simply. “Since she has seen fit to bring Lucy to me, I must presume that the child is mine.”

Claire nodded. The infant was gorgeous, with dark skin, high cheekbones and exquisitely crafted Native American bone structure that mirrored her father’s. “She looks like you.”

Johnny’s gaze softened. “She looks more like her mother, actually. Samantha’s eyes are the same almond shape, and she has the same round little nose that always seemed like God had put it there as an afterthought—” He bit off the words, as if realizing that they had revealed more intimacy than intended. When he spoke again, his voice was firm, his eyes guarded. “I don’t understand what has happened here tonight. If Samantha had required my assistance, all she had to do was ask. There was no reason for such…clandestine measures.”

The bewilderment and pain in his eyes struck Claire with unexpected force. “I can only imagine how unsettling it must be to suddenly discover you have a child.” Not to mention having that child dropped on the doorstep like the morning paper. A wave of anger surged through her chest, forcing her to take several calming breaths. “Have you contacted the authorities?”

The suggestion clearly shocked him. “Of course not.” He licked his lips, then stood so quickly that the massive lounge chair vibrated. “I won’t pretend to understand Samantha’s motives here, but I do know her to be a loving, honorable woman who would never willingly cause pain to a living thing. There has obviously been a misunderstanding.”

“Of course,” Claire murmured.

“This is merely temporary. Samantha will clear everything up as soon as she returns.”

“And when will that be?”

His jaw dropped only for a moment before he tightened it with a stoic clench. “Soon.”

“I’m certain you’re right.” Claire wasn’t certain at all. A woman who’d leave a child on a doorstep didn’t seem to be sending a message that she’d be back anytime soon, but Claire would rather gnaw her own arm off at the elbow than to say that aloud.

Judging by the confusion and hurt in Johnny’s eyes, he clearly wasn’t willing to accept that a woman he’d once cared about deeply, a woman who had betrayed him by having kept his child secret, would have betrayed him again by abandoning that child, perhaps as she’d once abandoned him.

Claire couldn’t comprehend how any woman could leave a man like Johnny Winterhawk or this precious infant who had so deeply etched a groove in Claire’s own heart.

Gazing down at the sleeping child on her lap, she was drawn to stroke the baby’s silky scalp, catching fluid strands of short ebony hair between her fingers and smiling as baby lips twitched. A glimmering bubble appeared at the corner of her slack little mouth.