Who's That Baby?. Diana Whitney

quite fragile.”

      “Babies are tougher than they look,” Claire assured him. She placed the infant on the blanket and began to undress her carefully, angling a glance at the staunchly distraught man hovering nearby. “Tell me again how you happened to be, er, baby-sitting this evening?”

      He paled slightly. “It’s a rather delicate matter.”

      “Is it?” Resting her palm on the baby’s tummy, Claire used her free hand to unsnap her case and retrieve her stethoscope. “Physicians are a discreet breed. I’ll take your secrets to my grave.”

      He hiked a dark brow, whether in shock or anger she couldn’t tell. “Are you mocking me?”

      “I’m teasing you.” She smiled, surprised herself by absently patting his arm. Her fingers tingled at the touch. He was firmer than she’d imagined, his muscles rigid beneath the smooth fabric of his expensive dress shirt.

      Licking her lips, she focused her attention back to her tiny patient. “You’re clearly upset by whatever has happened here tonight. I was trying to break the tension. I meant no offense.”

      “Of course not.” He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. When he glanced up, the confusion in his eyes touched her. “It’s just that this is…quite personal.”

      She considered that. “So I’ve gathered. Since you’ve requested my assistance, and since the wellbeing of an infant is at stake, I’m obliged to ask certain questions, and frankly you are quite obliged to answer them.”

      A flush crawled up his throat. He coughed, glanced away. “My apologies, Dr. Davis. You’ve gone out of your way to be helpful, and I’ve repaid you poorly.”

      Her heart fluttered. He was without a doubt the most perfect man God had ever created. Claire wondered if he was aware of that. “A nice cup of coffee would go a long way in paying my bill. You could use some yourself.” She issued a pointed nod toward a brandy snifter of amber liquid on the wet bar, remnants of the nightcap he’d mentioned on the telephone and ostensibly the reason he refused to drive the infant to the clinic. Claire had admired that about him. She also had an aversion to operating a vehicle after having imbibed even a moderate amount of alcohol.

      “Coffee. Of course. How thoughtless of me not to have offered.” Clearly frustrated, he brushed his hand along the side of his head, spreading a new smear of powder across his ebony hair.

      “Graying at the temples is a good look for you,” she said cheerily. Removing the baby’s pajamas, she grimaced at the wafting aroma. “I presume you didn’t get around to a diaper change.”

      “Diaper?” He blinked as if unfamiliar with the word. Comprehension dawned slowly. “Diapers,” he repeated, seeming horrified at his oversight. “It didn’t occur to me….” His voice trailed off as he gazed helplessly from the red-faced, kicking infant on the table to the crystalized powder coating his hand.

      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