Who's That Baby?. Diana Whitney
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—”
Dear Lord, please strike me mute.
“—or at least, I’ve just tried to tell you, but it seems as if my tongue has a mind of its own this evening….” Another giggle.
This was not acceptable, not acceptable at all.
Claire snapped her mouth shut, felt her lips curve into what must have appeared to be a demented grimace. She felt like a raving lunatic, but he was so close, so very close. Close enough to smell him, to see the gleam of bewilderment in eyes so intensely dark that a woman could get lost in them. Close enough to observe sparkling drops of milky moisture on his cheek, damp blotches on his pin-striped shirt, a puff of snowy powder marring his perfectly scissored black hair.
“Thank you for coming, Doctor.” His voice was resolute, but a quiver of tension caught her attention. She regarded him more analytically now, mustering enough lucidity to recognize veiled panic in his eyes. “I know what an imposition this is, but under the circumstances—”
A thin wail emanated from inside the room, barely audible beyond the cacophony of television and radio noise also blaring from inside the house. The fragile cry instantly snapped Claire into physician mode. She straightened, glancing past the impressive man to the interior of a surprisingly lush home. He’d barely stepped aside to allow her access when she pushed past him, following the sound to a tiny infant nested in a blanket-padded car seat that had been placed on a dining-room table amid a clutter of documents and legal briefs.
With her attention completely attuned to the child, the din of music and television chatter grated on her last nerve.
“For heaven’s sake, turn off the television,” Claire muttered. “If I had to listen to that racket for more than five seconds, I’d cry, too.”
Johnny leaped forward to silence the television. A moment later, the music ceased, and a semblance of blessed silence settled over the house, broken only by the pitiful sobs of the fussing infant.
Claire set her knapsack on a chair and scooped the unhappy baby into her arms. The baby stiffened normally at the movement, flailing little arms that seemed strong, well developed, normally coordinated. “There, there, precious, what seems to be the trouble, hmm?” The baby sobbed, bobbled its little head against her shoulder to gaze up with eyes as dark as those of the man who watched anxiously.
“She’s been crying for over an hour,” he said. “I found some powdered formula….” His gaze slipped to a diaper bag that had been opened, its contents strewn about the sofa as if eviscerated in a panic. “I tried to feed her.”
Claire smiled, wiping the remnants of the meal from the infant’s feathery black hair. Crusted formula was splotched on the baby’s face, and her pajamas were saturated, as well. “Looks like she’s wearing most of it.” She angled an amused glance in his direction. “Or perhaps you are.”
He blinked, glanced down at his own stained shirt. “I have no experience with children.”
“Too bad they don’t come with instructions, isn’t it?” Rubbing gentle circles on the baby’s back, Claire glanced around the luxurious room. The ambience surprised her. It was modern, sparkling clean, a tapestry of warm earth tones and shining crystal that seemed as far removed from the inner soul of this man as did the Ivy League clothing in which he wrapped himself.
On a bookcase, nested between modern crystal and a stack of worn leather volumes, was an odd bowl of murky water with a thick coating of muck on the gravel. There was also a glass display case containing a pair of small beaded moccasins and what appeared to be a tanned-hide pouch of some kind. In the foyer, she’d noticed an embroidered replica of the Southern Ute tribal flag, lovingly framed and displayed in a place of honor. The home was a collage of the old, the new and the peculiar, as much a dichotomy as the man himself.
Perhaps that was what had always fascinated her about Johnny Winterhawk—the incongruity of what she saw in him versus what he displayed to the world.
Of course, it was all just a fantasy, the safety of worship from afar. Claire had been smitten by the handsome lawyer the moment she’d laid eyes on him. In the two years Claire had worked at the Buttonwood Baby Clinic, they’d passed in the hallways, exchanged an occasional nod of greeting. Claire had sighed, shivered and had sweet dreams for a week after such encounters. They’d never officially met until tonight.
The infant bobbled in her arms, capturing her full attention. “I’d like to examine her. May I use the table?”
Johnny blinked, then rushed forward to gather papers from the table. He jammed them into a worn leather valise, fat at the bottom and narrow at the top, with a strap clasp and rolled leather handles darkened with the patina of constant use. It rather reminded her of an old-fashioned physician’s bag.
Johnny glanced around, retrieved a small receiving blanket from a wad of items that had apparently been dumped from the diaper bag and spread it across the polished oak surface. “I was afraid to remove her out from the car seat,” he murmured. “She seems 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,