Who's That Baby?. Diana Whitney

      Chapter Two

      Late-night shadows scattered along the sidewalk, pooling in between amber shafts of illumination from porch lights that dotted the Eastridge apartment complex. Shifting the precious bundle in her arms, Claire managed to position her key in the lock and elbow the light switch as she stepped inside a room filled with lush house plants and unlit scented candles.

      “Welcome to my humble abode,” she murmured to the bright-eyed infant. “I know, I know, it’s been a busy night for such a tiny girl, hasn’t it? But it’s been a busy night for your daddy, too, and I think he needs a few hours to get himself together. Discovering that one is a father can be a bit disconcerting, even for the strong, silent type.”

      Lucy seemed intrigued by the one-sided conversation, which gave Claire yet another opportunity to convince herself that the impulsive decision to bring Lucy home with her was based more on sound logic than emotional whim. It was reasonable, she told herself, to give a stunned man time to gather his thoughts, rearrange his schedule and make room in his life for a child whose existence had been completely unknown to him.

      “No, sugar-bug, your daddy hasn’t rejected you. He’s just upset because that’s how men get when they lose control over their lives.”

      Lucy widened her eyes. Claire’s heart melted. Her daddy hadn’t rejected her, but her mother had.

      A clench of fury tightened Claire’s chest. Despite Johnny’s gallant defense, Claire disliked Lucy’s mother intensely. She told herself that she wasn’t being fair, that she was prejudging the woman without the slightest understanding of what tragedy might have warranted such desperate measures.

      But in Claire’s mind, there could be no excuse to give away one’s child.

      She shrugged the diaper bag off her shoulder, carried the cooing infant into her bedroom. Because she couldn’t help herself, she hugged Lucy close, brushed her cheek against her soft little scalp. A tear burned, clouding her contact lens.

      “Don’t you worry, little one. You have people who love you, who will take care of you always.”

      Lucy looked up, blinked and burped. For some reason, that tickled Claire immensely. “I swear, you are the sweetest baby I’ve ever seen in my life. Trust me, I’ve seen more than my share of sweet babies.”

      Claire laid the infant in the middle of her bed. At two months old, Lucy was just learning to arch her little body, and might be able to turn over, so Claire placed a couple of pillows on each side of the child to keep her safe.

      “We’re going to have a lovely time, you and I.”

      Bright baby eyes blinked up, struggling to focus on Claire’s movements as she slipped off her skirt and blouse and tossed them over a nearby chair.

      “Tomorrow morning we’ll go shopping,” Claire told the infant. “Your wardrobe leaves a bit to be desired, don’t you think?” She shimmied into a frumpy but practical flannel nightgown, traded her dried-out contacts for a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses and stretched out on the bed beside the squirming infant. “Red would be a smashing color on you. Something in gingham, maybe, with a few well-placed ruffles. Nothing garish, of course. All in the best of taste.” She finger combed the peculiar thatch of dark baby hair, unsuccessfully attempted to curl the straight strand around her finger. “Maybe we can find one of those adorable elastic head bows. You’ll be so beautiful your daddy will be putty in your tiny hands.”

      Lucy cooed, whacked her tummy. Claire’s heart gave a lurch, and her biological clock suddenly issued an irresistible tick. All her life, Claire had wanted children, had simply presumed that someday she’d have them. She’d always wanted to be a doctor, too. It had never occurred to her that the two longings would be incompatible.

      Never until now.

      It hit Claire with sudden clarity that she was thirty-two years old, single and sliding toward the middle of her life without having ever looked up from her first goal long enough to realize that she may have jeopardized the second.

      She’d worked hard to get where she was today. There had been little time for relationships, and those few she’d attempted had been less than satisfactory. Most men had expected sex. Claire had not been inclined to offer that. She’d possessed the same urges as any woman, of course, but had been leery of committing herself either physically or emotionally ever since her best friend had become pregnant in high school. Giving in to those urges, she’d decided, was not for her, not until her life was in order and her future assured.

      So Claire had thrown herself into her work, and she’d waited for the right time, the right man, the ring on her finger. Well, her finger was still bare, and she’d yet to experience lovemaking. Now she wondered what it would be like to be held by Johnny Winter-hawk, to be loved by him, to have borne him this beautiful child.

      The image made her shiver with delight. It was fantasy, of course. Claire had her secret yearnings, but she was above all a pragmatist. She understood that about herself, just as she understood that simply having children could never be enough for her. She wanted a family, a real family, with two loving parents who would cherish each other as much as they cherished the issue of their union, the precious lives they had created.

      It was that lack of intimacy, of love and family, that left a nagging void deep inside, a cold emptiness in a place she never searched too carefully.

      Tonight that void had suddenly become full and vibrant, throbbing with a sensation that had first exploded when Johnny Winterhawk stared into her eyes, and had settled into sweet reality when she’d gazed upon Lucy’s precious little face.

      This is merely temporary. Johnny’s words echoed in her mind.

      Claire sighed. “This is dangerous territory,” she murmured. “I can’t afford to fall in love with you, sweetie.” Even as she spoke, she knew it was too late.

      Two years ago, Claire had come to Buttonwood looking for something indefinable, something she hadn’t even recognized. Now she finally understood why she was here, why she’d plucked one particular professional-opportunity flyer off a Cincinnati hospital bulletin board at the end of her residency and found herself in the one place on earth where she’d instinctively known that her destiny awaited her.

      Now she’d found that destiny.

      In the dark, innocent eyes of this beautiful abandoned babe, she saw the reflection of another discarded child, one who had grown up loved and cared for yet had never escaped the secret heartache of having been given away by her birth parents.

      Claire saw herself in Lucy. Perhaps that’s why the pain of this infant’s abandonment sliced so deeply into her own heart.

      A scrap of pink fabric peeked from beneath the sofa. Johnny scooped it up, spread the tiny shirt in his palm. His chest constricted with a peculiar ache. He had a daughter. He had a child.

      Dear God, how had this happened? How could he not have known?

      “Samantha,” he murmured. “Why?”

      In a wave of emotion, he crushed the shirt in his fist, pressed the soft cotton to his throat. A sweet scent wafted up, powdery and cloying. Silence suffocated him, a loneliness in the gut as sharp as a blade. He turned on the television, cranking the volume up, then hit the stereo switch as he paced. Noise flooded the house, shaking the walls. Good noise. Distracting noise. Music drowned out the wail of a used-car salesman, weather reports mingled with the stilted dialogue of old movies, headline news segued from the cheery jingle of a cereal commercial.

      Night surrounded him. Fatigue weakened his muscles, but sleep was the enemy,