Who's That Baby?. Diana Whitney
plastic chair. “With so many people in the world, why is it that so many of them are lonely?” The baby gurgled, and bobbed her head sideways as if following the sound of Claire’s voice.
“Ah, but you mustn’t worry, sweet girl. There will always be enough love for you. I promise you that.”
It didn’t occur to Claire to question the peculiar affirmation. In some faraway part of her mind, she understood that she was in no position to promise this child anything, that she was merely a temporary caretaker and that their time together would be all too fleeting. She understood that, although dwelling on it would have been too painful. She felt blessed to have these moments with Lucy, and she wasn’t about to waste them on the realities of what was to come.
Claire carefully laid Lucy on her lap, tucking her in the dip between her own thighs. “Do you know how lucky you are to have such a wonderful daddy?”
The baby’s head swung around. A fat tongue poked out, wrapped in baby bubbles.
“Yes, you most certainly are a lucky girl. I never knew my real daddy. Odd how one can so desperately miss a person one has never met.”
As she spoke, Claire unwrapped the thin receiving blanket to once again inspect each tiny leg and count the sweet button toes. “Why, there they are again! One, two, three…” She gave an exaggerated gasp, hiking her eyebrows. “Ten of them! Imagine that!”
Lucy grinned. Or perhaps she just had gas. It didn’t matter, because Claire couldn’t have been more delighted as Lucy kicked her fat legs and flailed her tiny fists. With the sweet heaviness of the warm, wriggling body, the powdery fragrance, the fresh scent of laundered cotton and gentle oils, Claire was surrounded by the auras of motherhood—a soft ache in the chest that made her feel more whole, more alive than she could ever remember.
Layer by layer, Claire removed fabric, examined the soft, round belly, the reddened skin beneath her little armpits, the perfect fold of a baby ear, the delicate quiver of a fleshy little throat. Every inch was perfect. Every inch.
It was a silly thing, she supposed, this compulsion to constantly reassess the infant. She couldn’t explain the joy it gave her to touch this precious baby, to smooth the soft cotton shirt, caress each delicate baby finger.
Such dark little eyes, so intense, so wise. “You mustn’t worry, precious. Your daddy won’t let anything bad happen to you. And neither will I,” she whispered. “Neither will I.”
As Claire bent forward to kiss the infant’s silky cheek, a tingle slipped down her spine. She straightened slowly in the small chair, instinctively knowing before she gazed toward the doorway what she would see.
Johnny Winterhawk stood there, hovering just inside the room with an expression of awe and wonder that moved her to the marrow.
His powerful form filled the doorway, shoulders seeming even more broad by the fit of a dark, tailored business suit that hugged him like a supple second skin. From his perfectly groomed ebony hair to the tips of his gleaming Italian shoes, he exuded grace, power, control. And danger.
Danger for any woman whose heart raced at the sight of him, whose blood steamed in his presence, whose breath backed up in her throat until she feared her lungs might explode.
Most women looked twice at Johnny Winterhawk. Most women sighed, exchanged a yearning glance, silently wondered what ripple of bone and sinew lay hidden beneath the elegant, tailored cloth. He was masculine perfection, a walking wonder of sheer sensuality silently raging behind a wall of civility. He was magnificent. He was vital. He was gorgeous. Claire wanted to rip his clothes off.
“Hi.” She cleared the horrifying squeak from her voice, and tried again. “You’re early.”
“Am I?”
“A little.”
His gaze slipped to the infant in her lap. His eyes glowed softly, with wonder. “You’re so good with her.”
“It’s easy to be good with her. She’s such a good baby.” Managing to take in enough air to clear the cobwebs from her brain, Claire gave the blanket a quick wrap and lifted the infant to her shoulder.
As she started to stand, Johnny took two massive strides and cupped his palm around her elbow, assisting her. A spark from his touch shot into her shoulder.
She swayed briefly, then stood. Her knees did not buckle. But they wanted to. “So…” She sucked a breath, offered a bright smile. “Are you ready to take over your daddy duties?”
“I—” His gaze darted, his lips thinned. “I wonder if I might impose upon you a bit longer.”
“Of course.” A rush of relief startled her, although the steely glint in his eye gave her pause. “Is something wrong?”
He ignored the question. “Lucy will be spending more time in my care than I had originally anticipated. I would appreciate some, ah, instruction. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he added quickly.
“No trouble at all. Lesson number one, holding the baby.” Before he could protest, Claire placed Lucy in his arms, nearly laughing out loud at his horrified expression as he shrugged up his shoulders and hunched forward, awkwardly cradling the baby as if she were a porcelain football.
His eyes rolled frantically, his skin paled and beads of moisture traced his upper lip. “She’s so fragile,” he whispered. “I can barely feel her.”
“You’re doing fine.” The terror in his eyes was perversely endearing. Claire decided one just had to love a man who took fatherhood so seriously. “Lesson number two, we’ve already touched upon. Babies are tougher than they look. They don’t break easily, nor do they bounce, so try not to drop her.”
His head snapped up. He looked as if he might faint.
“Now, on to lesson number three.” Claire shouldered the diaper bag, dug her car keys out of her pocket and dangled them in front of his stunned face. “Shopping!”
Johnny groaned.
Chapter Three
“You have to snap that whatchamacallit into the doohickey, and tighten tension on some kind of switch lever.” Claire turned the instruction sheet over, scratched her head. “That’s if you want to use the portable crib function. If you want to transform it into a playpen, you’re supposed to loosen the lever, unsnap the whatchamacallit and twist the doohickey into the thingamajig. I think.”
“Huh?” Shifting one segment of the mesh-sided portable crib under his arm, Johnny hoisted himself on one knee, grunted as he rapped his elbow on the coffee table.
Claire turned the instruction sheet over, angled a sympathetic glance. “It’s a little crowded in here.” The observation was unnecessary, since the formerly immaculate living room was cluttered with mounds of stuffed shopping bags, tiny garments, toys, crib mobiles, baby supplies, a stroller still in its packing carton and one “handy-dandy all-in-one nursery”—a bewildering assortment of tubes, pads and mesh panels that could supposedly shift from crib to playpen to changing table with the merest flick of a finger.
Johnny frowned, inspected his elbow. “It would be easier to replicate the space shuttle out of bottle caps. Why would someone engineer this kind of monstrosity for an infant?”
“It’s not for the child—it’s for the parent.” Smiling, Claire glanced around the once tidy room. A screwdriver poked out of an expensive silk-flower arrangement on the polished oak coffee table. A pair of needle-nose pliers sagged against the breast pocket of Johnny’s expensive monogrammed dress shirt. The handle of a claw hammer stuck from between tapestry sofa cushions. “Some Christmas Eve in the future, you’ll have to assemble a tricycle in the dark using nothing but a pair of fingernail clippers and the toothpick from your holiday martini. This is good practice.”
For a moment, Claire actually thought he was blushing. His gaze lowered, his lips curved into