Diana Whitney - Who's That Baby?

Midnight Stranger #530

Scarlet Whispers #603

Silhouette Shadows

The Raven Master #31

Silhouette Books

36 Hours

Ooh Baby, Baby

DIANA WHITNEY

A three-time Romance Writers of America RITA Award finalist, Romantic Times Magazine Reviewers’ Choice nominee and finalist for Colorado Romance Writers’ Award of Excellence, Diana Whitney has published more than two dozen romance and suspense novels since her first Silhouette title in 1989. A popular speaker, Diana has conducted writing workshops, and has published several articles on the craft of fiction writing for various trade magazines and newsletters. She is a member of Authors Guild, Novelists, Inc., Published Authors Network and Romance Writers of America. She and her husband live in rural Northern California with a beloved menagerie of furred creatures, domestic and wild. She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her c/o Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10017.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

The moment he turned on the light, he saw the limp orange lump floating in the fishbowl. It had been that kind of a day.

The loss pained him. He’d told Spence he didn’t have time for a pet, even one that required no more than a bowl of water and a daily dose of food flakes. His gregarious law partner had insisted that everyone needed something to care for, even a stoic isolationist like Johnny Winterhawk.

Johnny had capitulated, accepted the finned creature despite misgivings. Living things didn’t do well in his company. The last such offering had been a vigorous pothos plant presented by Rose McBride, administrator of the Buttonwood Baby Clinic, in appreciation for having discovered and stricken a particularly onerous clause from the clinic’s lease agreement.

Johnny had been pleased by the handsome little plant. He’d placed it on a sunlit windowsill and watered it religiously every morning. Within weeks, the shiny green leaves faded to mushy yellow. Now yet another life force had shriveled in Johnny’s clearly inept hands.

Sighing, he removed the deceased fish and carried it into the bathroom for disposal. “Rest in peace, little fellow.” He pulled the handle. With a whoosh and a swirl, the tiny creature disappeared.

A prick of real remorse startled him. It was only a fish, after all, although he’d been oddly fond of it, and had rather enjoyed watching the creature snap up the food flakes poured into its bowl each day. Not that he’d been emotionally attached to it, of course. Johnny knew better than that. Nothing in this world was permanent. Not plants, not fish, not people.

Especially not people.

Still, he’d put forth serious effort to provide what the little fish had needed, just as he’d made a serious effort to care for the plant. He always made a serious effort. It was never enough.

Perhaps the Creator was displeased. Johnny’s grandfather would have commanded a four-day fast, along with communion into the dreamworld, a place where spirits of earth, sun and sky might bestow spiritual awakening to those who’d broken their spiritual harmony with the earth.

To Grandfather, all living things were one, and all knowledge was bestowed by ancestral whispers to those who had the courage to listen.

Johnny respected that philosophy. He simply had a different approach—easy come, easy go. Not particularly profound, but it worked. And it kept him sane.

Returning to his nightly routine, Johnny poured his usual nightcap—two fingers of amber whiskey served in an etched-crystal brandy snifter—then he methodically turned on both the stereo and the television, cranking the volume until every square foot of the expansive house vibrated with sound. A glance at a gold-and-diamond watch worth more than his grandfather had earned in a year confirmed that it was barely 10:00 p.m. The night was young.

He settled at the table, opened a fat, triangular valise stuffed with documents and went to work.

An hour later, he’d finished his first drink and poured himself another when the doorbell jangled above the din from the stereo and television. He pushed away from the table, swearing under his breath. No visitors announcing themselves an hour before midnight brought good news. The last time it had been this late, he’d found a sheepish neighbor on the doorstep, reeling drunk and slurring apologies for having flattened Johnny’s mailbox.

Johnny hadn’t cared about the mailbox. He had, however, been furious that the intoxicated fool had gotten behind the wheel of a car, and Johnny had said so. Explicitly.

There had also been a late-night prank that resulted in half the neighborhood being draped with toilet paper, and an unpleasant visit by the doddering widow from down the street, who’d been served with a small-claims-court summons and had actually scolded him for working late, thus forcing her to stay up past her bedtime for the free legal advice to which she felt utterly entitled.

Steeling himself, Johnny strode to the door, prepared for a drunken neighbor, a mountain of toilet paper or a wild-eyed widow clutching a summons. He was, in fact, prepared for just about anything. Anything, that is, except a wailing infant with a note pinned to its blanket.

It really had been that kind of day.

Stifling a yawn, Claire Davis stuffed her stethoscope in the pocket of her lab coat and had nearly made her escape when she heard the desk phone ring.

Nurse Jansen intercepted the call. “Buttonwood Baby Clinic. How may I help you?”

Claire dodged the nurses’ station and slipped into the doctors’ lounge. She was so tired she could have slept standing up. Her back ached, her eyes burned and her contact lenses felt as if they’d been fused to her eyeballs with Super Glue.

If she hadn’t been such a sucker for a panicky new mom who couldn’t tell the difference between scarlet fever and prickly heat, she’d have been home by now lounging in a hot bubble bath and preparing to sleep through her first day off in a week. Instead, she’d spent the past two hours soothing a frantic Mrs. Martinez, and explaining that a newborn really didn’t need three layers of clothing in an overheated room.

Now Claire leaned against the cool metal locker, weary to the bone. The bubbles beckoned. She could practically smell the steam, feel the sensual slither of silky soap caressing her skin. The image lent momentary buoyance, bestowing enough energy for her to exchange her lab coat for a warm sweater and the lumpy canvas backpack that served as a portable communications center, research facility, office and purse.

The lounge door creaked open. Claire heaved a sigh, spoke without turning around. “Unless it’s an emergency, just page whoever is on call. I’m officially off duty.”

“You’ve been officially off duty since five this afternoon,” came the cheery feminine reply. “That didn’t keep you from coming back in to see the Martinez baby.”

“Personal patients get personal perks.”

“Then you may want to take this call.”

A teasing lilt to Nurse Jeri Jansen’s voice made Claire glance over her shoulder. “Is it one of my patients?”

The young woman sported a taunting grin and a gleam of sheer mischief in her huge hazel eyes. “Nope.”

“Is it an emergency?”

“It doesn’t seem to be.”

“Doesn’t seem to be?”

“It’s a little difficult to tell. All the caller says is that he wishes to speak with a physician.” Jeri lowered her voice, which quivered with a peculiar hint of amusement. “I heard a baby fussing in the background.”

If curiosity hadn’t taken so much energy, Claire might have been intrigued by the gleam in the young nurse’s eye and the sparkle in her voice. She cast a weary glance at the marker board to see whose name had been written in for the evening calls. “Page Dr. Parker. He’s great with fussy babies.”

Jeri’s grin widened. “Are you sure you don’t want to take this call yourself?”

“I’m positive.” Closing the locker, Claire shouldered her backpack, dug out her car keys and displayed them with a provocative jangle. “My bubble bath awaits.”

“Ah, a bubble bath, is it?” Jeri 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.