Diana Whitney - Who's That Baby?

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.

“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 a half smile that did peculiar things to her insides. Clearly, he was getting used to the idea of fatherhood, but he was also still shaken by it. His smile dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. He squared his shoulders, rearranged his features into an unreadable mask.

Without responding to Claire’s teasing comment, he returned his attention to the assemblage problem, moving his lips as he worked as if giving himself silent support for the effort.

Claire watched him greedily, fascinated by every nuance of expression, every hint of frown or smile. There was something vulnerable about his struggle with the unfamiliar equipment, a nervous determination in his effort that was exquisitely touching. His collar yawned open, his tie was askew and his sleeves were rolled up to expose muscular forearms dusted by a smattering of dark hair. As cool and confident as he’d been in his formal business attire, he was now charmingly befuddled, sitting cross-legged on the floor amid a nest of packing material, cardboard and bubble wrap.

Lying beside her on the sofa, Lucy yawned hugely and stuffed a baby fist in her mouth. “Someone is getting sleepy,” Claire said. “I think your daughter has given up hope of having a nap in her brand-new crib.”

“Have faith,” Johnny muttered. Squatting on one knee, he bent to inspect a bewildering array of template holes stamped on the metal frame. “Wait a minute, I think I know what this is for….” He grunted, snapped a spring-loaded steel arm into one of the openings, grasped the tubular mesh-side frames and hauled the unit upright. With a click, a shudder, a whoosh, the little crib stood firm and sturdy amid the chaos.

Johnny grinned in triumph. Claire’s heart gave a lurch. She licked her dry lips. “Congratulations. You’ve passed the first test of fatherhood, crib construction.” He looked so inordinately pleased with himself that Claire couldn’t keep from laughing. “Now all we have to do is move it into the nursery and tuck Lucy in for a nice quiet nap.”

“The spare room is at the far end of the hall.” He grabbed a bulging shopping bag and began to root through the contents. “I wouldn’t be able to hear her.”

“Most babies sleep better in a quiet room. Besides, you shouldn’t have to turn your living room into a nursery.”

He grunted, retrieved a package of crib sheets from the bag. “It’s only temporary.”

Claire considered that. “You’ve purchased a lot of permanent stuff for a temporary situation.”

He shrugged, struggled to extract the linens from their packaging. “The child needs these things no matter where she is.”

“She needs a solid-silver hairbrush?”

He looked stung. “She has hair.”

“Yes, she does indeed.”

“Grooming is important.”

Claire couldn’t argue that. “And three separate crib mobiles?”

“The saleswoman said that infants need visual stimulation.”

“And the computer that teaches ABC’s?”

“Educational toys give a child a better start in life.”

“She can barely lift her head, Johnny.” Claire bit her lip, so amused by his adorable sulk that she feared she’d laugh out loud. “And what on earth is she going to do with two dozen stuffed animals? Not to mention the fact that you bought her so many frilly dresses, she’d have to be changed four times a day just to wear them all before she outgrows them.”

“Proper clothing is important to a child’s self-esteem.”

Something in his eyes alerted Claire that Johnny might have been speaking more from experience than parroting the salesperson’s pitch. She regarded him thoughtfully. “I guess you weren’t born rich, were you?”

The question seemed to unnerve him. “I was not a ragged little Indian kid scuffing barefoot through the reservation in feathers and a torn loincloth, if that’s what you mean.”

She hiked a brow. “A little touchy, are we?”

He sighed, allowing his shoulders to roll forward. “Sorry. Guess I do get a bit defensive about the stereotype of my heritage. Actually, my parents struggled when I was quite young, but by the time I was in school, they were middle-class suburbanites, just like your own family.”

“What do you know about my family?”

He blinked up from the drape of balloon-and-bow fabric he’d finally extracted from the package. “Nothing, I suppose. I just presumed—” A slow flush crawled up his throat. His smile was a little sheepish. “Touché. I guess we all fall into the stereotype trap.”

Her heart fluttered. “It’s only a trap if we can’t find the way out.”

Johnny studied her as if seeing her for the first time. A smile spread slowly, sensually, lighting his face from within. “How did you get so wise?”

“It just soaks into my head with the auburn hair rinse.”

“So that beautiful copper tone isn’t natural?”

“It would be more natural if I left those pesky gray sprouts in it.” To her horror, she giggled. “I cannot believe that I have just entrusted you with my most solemn personal secret.”

He laughed then, a genuine guffaw from the solar plexus that vibrated down her spine like a sensual massage. She’d never heard him laugh before. It nearly undid her. “Attorney-client privilege,” he said, clearly amused. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Returning his attention to the packaged crib sheet, he frowned, tore at the plastic wrap and muttered under his breath.

Claire plucked the item from his hand, removed the packaging and handed it back. Johnny held the limp cotton fabric studded with tiny balloon-and-bow stencils as if he’d never seen a fitted sheet before.

“I take it you have maid service?”

He glanced up, startled. “Certainly.”

“Ah. In that case, you are clearly inexperienced in the fine art of bed making. Allow me to demonstrate.” She took the sheet, gave it a shake. “These cupped corners are molded to fit around the crib pad, like so.”