Читать книгу Who's That Baby? - Diana Whitney - Страница 9

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.

“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, er, baby-sitting this evening?”

He paled slightly. “It’s a rather delicate matter.”

“Is it?” Resting her palm on the baby’s tummy, Claire used her free hand to unsnap her case and retrieve her stethoscope. “Physicians are a discreet breed. I’ll take your secrets to my grave.”

He hiked a dark brow, whether in shock or anger she couldn’t tell. “Are you mocking me?”

“I’m teasing you.” She smiled, surprised herself by absently patting his arm. Her fingers tingled at the touch. He was firmer than she’d imagined, his muscles rigid beneath the smooth fabric of his expensive dress shirt.

Licking her lips, she focused her attention back to her tiny patient. “You’re clearly upset by whatever has happened here tonight. I was trying to break the tension. I meant no offense.”

“Of course not.” He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. When he glanced up, the confusion in his eyes touched her. “It’s just that this is…quite personal.”

She considered that. “So I’ve gathered. Since you’ve requested my assistance, and since the wellbeing of an infant is at stake, I’m obliged to ask certain questions, and frankly you are quite obliged to answer them.”

A flush crawled up his throat. He coughed, glanced away. “My apologies, Dr. Davis. You’ve gone out of your way to be helpful, and I’ve repaid you poorly.”

Her heart fluttered. He was without a doubt the most perfect man God had ever created. Claire wondered if he was aware of that. “A nice cup of coffee would go a long way in paying my bill. You could use some yourself.” She issued a pointed nod toward a brandy snifter of amber liquid on the wet bar, remnants of the nightcap he’d mentioned on the telephone and ostensibly the reason he refused to drive the infant to the clinic. Claire had admired that about him. She also had an aversion to operating a vehicle after having imbibed even a moderate amount of alcohol.

“Coffee. Of course. How thoughtless of me not to have offered.” Clearly frustrated, he brushed his hand along the side of his head, spreading a new smear of powder across his ebony hair.

“Graying at the temples is a good look for you,” she said cheerily. Removing the baby’s pajamas, she grimaced at the wafting aroma. “I presume you didn’t get around to a diaper change.”

“Diaper?” He blinked as if unfamiliar with the word. Comprehension dawned slowly. “Diapers,” he repeated, seeming horrified at his oversight. “It didn’t occur to me….” His voice trailed off as he gazed helplessly from the red-faced, kicking infant on the table to the crystalized powder coating his hand.

Claire wondered how much of the formula had actually gotten into the bottle the indomitable Mr. Winterhawk had gamely prepared. She had to hand it to him; he’d certainly given it the old college try.

An irked squeak brought her attention back to the infant, who kicked her fat legs wildly and flailed a tiny fist against her tummy. Claire’s heart felt as if it had been squeezed. Babies were her business. She’d seen hundreds of them, all beautiful, all adorable.

There was something special about this black-eyed, button-nosed babe, something almost mythical and chilling. It was as if this tiny infant had the power of a magus, the eyes of an old soul trapped in a newborn body. She felt a kinship to the child, an instant bonding so sudden and forceful that her own body vibrated with it.

She brushed her knuckles across the silky soft baby cheek. “What is her name?”

Johnny yanked at his collar, skewing his tie to the side. “Lucy.”

“Lucy,” Claire crooned. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” At that moment, Claire fell utterly and completely in love with this precious infant. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t even rational. But it was nonetheless real. And it would change the course of her life forever.

The coffee dripped quietly, its fragrance wafting through the kitchen to mingle with the peculiar aroma of warm milk and sweet powder. Johnny slumped against the counter, willed his trembling knees to stay the course. From his vantage point, he could see through the open door into the dining room where a lovely Titian-haired doctor nurtured the now content infant with heartrending tenderness.

Claire Davis. So that was her name. It was a good name—strong, independent, yet delicate and feminine, like the woman who wore it.

Johnny remembered her from the clinic. She was not a woman one could easily forget. He vividly recalled the first time he’d seen her. While idly glancing out the glass door of Rose McBride’s office, he’d been surprised to discover a gorgeous redhead in a lab coat staring back at him. She’d blushed prettily, walked into a counter and dropped an armful of charts on the floor.

Johnny had been fascinated by the wreath of color circling her porcelain complexion, the dazzling impact of her embarrassed glow as a nurse bent to assist her. She’d angled a glance at him, seen him staring at her, then flushed to a bright fuchsia, scooped up the strewn folders and fled.

From that moment on, he’d searched for the beautiful redhead every time he’d gone to the clinic, and made it a point to study her when she wasn’t looking. Now she was here, in his home, with light from his dining-room chandelier dancing in her hair with the sparkling hues of warm sherry in sunlight.

Every nuance was alluring, every smile, every dimple, every twist of auburn brow, every whisper from moist, full lips. Few women were natural beauties, but this one was. Her blue eyes were large, round, exquisitely framed with thick dark lashes that didn’t appear to have been coated with black goo that so many women seemed obliged to paint on themselves. A pale smattering of freckles shone golden across otherwise alabaster skin untinted by makeup. Her brows were pale, neatly plucked, but otherwise natural.

Yes, she was pleasing to the eye. But it was her manner that held Johnny’s rapt attention, the radiance as she whispered to her tiny patient, the expertise with which her slender fingers caressed and stroked and gently probed. Professionalism was evident in every movement, efficiency in every touch. She turned the child competently, positioned the stethoscope around the small, bare back.

Johnny flinched at how easily she’d managed to unwrap the infant that he had been too cowardly even to remove from the car seat.

Claire Davis. Here. In his home. Holding both his past and his future in her very competent hands. He wondered if he could trust her with either.

Then realized that he had no choice.

Claire set her coffee cup aside and reread the note Johnny had shown her.

Please take care of Lucy. I have faith in you.

Samantha.

She swallowed hard, handed the note back to him. “This was pinned to her blanket?”

Johnny nodded, sat heavily in a plush lounge chair across from the sofa where Claire held the sleeping infant.

“May I assume that you are familiar with this Samantha person?” Although Claire had meant the question to be kind, Johnny flinched at the inference. Evasive banter was a waste of time even when performed as a courtesy, so she cut to the chase. “Is Lucy your daughter?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I presume so.”

“Presume?”

His shoulders squared slightly, increasing their impressive width. A powerful man, she noted, with an extraordinarily well-muscled upper body that provided a potent contrast to provocatively slim hips and lean legs that probably weren’t as long as they appeared. “Samantha and I were involved during the time the child was apparently conceived,” he said simply. “Since she has seen fit to bring Lucy to me, I must presume that the child is mine.”

Claire nodded. The infant was gorgeous, with dark skin, high cheekbones and exquisitely crafted Native American bone structure that mirrored her father’s. “She looks like you.”

Johnny’s gaze softened. “She looks more like her mother, actually. Samantha’s eyes are the same almond shape, and she has the same round little nose that always seemed like God had put it there as an afterthought—” He bit off the words, as if realizing that they had revealed more intimacy than intended. When he spoke again, his voice was firm, his eyes guarded. “I don’t understand what has happened here tonight. If Samantha had required my assistance, all she had to do was ask. There was no reason for such…clandestine measures.”

The bewilderment and pain in his eyes struck Claire with unexpected force. “I can only imagine how unsettling it must be to suddenly discover you have a child.” Not to mention having that child dropped on the doorstep like the morning paper. A wave of anger surged through her chest, forcing her to take several calming breaths. “Have you contacted the authorities?”

The suggestion clearly shocked him. “Of course not.” He licked his lips, then stood so quickly that the massive lounge chair vibrated. “I won’t pretend to understand Samantha’s motives here, but I do know her to be a loving, honorable woman who would never willingly cause pain to a living thing. There has obviously been a misunderstanding.”

“Of course,” Claire murmured.

“This is merely temporary. Samantha will clear everything up as soon as she returns.”

“And when will that be?”

His jaw dropped only for a moment before he tightened it with a stoic clench. “Soon.”

“I’m certain you’re right.” Claire wasn’t certain at all. A woman who’d leave a child on a doorstep didn’t seem to be sending a message that she’d be back anytime soon, but Claire would rather gnaw her own arm off at the elbow than to say that aloud.

Judging by the confusion and hurt in Johnny’s eyes, he clearly wasn’t willing to accept that a woman he’d once cared about deeply, a woman who had betrayed him by having kept his child secret, would have betrayed him again by abandoning that child, perhaps as she’d once abandoned him.

Claire couldn’t comprehend how any woman could leave a man like Johnny Winterhawk or this precious infant who had so deeply etched a groove in Claire’s own heart.

Gazing down at the sleeping child on her lap, she was drawn to stroke the baby’s silky scalp, catching fluid strands of short ebony hair between her fingers and smiling as baby lips twitched. A glimmering bubble appeared at the corner of her slack little mouth.

A twinge of real pain twisted Claire’s heart at the realization that this precious, innocent child had been betrayed by the one person on earth she’d trusted to love her, nurture her, care for her always. To Claire, maternal desertion was the most heinous of crimes. She could not, would not allow Lucy’s mother the same benefit of doubt that Johnny was plainly willing to offer.

In fact, she did not like this Samantha person one bit. It took every ounce of control not to reveal the extent of her anger to the man who was desperately trying to excuse the inexcusable.

“Samantha is a good woman,” Johnny said suddenly.

Claire felt herself flush, wondering if he could also read minds. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to agree with him. “She must have had her reasons, although I won’t pretend that I can conceive of a single one that excuses the choice she has made.” Reluctantly shifting the sleeping babe back to the car seat, Claire stood. “However, Lucy appears to be well nourished, normally developed and in good health. You should probably bring her into the clinic tomorrow for a more thorough examination and a few tests.”

Johnny stiffened as if he’d been shot. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I have appointments in the morning.”

“The clinic opens at 6:00 a.m.”

“I’ll be at my office by then and I won’t be home until ten at night. I have a law practice to run.” His brows rose into a ridiculously pompous arch that she might have found amusing if fatigue hadn’t sucked the humor right out of her.

“I wouldn’t know anything about hard work and long hours. I’m just a doctor.” She scooped up her bag, tossed her sweater over her arm. “As for the baby, just toss her into the car seat on your way out in the morning. I’m sure she’ll be fine on her own for a good fifteen or sixteen hours.”

Pained comprehension dawned, etching itself in every line of his handsome face. The long-term consequences of fatherhood had no doubt just occurred to him. “Oh, my God.”

Now it was Claire’s turn to arch a brow. “Exactly.”

He dropped into the chair, ashen. When he slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, she thought he’d fainted. After a long moment, he spoke without looking up, his authoritarian tone having softened to an almost palpable panic. “What am I going to do?”

Claire could practically feel his terror, his confusion, his abject misery. For some odd reason, it touched her as if it were her own. She set her knapsack down, and knelt beside him. “You’re going to do what you have to do,” she said gently, “to take care of your daughter.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you.”

He shook his head. “That would be too much to ask. Besides, this is just—”

“I know, I know, it’s just temporary.” She sighed, sat back on her heels. “Temporary or not, a baby needs full-time care and attention. Which is not to say that you have to let your career go to hell in a hand-basket. You’ll have to make some adjustments, true, but nothing you can’t handle.”

He raised his head, angled a doleful glance. “How do you know what I can and cannot handle.”

“I’m a good guesser.” Her teasing wink got a small smile out of him. Very small, but very potent. An army of goose bumps slipped down her spine at even the hint of his smile. “Besides, lots of parents have to work, which is why there are places like the Buttonwood Child Care Center.”

“Child care?” He brightened, as if the thought of such a wondrous place hadn’t occurred to him. “Of course.”

She stood. “Joy Rollings runs the center. I’ll give her a call first thing in the morning, and tell her to expect you.”

Gratitude in his eyes turned to panic so quickly she barely had time to react before he shot from the chair and clutched both of her hands in one of his powerful palms. “Tomorrow? What about tonight?”

“The center is open from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.”

“But I can’t possibly…I mean, I nearly drowned her with a bottle. What if I drop her? What if…?” He shook his head. “No, no, that is not acceptable, not acceptable at all.”

Claire’s empathy cooled as quickly as it had evolved. “In that case, your options are limited.” She unsnapped her case, retrieved a card from a pouch and handed it to him. “Call this number. All your problems will be solved.”

He stared at it blankly for only a moment, then every trace of color drained from his face as his feigned bluster melted before her very eyes. “The state welfare agency?”

“They’ll send someone out to pick up the child, and you can wash your hands of the problem once and for all.” Claire knew her tone was cold. She meant it to be. “Oh, you’ll have to send a pesky check once in a while. Oddly enough, the state expects parents to support their children with money even if they’re unwilling to support them in any other way, but hey—” she gave his back a chummy slap “—a fancy high-priced lawyer like yourself shouldn’t care about a few paltry dollars, particularly if it alleviates that handsome legal mind of yours from dealing with unimportant details, such as changing diapers and mixing baby formula. Sound like a fair trade?”

Most of the color had returned to his face, and his eyes had gone completely black. “Involving the authorities could result in charges being filed against Samantha.”

“True, but that’s not your problem, is it? I mean, once the state gets its paternalistic paws on baby Lucy, she might end up in foster care, bounced from hither and yon until her poor baby psyche has been permanently damaged. As long as it doesn’t interfere in your law practice, what do you care?”

He flinched again, but to his credit never broke eye contact with her. “Touché, Dr. Davis, your point is well taken.”

“Oh, call me Claire. After all—” she elbowed him playfully “—I know all your secrets now, so it seems a bit highfalutin to stand on formalities, don’t you think?”

“You don’t know all my secrets, Claire.” He smiled, not a full-blown smile, exactly, but much more well formed than his prior effort. The effect was devastating. “At least, not yet.”