Who's That Baby?

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. “Touchе. 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.”

Johnny leaned over her shoulder, watching. His scent surrounded her like soft arms, musky and sweet, an aching combination of aromatic body wash, grooming fragrance and pure man.

Her fingers trembled. She cleared her throat. “First you tuck one side over the mattress, left and right, then you smooth it over the crib pad and tuck in the far side, like so.”

“Amazing. It fits perfectly.”

If he’d smelled any better, Claire wouldn’t have been able to resist taking a nip out of his throat. “We also have these cute little blanket clips—” she rooted through a shopping bag to retrieve the package “—which fit through the mesh walls, clip to the blanket and keep the baby from kicking the blanket off.”

His eyes lit. “An excellent idea.”

“Didn’t you purchase a new crib blanket?”

“Yes, several.” He stepped over a mount of torn plastic wrap to retrieve yet another shopping bag, from which he extracted a soft, fleecy blanket embroidered with tiny sheep. “Do you think she’d prefer the yellow or the pink? I think there’s a white one, as well….”

“Yellow is fine.” Her fingers brushed his arm as she took the blanket from him. She moistened her lips, waited for the tingling to subside, then fastened the blanket clips and stepped back to view her handiwork.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Johnny struggling with a mass of wires and colorful butterflies. While clamping the crib mobile on the tubular frame, he angled a defensive glance in her direction, as if daring her to criticize the extravagance. “This one is also a music box. You wind it up, and the butterfly wings flap. It should be quite interesting for her to watch.”

She smiled. “Indeed.”

A muscle jittered at the curve of his jaw. “I do have a responsibility to make her life as comfortable as possible for the time that we are together.”

Claire’s smile faded. “She’s your daughter, Johnny. You’ll be spending time together for the rest of your lives.”

The subtle tilt of a brow was the only indication he’d heard her. “Perhaps the star-collage mobile would be more appropriate for an infant of her age.”