Here I Am (18 page)

“You'll never have to worry about me and another woman as long as we are together. Now have you thought of where you'd like to go?” Ciara shook her head. “Would you mind if I make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“Do you get seasick?”

A slight frown line appeared between Ciara's eyes when she pondered his question. She hoped he wasn't thinking of embarking on a cruise. She and her mother had taken a weeklong cruise down to the Caribbean one year and the ship was so large that it took them three days to figure out the shortest route to their cabin. “No. Why?”

“I'd like to charter a yacht and sail down to the Caribbean. We can use the boat as our hotel when visiting some of the islands.”

“It will be just us?”

He smiled. “Yes. Do you want to invite someone else?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I love the idea.”

“Good. I'll call and make arrangements tomorrow.”

“How long do you anticipate we'll be gone?”

“A week to ten days. Why?”

“I'll have to contact my mother and let her know I'll be out of the country. I also need to stop at my apartment to pick up clothes and my passport.”

“Don't worry too much about clothes. We can go shopping when we dock in Miami. I'll have Ibrahim take you home so you can pick up whatever else you'll need before we sail.”

Ciara wanted to ask Brandt how many times he'd taken a woman with him yachting to exotic places, but decided what he'd done with other women was none of her business or concern. She would take Sofia's advice and enjoy the ride, then when it was time to get off she would be left with her memories.

“It sounds as if we're going have some fun,” she said instead.

“If I can't promise anything else, I can promise you fun.”

C
iara activated the speaker feature on her cell as she folded clothes, storing them neatly in her Pullman. “Yes, Mom, I know what I'm doing. My patient is going on vacation, and I'm accompanying him.”

“You know I've never interfered in your business, Cee, but something tells me this man is more than your patient,” said Phyllis Dennison.

“And what would the more be, Mom?”

“I can't put my finger on it, but something in your voice is different. You sound happy.”

Ciara picked up the top to a hot-pink-and-red-striped bikini, folded it neatly and placed it in the bag. “That's because I am happy. Private-duty nursing is less stressful than working at the hospital, and I get to select my cases.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

“No, Mom.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't have the time. What about you? Are you still seeing your history professor?”

Phyllis's distinctive laugh came through the speaker. “Yes. He'd been planning to go to several countries in Africa to do some research for a book he plans to write after he retires at the end of this semester.”

“What aren't you telling me, Mother?” Her mother only laughed like that when she was nervous.

“He asked me to go along with him as his wife.”

Ciara screamed like an adolescent girl. “What did you say?”

“I told him yes.”

Covering her mouth with a trembling hand, Ciara sat down on the chair beside her bed. It had taken twenty-three years, but her mother had found a man who made her happy and secure enough to try marriage again.

“Oh, Mom. I'm so happy for you.”

“Thank you, baby.”

“When are you getting married?”

“Probably after the new year.”

The tears Ciara had tried to keep in check overflowed. “As soon as I'm finished with this assignment I'm coming up to see you.”

“James has been talking about driving to New York City to visit some of the museums and libraries, but he has to wait until the end of the year.”

“I'll be up to visit you before then. But when you guys come down I'll make certain not to accept another assignment so I can act as your guide.”

“I'll let James know.”

Ciara talked to her mother for another ten minutes
before ending the call. She couldn't believe it. Her mother was going to marry the widowed history professor who'd waited patiently for Phyllis Dennison to come around and take a second chance on love.

Closing a dresser drawer, Ciara glanced around the bedroom where she hadn't slept in weeks. She'd come to the apartment to pick up her passport and pack a bag with clothes better suited for the tropics. They were scheduled to leave Monday morning at eight from the West Side pier and arrive at the port of Miami Wednesday afternoon.

She zipped the bag, setting it on the floor. Ibrahim was waiting downstairs to drive her downtown, where they would pick up Brandt, then head to New Jersey for the game. Activating the security alarm, she locked the door behind her.

Ibrahim straightened from his leaning position against the bumper of the gleaming black Town Car and met Ciara and took her bag from her loose grip. He seated her before placing her luggage in the trunk. His day had begun early and would end late.

Brandt had called to instruct him to drive Ciara uptown, wait for her, then bring her back and pick him up for the drive to the New Meadowlands Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. He'd been informed that Ciara was his employer's nurse, but instinct indicated she was more—much more to the MVP quarterback. He was paid well for his services and his discretion.

 

Ciara, awed by the size of the stadium, the thousands filing into the open-air structure and the tangible anticipation of the coin toss and kick-off, was
overwhelmed when reporters, photographers and adoring fans surrounded Brandt. She managed to disengage herself from the crowd while he fielded questions, posed for photos and scrawled his name on bare arms, T-shirts and scraps of paper.

She didn't feel sorry for rich people, because all money did was give them a more comfortable lifestyle—it couldn't buy happiness. However, with Brandt there was another factor—fame—and that made his life a bit more complicated. As a public figure he had to put up with being stalked by paparazzi shoving cameras in his face. He had to try to protect his personal space from the crazed or demented person with an ulterior motive.

Ciara attempted to mentally detach herself from her involvement with Brandt, to see him as a superstar athlete and not as her lover. She noticed the way he held his head when listening to someone, the manner in which he'd lean over to talk to a young child, his open smile, the warmth of his laugh and his firm handshake even while supporting himself on the crutches. His hair had grown out enough to touch the top of his ears and neck. A heavy wave flowed across the crown of his head, the flaxen strands shimmering like sunlight on bleached wheat. He was a male trifecta: face, body and brains.

“Viking, do you think you'll be physically ready to play next year?”

Brandt smiled at the reporter shoving a handheld tape recorder inches from his face. “That determination will have to come from the team's physician.”

“Is it true that you're not talking to your teammates?”

His smile was still in place, but his eyes weren't smiling. They were cold and piercing. “It depends on which teammate you're referring to.” He put up a hand. “Sorry, folks, but I need to get off my feet.”

The excitement he'd felt when walking into the stadium was replaced by a panic that made it impossible for him to move his legs. He'd lost Ciara in the crowd. His gaze was wild, frantic when he searched the throng milling around him. Then he saw her. She was standing thirty feet away—and alone.

Their gazes met, his filled with relief. He beckoned to someone from stadium security. “Can you please tell the lady in the red jacket that we're going to our seats?”

The man nodded. “No problem, Mr. Wainwright. I'll escort you there.”

It took longer than expected to get to their seats because it was slow going with the crutches, and their progress was impeded when fans ran over to greet or touch him. They were finally seated in a section with league executives and season ticket holders.

It was an overcast day and the air was cooler than Ciara had expected. She'd decided to bring the jacket because she wasn't certain when the game would end. Leaning into Brandt's warmth, she smiled up at him. “You're going to have to explain the game to me.”

Brandt lowered his head and kissed the end of her nose. “Didn't you have football at your high school?”

“The year before I went to high school the school board disbanded the team after a boy died after being tackled in practice. At first they thought he'd suffered a
concussion, but two days later he lapsed into a coma and was declared brain-dead. His parents signed the order to have him taken off life support and donated most of his organs. That left us with just basketball and baseball.”

“There are thirty-two teams, divided into the NFC and AFC, and each conference is divided into zones: east, north, south and west. Each team plays the other three teams in their division twice—once at home and once on the road.”

“How long is the season?” Ciara asked.

“Seventeen weeks, sixteen games.”

“That's not very long, Brandt.”

“Long enough to get your brain scrambled. I usually don't feel the pain when I'm playing, but the next day, depending on where I got hit, it's no joke. That's why I had the contractor include the sauna and steam room at my apartment. There's nothing like moist heat for aches and pain.”

Ciara listened intently when Brandt gave the background on the game, but it ended when the teams took the field. She watched the action on giant screens. Her image appeared on the screen with Brandt's and the stadium erupted in ear-shattering cheers. She sat, transfixed, when Brandt's name was announced and he rose, using the crutches for support, and waved to the crowd and the players. Their images lingered when he sat, draped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. It was as if the entire world knew she was with Brandt Wainwright.

Brandt kept up a continuous commentary, explaining each play, shouting at the top of his lungs when his team scored the first touchdown, then covering her mouth
with his, sucking the air from her lungs and leaving her struggling to breathe.

He loves this game.
The four words taunted her. Brandt loved football, and the million-dollar question was, would he ever play again? Her cell phone vibrated at the beginning of halftime. Ciara pulled it out of her jacket pocket, staring at the display. Sofia had sent her a text: saw Viking suck yur face on prime time. U go Chica. She tucked the tiny phone into her pocket. If Sofia had seen her so did millions of others. The image was frozen in time for posterity.

The second half started with Brandt's replacement getting sacked twice and throwing three incomplete passes. The hometown crowd booed and shouted obscenities. Epithets like
bum
and
loser
were chanted until the Giants moved the ball down the field and the placekicker kicked a field goal. The score seesawed back and forth, ending in a tie when the clock ran out.

“Let's leave now while we can,” Brandt said in Ciara's ear. “It's going into overtime.” Again, the cameras followed them as they left their seats, fans applauding. Smiling, he raised a hand in acknowledgment.

They made it to the parking lot, where Ibrahim waited for them. He took the crutches, storing them in the trunk after Brandt slipped onto the back seat next to Ciara. A loud roar went up in the stadium when the driver took his position behind the wheel. A rare smile parted Ibrahim's lips. “We won.”

 

Brandt sat up in bed, watching Ciara pace the width of the bedroom. She'd opened the casement windows
and cool air flowed into the space. “Are you coming to bed, or do you intend wear a hole in the rug?”

She stopped pacing, her hands in tight fists, and glared at him. “I can't believe they put that footage on the late news for the world to see.”

“It was just a kiss, Ciara. Why are you acting as if it was something more risqué? Besides, you're hardly recognizable.”

“My roommate recognized me, Brandt. She sent me a text saying she saw it.”

“That's because she knows I'm your patient.”

“Please, Brandt, don't try and minimize it. Nurses don't go to professional football games with their patients then kiss them in front of millions of viewers.”

He patted the mattress on his left. “Come here, baby. There's always a solution to every problem.” Brandt smiled when she approached the bed and climbed in beside him. He pulled her close until she lay over his chest. “If there's any talk, then we'll just say you're no longer my nurse. I'll call my mother and have her tell the agency she doesn't need your services any longer. Meanwhile she'll pay you directly.”

Ciara pondered Brandt's explanation. “Just what would I be to you?”

“You'd be my girlfriend.”

“Why does it sound so simple?” she asked.

“That's because it is. Don't move.” He reached for the cordless receiver on the bedside table. He dialed his parents' number, apologizing to Leona for waking her, then told his mother what he wanted her to do and why.

“Go to sleep, Brandt. I'll call them right now.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“There's no need to thank me. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for Ciara. And I want you to tell her that.”

“I will.”

“What did she say?” Ciara asked when he placed the receiver on the cradle.

“She said she's going to call them right now. And she told me to tell you that there's nothing she wouldn't do for you.”

Ciara smiled. She wanted to tell Brandt that it was nothing Leona wouldn't do for her son. The Wainwrights viewed her as a miracle worker, giving her credit for pulling Brandt out of his funk. It might have taken more time, but he eventually would have tired of wallowing in self-pity. Not only was Brandt a competitor, but he played to win.

“You can tell her thank you for me.”

Brandt tunneled his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“I was born ready.”

And he was ready to make love to her, but decided to put it off until they were out to sea. He had at least ten days to show Ciara how much he'd come to love her. Not only did he love her, but he was in love with her.

 

Victor Seabrook lay in bed, watching the late news. He went completely still when video footage of the football game flashed across the wall-mounted flat-screen. Talk about luck! He'd fired a P.I. because the man hadn't been able to come up with anything on Ciara Dennison and there she was, cuddling with Brandt
Wainwright at a football game at the newly built stadium for the world to see.

White-hot rage swept through him, making breathing difficult when he saw the ballplayer kiss Ciara.
“Bitch!”
The word slipped out, filled with venom Victor hadn't known he possessed. When she'd threatened to tell her boyfriend that he was stalking her, Victor never would've thought the man was the Giants' quarterback. That's why she'd turned down his offer of marriage. She was holding out for someone wealthier and with more visibility. Dr. Victor Seabrook was a celebrity doctor, but Brandt Wainwright, born into a real-estate dynasty, was a celebrity athlete and media superstar.

He'd waited two years to pay Ciara back for not appreciating what he'd done for her. He'd made her, provided her with what she needed to step into polite society with a minimum of effort. She'd met people who wouldn't have given her a cursory glance if she hadn't been on the arm of Dr. Victor Peter Seabrook.