Here I Am (5 page)

Ciara gave Leona a warm smile. “You're entitled, because that's what mothers do when there's something wrong with their children.”

Blinking back tears, the older woman managed a weak smile. “Even when that child is thirty-three?”

“Yes. Even if that child is fifty or sixty-three.”

Leona stared at the young woman sitting opposite her. “Do you have any children, Ciara?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Would you like to have children one day?”

“Perhaps one day,” Ciara confirmed, staring into her cup of tea.

She'd thought about having a child, but only if she met the right man. Unlike some women, she didn't want to be a single mother and raise a child by herself. Her parents had divorced the year she'd celebrated her tenth birthday, and not having her father in her life had had a negative affect on her relationships with men. Sometimes she hadn't chosen wisely, and when she did choose to commit to a long-term relationship it was for the wrong reason. At the time, Ciara had wanted to prove to her mother that not only could she get a man, but she could also keep him.

William Dennison was in and out of her mother's life so often that Ciara thought he'd worked for the CIA and that he'd had to go undercover for long periods of time. What she didn't learn until she was in her early teens was that her father was living a double life. Although married to Phyllis, he'd also married another woman. His job as regional manager for a major beverage company kept him on the road, so he was able to divide his time between two households with relative ease. Although a bigamist, William never fathered a child with his second wife.

“You're young, so you have time before you have to decide whether you want to have children.”

Leona's soft voice broke into her musings. Thirty-three wasn't that young, Ciara thought.

After wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Leona placed it on the countertop. “I think it's time I show you where everything is.”

They walked out of the kitchen, passed a laundry room and entered an area off the pantry. The elevator, large enough to accommodate four, was next to a wine cellar filled with bottles of wine too numerous to count. Ciara smothered a gasp when the elevator door opened to a wall of glass, running the length of the hallway and spanning the width of the penthouse.

Leona turned to her left. “This floor is still under construction. Brandt's private quarters have been completed, but the opposite wing is an open space. He said once he's married with children he'll have a contractor build several bedrooms and a nursery.”

Ciara was too enthralled by the sight of a rooftop solarium to respond. Palm trees and exotic flowers made the space seem like an oasis in the middle of Manhattan. She stared at the exotic orchids spilling out of baskets, a riot of color in hues ranging from the deepest purple to pure white.

“Who takes care of the plants?”

“Brandt,” Leona replied smiling.

“It appears he has quite the green thumb.”

Leona laughed. “He installed a programmable irrigation system similar to the ones in supermarket produce sections where a spray of water keeps everything hydrated. The exception is the cacti.”

Ciara smiled. Brandt's mother had unknowingly given her something she would use to motivate her
patient. If Brandt liked working with his plants, then it was something he could do while still using his wheelchair.

The atrium took up half the rooftop. The other half was open to the elements. Tables, chairs and love seats with weatherproof cushions were set up for dining and entertaining outdoors.

She didn't know what to expect when she walked into Brandt's private suite, but it wasn't a loft-like space with brick walls, aged plank floors, massive beams crisscrossing the ceiling, support columns and crystal chandeliers. A pair of French doors opened out onto the roof, which was filled with large potted palms and exotic plants. The style was bohemian yet elegant and masculine.

Ciara's shoes made soft swishing sounds on the polished wood floor as she walked beyond an area where a chessboard sat on a leather ottoman between straight-back upholstered chairs. She stood under the arched entryway, staring at a collection of swords mounted on a wall. Her eyes were drawn to one that looked very much like a samurai sword. Moving closer, she admired the intricate carving on the handle and scabbard.

“His bedroom is to your left,” Leona said behind her.

It was apparent that Brandt Wainwright was more complicated than Ciara thought. His apartment was a retreat high above the noisy city streets.

“Where did he get the columns and architectural cornices?” Ciara asked.

“My daughter works at a gallery dealing in architectural elements from old buildings. Some of the
columns come from Hollywood movie sets; the wooden arch support is from a cathedral in Montreal and the lion heads are from an old library.”

She and Leona retraced their steps, taking the wrought-iron spiral staircase instead of the elevator to the first floor.

A fully functional gym, home theater with a large, wall-mounted screen and an expansive living room made up the next floor. The library furnishings were unexpected for a professional athlete. There were no trophies or photos, framed newspaper articles or magazine covers. It appeared lived-in, a place were one came to read and relax. Espresso-colored leather chairs and a love seat, a massive antique mahogany desk and dark built-in bookcases completed the room.

Ciara stood at the window, staring down at the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching its way along FDR Drive. They looked like miniature cars from more than thirty stories above the street. “I'd better check on Brandt,” she said when Leona joined her at the window. “I have your numbers, so if there's any change in his condition I'll let you know.”

Leona smiled. “I know I'm leaving him in good hands.” She let out a soft sigh. “Now that you know where everything is, it's time I go home and make certain my household is still intact. I just want to remind you that the cleaning service is scheduled to come tomorrow, and the physical therapist will call to let you know when he's coming. However you plan to deal with Brandt…” Her words trailed off when Ciara gave her a look that spoke volumes. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't tell you how to do your job.”

“It's okay. I've had to deal with much more difficult patients than your son.”

Brandt Wainwright would probably yell, but Ciara doubted that she would have as hard a time handling him as some of her other patients.

She waited for Leona to leave and then went to see if Brandt was still asleep. Walking into his bedroom, she saw him lying on his back, arms above his head. At first she thought he was asleep, but as Ciara moved closer to the bed she realized he was staring up at the ceiling.

“How are you feeling?”

Brandt turned his head slowly. He'd tried to remember the timbre of Ciara Dennison's voice, but couldn't because of the drug that managed to not only dull the pain racking his body but also his brain. He didn't like taking it because it tended to impair his speech and ability to think. His eyelids fluttered as he fought against the dulling effects of the painkiller.

“Better.” He pointed at the armchair near the bed. “Please sit down and talk to me.”

Ciara complied, staring at the powerfully built, bearded man with the piercing blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes. “What do you want to talk about?”

A hint of a smile tilted the corners of Brandt's strong mouth. “Anything, as long as it keeps me awake.”

“Have you ever thought that perhaps you need to sleep?”

Brandt closed his eyes. “I slept enough when they doped me up in Asheville.”

“The term is sedated, not doped,” Ciara countered.

“You call it whatever you want, but it's still doping to me.”

Sitting up straight, she met his angry glare. “There's no need to get testy, Brandt.”

“And you don't have to be so prissy.”

Ciara could give as well as she could get but decided to swallow her response, realizing that going head-to-head with Brandt would end in a stalemate. “I'm willing to sit and talk. What I'm not going to put up with is you cursing at me. Save that language for the locker room.”

Brandt's eyes narrowed. “Don't tell me you're that prim and proper.” As soon as the words were off his tongue he realized he may have misread Ciara Dennison.

“What I am is none of your concern. What you should concern yourself with is taking a shower and washing your hair. After that I'll bring you something to eat.”

Brandt ran his fingers through his mussed hair. “I took a shower this morning, but I didn't get around to washing my hair, because there wasn't any shampoo in the bathroom. As for food, I don't want that stuff my mother left in the freezer.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“What's right with it?” Brandt asked. “It tastes like hospital food.”

Ciara looked away so he couldn't see her smiling. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes. I feel like I haven't eaten in days.”

“What do you want? Steak and potatoes?”

Brandt grinned at Ciara, revealing a set of beautiful
straight white teeth. “Steak and potatoes, Philly cheese-steak or sausage and peppers.”

“What are you, on some kind of bodybuilding diet?”

“Hell, yeah,” he drawled.

“I'm going to set up a swear jar, and every time you curse you'll have to put a dollar in it.”

Brandt crossed his arms over his chest. “And what do you intend to do with the contents?”

“Donate it to charity.”

“If that's the case, then I'll put a couple of thousand in it beforehand and cuss away.”

Ciara rolled her eyes at him. She'd dated a man who after one drink couldn't complete a sentence without using four-letter words. The alcohol lowered his inhibitions and loosened his tongue. After their second date she told him it wasn't going to work out between them.

“Just try and watch your language.” A long silence followed as they engaged in what had become a stare-down, neither willing to concede.

“I'll watch what I say if…”

“If what?” Ciara asked when he didn't finish his statement. She then realized he'd closed his eyes. “Brandt?”

“I'm not sleeping.”

“What are you doing?”

Brandt smiled. “I'm resting my eyelids.”

Ciara rose from the chair. “You rest your eyelids while I go and get some shampoo.” Maintaining his personal hygiene was essential to his emotional well-being. She didn't want to give herself kudos, but she was making progress with her patient; she'd gotten Brandt
to take his pain medication and he'd agreed to wash his hair. He'd also admitted to being hungry, and that meant he didn't intend to starve himself to death.

“You should find shampoo on a shelf in the pantry, and there're steaks in the freezer.” He opened his eyes. “You do know how to broil a steak?”

She'd just discovered who Brandt Wainwright was. He was a big dog with a big bark but with little or no bite. “I've broiled a few. How do you like yours cooked?”

“Medium-well.”

“Your mother gave me a tour of your place and I think it would be nice if you eat upstairs. It would do you good to get some fresh air.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, Brandt gave his nurse a long, penetrating stare. “Are you going to eat with me?”

“What?”

“‘What?'” he mimicked. “I asked if you were going to eat with me, Ciara Dennison, or is that not allowed in your book—sharing meals with your patients?”

“I don't have any hard-and-fast rules, just what is and isn't appropriate between a nurse and a patient. We're not in a hospital setting, so there's nothing wrong with me sharing a meal with my patient.”

Lying back down onto the mound of pillows cradling his shoulders, Brandt closed his eyes again. “Thank you.”

The seconds ticked as Ciara stared at the bearded man whose very size was intimidating enough without him raising his voice. If he'd thought he'd frighten her into leaving then he didn't know how stubborn she could be. Push and she would push back—harder. Yell and
she would yell even louder. Her only focus was making certain her patient received the best possible care.

“You're welcome.” The two words were barely off her tongue when soft snoring filled the room. He'd fallen asleep again. Ciara was glad. It would give her time to prepare dinner.

C
iara positioned the retractable nozzle so Brandt could reach it when sitting on the shower chair. She'd placed a towel around his waist before removing his underwear to provide him with a modicum of privacy. It didn't matter to her whether he was nude or fully clothed. She'd lost count of the number of naked bodies she'd seen in more than a decade of nursing. Some male patients were uncomfortable with female nurses. But even with more men going into the field, there were still too few nurses. She rechecked the Velcro fastenings on the plastic sheath covering his feet and casts, then handed Brandt a plastic squeeze bottle filled with shampoo.

She rested a hand on his shoulder. “I'll be in the bedroom. Call me when you're finished.”

Brandt covered her hand with his, increasing the pressure on her fingers when she tried pulling away.
“Aren't you going to help me wash my back?” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Ciara wrinkled her nose. “No. That's why I gave you a back brush.”

“Ah, come on.”

She couldn't help but smile. “You must really be feeling better.”

Attractive lines fanned out around Brandt's eyes when he returned her smile. “You think?”

“I think. Please let go of my hand. I have work to do.”

For reasons he could not fathom, Brandt didn't want to let her go. There was something about Ciara that intrigued him. Why, he pondered, did she wear clothes that definitely didn't flatter her figure? And what was up with the bun? The glasses were all right—at least they were stylish. But the rest of her was dowdy. It was as if his nurse had gone out of her way to make herself look frumpy.

He'd seen her smile a few times and the gesture made her look like an entirely different person. It softened her sensually curved, full lips and scrunched up her very cute little nose. Even without makeup her skin was flawless, giving the appearance of whipped chocolate cream. Brandt released her hand and shook his head. What difference did it make to him that his nurse looked as if she were auditioning for a role on
Little House on the Prairie?

“I'll call you when I'm finished.” Ciara had asked him whether he was feeling better. His head was better, but physically he wasn't. Every time he'd tried moving his legs he was reminded of his limited mobility. And
he'd decided after dispatching two nurses that he was going to try and cooperate with the third. He wanted to feel better, regain full use of his legs, and he wanted to play football again. Playing football was not only what he did, it had become his obsession.

 

Ciara changed the linen on Brandt's bed and adjusted the temperature level on the thermostat while she waited for him to finish in the bathroom. The temperature in the bedroom was sixty-two degrees. She'd positioned the ultra-thin, flat-screen television resting on a stand in the sitting area so that Brandt would be able to view it from the bed. Underwear, a pair of shorts and a T-shirt lay across the foot of the bed.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Brandt shouted from the bathroom.

She smiled. Under the mass of muscle was a grown-up boy whose only objective in life was to play ball. “Ready or not, here I come!”

Ciara entered the bathroom, reaching for two towels from the stack she'd left on the bench next to the bathtub. He sat on the shower chair; droplets of water had beaded up on his naked body. Water had turned his palomino-gold hair to a burnished shade.

Brandt tunneled his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. He went completely still when Ciara came up behind him and towel-dried his hair. The warmth from her body, the subtle fragrance of her perfume swept over him like a cool breeze. But instead of cooling him it generated a swath of heat that settled between his thighs, stirring his flaccid sex like a roused cat.

“Give me a towel!” The demand had come out harsher than he'd intended.

“Whatever happened to please,” she hissed in his ear. Ciara nearly slapped Brandt with the towel as she shoved it at him. Taking the other towel slung over her shoulder, she blotted the moisture from his neck and back.

He gritted his teeth as he covered his thighs in an attempt to conceal his growing erection. It hadn't been that long since he'd slept with a woman, so what was it about this woman that had him aroused?

“Please and thank you very much,” he drawled sarcastically.

“That's better.”

Brandt hoisted himself from the shower chair to the wheelchair after Ciara removed the plastic covering the casts. He suffered her light touch as she drew a damp cloth over and through his toes, dried them and followed with a light dusting of talc.

He met her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses, his gaze lingering on her delicate features. Her face was doll-like: round, wide-eyed, with delicate features. Brandt had overheard men talk about being attracted to the schoolteacher type. Even with her glasses and hair pulled back, Ciara didn't quite fit the category. Twenty-four hours ago he hadn't known Ciara Dennison existed. But he didn't have to have to be a rocket scientist to know that her dowdy style was a feeble attempt to minimize her femininity.

He smiled. “Thank you. I can take it from here.”

Ciara gave him a skeptical look. “Are you certain you don't need help getting dressed?”

Brandt nodded. “I'm certain.”

She plucked the wet towels off the floor, hanging them up to dry and prayed that Brandt hadn't noticed that her hands were shaking. What she had noticed was his erection, wondering whether it was spontaneous or if she had in some way aroused him.

When she'd worked at the hospital her colleagues would tease her relentlessly about wearing too-large tops. An incident with a male patient early in her nursing career had traumatized her to the point where she refused to wear anything that would reveal the outline of her upper body.

“I'm going to the kitchen to start dinner.” She'd marinated the steaks, prepared a salad. All that remained was microwaving the potatoes.

“Are we eating on the rooftop terrace?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Or would you prefer eating in the kitchen or dining room?”

“No. The rooftop will be nice.”

Brandt stared at Ciara's retreating figure. When it came to the opposite sex his radar never failed him. If he met a woman for the first time he was able to conclude after the first five minutes whether he'd wanted to see her again. If not, he knew right away. Ciara was in the former category rather than the latter. But his mother had hired her as his private nurse. She looked nothing like the women he usually dated, yet there was something about her that tugged at him. He wondered if she hadn't been his nurse if he would want to date her.

Releasing the brakes on the chair, he rolled it out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

Brandt sat across the table from Ciara in an area of the terrace where lengthening shadows offset the lingering heat of the summer sun. She'd prepared skirt steaks, baked potatoes and a summer salad of melon and feta with balsamic vinaigrette. Freshly squeezed lemonade made with sparkling lemon-lime-infused water was a refreshing alternative to water.

He pointed to the salad. “I can't believe you found all of this in the refrigerator.”

Ciara set down her goblet of lemonade. “I had to pick through the mixed baby greens to select the ones that were still fresh. You hadn't cut the melon, so it was still ripe.” She'd crumbled some feta cheese and added thinly sliced scallions.

“You're an incredible cook,” Brandt said, raising his goblet.

She raised her goblet in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

Brandt speared another forkful of salad, savoring the differing flavors and textures on his tongue. “I'd ordered groceries before driving down south, because I knew I wouldn't have time once mini-camp and preseason began.”

“Do you usually cook for yourself?”

Brandt nodded. “Not enough, even though I enjoy cooking.” He put up a hand. “Before you ask, I'll admit to watching cooking channels. I've learned to make Paula Deen's Southern fried chicken and Aaron McCargo Jr.'s stuffed pork chops.”

Leaning back in her chair, Ciara saw excitement light
up Brandt's eyes. It was apparent football, plants and samurai swords weren't Brandt's only interests. “What's your best dish?”

“Shrimp and grits. I'm still trying to perfect an authentic New Orleans po' boy.”

“Hey-y-y,” she crooned. “So you like Southern cuisine.”

“I love it. That's why I bought a place in North Carolina.”

Resting her arms on the table, Ciara leaned closer. “Why North Carolina?”

Brandt speared a slice of steak and popped it into his mouth, moaning under his breath. “Delicious. Why North Carolina?” he repeated. “I had a teammate who'd gotten into real estate with his brother-in-law. They gave me a prospectus of new homes and lodges going up around Lake Lure. It only took one visit to convince me to buy.”

“Where is Lake Lure?”

“It's near Chimney Rock, around twenty-five miles southeast of Asheville. The long-time locals told me the exterior shots in
Dirty Dancing
were filmed in Lake Lure.”

“I thought it was filmed in the Catskills,” Ciara admitted.

“I'd thought so, too. It's the same with
Last of the Mohicans
—it was also filmed in North Carolina.”

The topic segued from food to movies and music, Brandt confessing he had a fondness for movie sound-tracks. Ciara felt as if she'd escaped to another universe devoid of city noise and traffic. If it hadn't been for the sound of passing air traffic overhead she would've
forgotten she was sitting on a rooftop terrace in the middle of Manhattan.

The conversation came to an abrupt halt when Ciara's cell phone rang. Reaching into the pocket of her tunic, she stared at the display. It was Leona Wainwright. Excusing herself, she stood up and walked a short distance away so Brandt couldn't overhear her.

“Hello, Leona.”

“How is everything?”

Her gaze lingered on the choppy waters of the East River before shifting to the roofs of buildings with water towers and central and cooling units. “It's going well. We're eating dinner on the terrace.”

“He's eating?”

Ciara noted the surprise in Leona's voice. “I'm going to be honest with you. He doesn't like the frozen dinners you brought over.”

“Did you order in?”

“No. I cooked dinner.”

“I hadn't planned on you preparing meals for Brandt. Don't worry. I'll pay you separately for cooking for my son.”

“You don't have to, Leona.”

“Yes, I do. If I didn't pay you I'd have to pay someone else. And I don't want to get into another argument with Brandt. What matters is that he's eating. The next step is to convince him to start accepting visitors. The entire family traveled to North Carolina to see him, but he was so heavily sedated that he probably doesn't remember who was there. I don't expect you to become a miracle worker, Ciara. But please try and get him to change his mind.”

“I'll see what I can do,” she said, not willing to promise anything.

She wanted to tell Leona that she had to take it one day at a time. Tonight was the first time in weeks Brandt had gotten out of bed to eat, and she didn't want to force him into doing something he didn't want to do.

“Do you want to call me tomorrow, or should I call you, Ciara?”

“Let's make it every other day—unless something comes up. If Brandt is willing to accept visitors, then I'll call you. Right now I would recommend immediate family members and only one or two at a time. I don't want to be rude, but I'd like to get back to make certain Brandt finishes his dinner.”

“I'm sorry, darling. I didn't know I'd interrupted you,” Leona apologized. “I'll wait for your call.”

Ciara ended the call, slipping the tiny phone into the pocket of her smock. “Sorry about the interruption,” she said to Brandt as she sat back down.

Folding his arms over his chest, Brandt angled his head. “I'd like you to answer two questions for me.”

“Only two?” Ciara teased, smiling.

Brandt's impassive expression did not change. “For now.”

“What are they?”

“Why do you wear your clothes so baggy?”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “And what is the other question?”

“How do you maintain a normal love life when you sign up for an extended nursing assignment?”

“The second question is a lot easier to answer than the first. Right now I'm not seeing anyone.”

“But you do date?”

“Yes, I date, Brandt. Why are you asking?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe one of these days when I'm not in this chair I'd like to take you out for dinner to say thanks.”

“You want to date your nurse?”

“By that time you won't be my nurse. And it really won't be a date.”

Ciara stared at him in surprise, recalling his former hostility. “It wasn't that long ago that you ordered me out of your home and now you're talking about taking me out.”

“That's before I got to know you.”

“Know me or came to the realization that I'm not going anywhere?”

“Both.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't go out with you.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Okay, won't. I've made it a practice not to date celebrities.”

“Have you ever dated one?”

She wanted to tell Brandt to let it go, that he shouldn't take her response as a rejection. “Yes.”

“Who is he?”

“I can't tell you.” Ciara was more than surprised that he'd asked her something so personal. She was certain if she'd answered his question Brandt would recognize the name.

A slight frown creased Brandt's forehead. His curiosity about Ciara had just escalated. “Are you running away from him?”