Here I Am (6 page)

“No. Why would you say that?”

“I…I don't know. Forgive me for being intrusive?”

Ciara flashed a sexy moue. “I'll think about it.”

“Don't think too long, Nurse Dennison.”

“I thought it was going to be Ciara and Brandt.”

“Oops. My bad.”

She shook her head in amazement. “I'll accept the ‘my bad,' but you are much too big for anything resembling ‘oops' to come out of your mouth.”

Throwing back his head, Brandt laughed. The sound came from deep within his chest and bubbled up like rolling thunder. A moment later her laughter joined his, both laughing until tears rolled down their cheeks. Without warning, he sobered, staring at her.

Ciara stopped laughing, and as their eyes met she felt a shiver run through her when Brandt rolled the chair close to where she felt the warmth of his breath on her face. “What are you doing?” The query was a breathless whisper.

Resting an arm over the back of her chair, Brandt pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making me laugh.”

Ciara felt his nearness stirring and disturbing. Brandt Wainwright was too large, too masculine and much too attractive a man to ignore completely. “I'm glad I can make you laugh.”

Brandt came closer without moving. “And I'm glad you're here.”

“Does this mean you're going to do whatever I tell you to do?”

He smiled. “It all depends.”

“It depends on what?” she asked.

“It depends on how I feel when I wake up. If I'm going to be in a bad mood, then I doubt I'll be that cooperative. But if I wake up in a good mood then you can have your way with me.”

“The only one who will have their way with you will be your physical therapist,” Ciara countered.

“Damn, you really know how to kill the mood.”

“The mood?” she responded.

“I'd like to think it is. It's been a long time since I've shared the rooftop with a woman—a woman who's hiding behind a baggy top and an old-lady hairdo.”

“You forgot the glasses.”

Brandt ran a forefinger over her cheekbone. “No, I didn't. The glasses are all right. Even no makeup is cool but the rest….”

Ciara stared, momentarily shocked by his bluntness. “No, you didn't….”

“Yes, I did, Ciara Dennison. There's no doubt you're an incredible nurse but—”

“But what?” she retorted, angrily.

Running a large hand over his face, Brandt tried to gather his thoughts. He had put his foot in his mouth and he had to find a way to extricate it without embarrassing himself or insulting Ciara any more than he had.

“I'm sorry. Forget it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I'll accept your apology, but there's no way in hell I'm going to forget what you've just said.”

He held out his hand. “Pay up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You cussed. You owe the jar a dollar.”

“The jar is for you, not me.”

“Wrong. If I have to make a concerted effort not to cuss, then the same goes for you.” He angled his head. “Now pay up, or the deal is off and I will really let loose.”

Ciara didn't give Brandt a chance to react when she pressed her lips to his, caressing his strong mouth. The kiss ended as quickly as it'd begun. “I think that's worth more than a dollar.”

Brandt was too stunned to reply or react. He sat motionless, watching as Ciara picked up her plate. “Don't start something you can't finish,” he warned softly, recovering his voice.

“And what exactly are you going to do sitting in that chair?” she challenged.

There was enough sassiness in her voice to pique his competitiveness. After all, he was a pro ballplayer, always ready and willing to take on any challenger.

“Come over here and I'll show you what I can do.”

Ciara blew him a kiss, crooning, “Some other time, cowboy. I don't want you to do anything that would compromise your recovery.” She began stacking plates, glassware and serving bowls on the serving cart.

“What I propose will not in way compromise my recovery.”

“Slow it down, Superman. There will be plenty of time for that once the casts are off and you regain full use of your legs.”

A smile spread over Brandt's face as he watched the confident fluidity in Ciara's movements. Everything
about her radiated self-assuredness, as if she was certain of her rightful place in the world. “Will you indulge once I regain full use of my legs?”

Ciara hands did not falter when she placed glassware on the second shelf of the cart. Brandt was asking whether she would permit him to make love to her. There was no way she was going to date another celebrity after what she'd gone through with Victor.

“No.”

“No?” Brandt repeated.

Her hands stilled, she glaring at him. “What part of no don't you understand? No, Brandt Wainwright.”

“Is it because I am Brandt Wainwright?”

“No. It's because you're a celebrity athlete, and you can't go anywhere without cameras following you. Every aspect of what you say and do is for public consumption.”

“And if I weren't what you call a celebrity athlete?”

Ciara wanted to tell Brandt that she'd never dated blonds and in particular blond jocks with inflated egos but decided not to go there. “I'd have to think about it.”

While Ciara was thinking about it, Brandt decided to do something about it. He wouldn't put undue pressure on her because that wasn't his style when it came to women. He'd discovered his nurse was someone who intrigued him. Her appearance belied her lively personality. He hadn't expected her to kiss him. He'd enjoyed the kiss, as brief as it was, and wanted to experience it again.

“I'll accept that.”
For now,
he added silently.

Brandt maneuvered his chair behind Ciara as she
pushed the serving cart down the hallway to the elevator and kitchen. Sitting in the wheelchair, he stacked dishes, glasses, utensils and serving pieces in the dishwasher after she'd rinsed them in the sink. Working together, they made quick work of cleaning up the kitchen.

She pushed him out of the kitchen and back to the bedroom. “After I take your blood pressure, temperature and check your heart and lungs, I'm going to give you your medication.”

Opening his mouth to protest, Brandt closed it quickly. He knew he had to cooperate with his nurse if he wanted to win her over. “I'd rather not take the pain pill until later.”

“Okay.”

Ciara stared at the thick, pale strands covering Brandt's head as he pushed himself off the chair and onto the bed. He didn't protest when she assisted him out of his shorts, leaving a pair of briefs and a T-shirt. She adjusted the foot of the bed until his legs were slightly elevated, and then the pillows cradling his back and head.

“Can you please give me the remote? The Mets are playing the Rockies in Colorado.”

Although she wasn't into sports, Ciara knew baseball games ran an average of two and a half to three hours. That meant the game wouldn't probably end until after midnight. She handed him the remote. “Do you think you're going to get enough sleep, because I'm going to get you up at six in the morning.”

“I'll be all right,” Brandt said, hoping to reassure his nurse that he was consciously ready to begin what
he knew would become a difficult regimen of physical therapy.

“I'll bring you your pain pill at eleven.”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Eleven, Brandt,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “The time is non-negotiable.”

He gave her a snappy salute as she turned and walked out of the bedroom. “Aye, aye, ma'am.”

Ciara had insisted on eleven because she needed to get at least six hours of sleep to be alert. Anything less would put her and her patient at risk of her making a mistake that could prove costly.

She returned with a small case containing a digital thermometer, electronic sphygmomanometer and stethoscope. In addition to his pain medication, Brandt's doctor had also prescribed a multivitamin, an iron supplement and a blood thinner to reduce the possibility of blood clots brought on by his immobility. Any abnormalities were to be reported immediately

Her patient appeared oblivious to what she was doing because his attention was focused on the television screen. He seemed enraptured by the pre-game commentary as she handed him a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table and then a pill until he'd taken all of them.

“Can you please adjust the air conditioning?” Brandt asked without pulling his gaze from the screen. “It's too hot in here.”

Ciara did his bidding, left the bedroom and walked in the adjoining one. She half closed the connecting door. For the next hour or two she would shower, read, give
Brandt his pain medication, then settle down to sleep for the night.

She wanted to forget that she'd kissed Brandt. What she couldn't forget was how pleasurable it had felt. He'd kissed her cheek and she'd kissed his mouth. She and Brandt hadn't known each other twenty-four hours, yet they'd crossed the line between nurse and patient.

B
randt woke, unaware of time, day or place. The tightly woven shades covering the windows were raised and sunlight had inched its way over the parquet floor. It had been the first restful night's sleep since he'd come home from the hospital. What he had recognized immediately was the fragrance wafting in his nostrils.

“What's the score?”

Ciara lowered the rails to the bed. “I don't know.” Brandt had fallen asleep with the television on and when she'd come into the bedroom the image of an infomercial spokesperson had been flickering across the screen.

Pushing himself into sitting position, he stared at Ciara. There was something about her that was different this morning. A knowing smile tilted the corners of his mouth. It was her hair. A ponytail had replaced the unattractive bun.

“I like what you've done with your—” His compliment
was preempted when she placed the thermometer under his tongue.

Ciara stared at Brandt watching her like a predator contemplating his next meal. “I got a text on my cell that the therapist will be here at nine. That means you'll have to shower and eat before he arrives.” He nodded as she took his blood pressure, checked his vitals, writing down the results that she would later transfer to her laptop and subsequently forward to Brandt's doctor's office for an update.

He'd noticed something else about Ciara this morning. She was all business. “Everything okay?” he asked when she put her medical equipment away in the canvas bag.

“Your lungs are clear and all of your vitals are within the normal range. I'll wait until after you've eaten to give you your vitamins and blood thinner. I won't give you anything for pain until after your therapy session.”

“I'm going to try and do without it today.”

Ciara met his steady gaze. “You don't have to be a martyr, Brandt.”

He scratched the growth on his chin. “I don't want to become dependent on them.”

“I'll make certain you won't become dependent.”

Brandt continued to scratch his bearded face. “I think it's time I shave this stuff off my face. It's itching like hell.” Ciara's eyebrows shot up. “I know. I'll pay up later.”

“I have everything set up for you in the bathroom except your shaving stuff.”

Brandt threw back the sheets and, using the strength in his upper body, managed to swing his legs over the
side of the bed, wincing from the effort. “There's a razor and shaving cream in a drawer under the vanity. Please bring the chair closer.”

It was as if whatever had passed between them the day before hadn't happened at all. He was the patient and Ciara Dennison was the nurse Leona Wainwright had hired for his long recuperation.

Maybe, Brandt mused, he'd come on too strong when he'd pressed Ciara about going out with him. Was he beginning to believe his own hype because he was a Super Bowl MVP? Was it because he'd had the highest quarterback rating for two consecutive seasons? Or was it because women threw themselves at him that he'd believed any woman should be grateful he'd shown them some attention?

It was apparent Ciara was different—in appearance and in temperament—from the other women he'd gone out with. That was something he would make certain to remember in the coming weeks and months.

 

The women from the cleaning service arrived minutes after the therapist, who wheeled Brandt into his home gym for his first session. Ciara retreated to the solarium to wait. She'd stripped the beds and stored the linens in hampers in the laundry room.

She made a mental note not to have the therapist and cleaning service come in on the same day. There was just too much activity. The sound of vacuuming and people going in and coming out of rooms had upset the calm Brandt needed for his rehabilitation.

Reaching for her cell, she dialed her roommate's
number. “Did I wake you?” she said when hearing her greeting.

“No. I just came in from jogging.”

“Since when did you start jogging?” Ciara asked Sofia Martinez.

“Since Bobby invited me to go with him on his morning run.”

“You're dating your boss?”

“He's not really my boss,
chica.
His father is my boss. Bobby and I are coworkers.”

“Sure. And I plan to join the circus next week,” she teased.

“Enough about me,
chica.
You left me a text saying you didn't know when you'd be home. What's up?”

Although she and Sofia were roommates, they rarely saw each other. Whenever Ciara had a private nursing assignment, she usually left a text on Sofia's cell telling her she would be away for several days, or even a week or two. Sofia, who owned the two-bedroom co-op, worked as a chef in a popular Washington Heights restaurant and worked different shifts. There were times when she went in early for the breakfast and lunch crowd, and other times when she worked late for dinner and private parties.

“I have an assignment that will last about six to eight weeks.”

“I hope you're going to find someone to fill in for you for my brother's surprise birthday party.”

Ciara nodded even though Sofia couldn't see her. She'd committed to helping Sofia coordinate Esteban's fortieth birthday celebration scheduled for the Labor Day weekend. “I'll make certain someone will cover for
me.” If she couldn't get another nurse, then she would ask Leona to spend the night with Brandt.

“How is your patient?”

“That's why I called you.” She told her friend about her initial meeting and confrontation with Brandt, that she'd acted inappropriately when she kissed him and his wanting to date her even though he'd said she looked dowdy.

There was only the sound of soft breathing coming through the earpiece. “I suppose he was referring to your maternity top and bun.”

Ciara rolled her eyes. “You don't have to agree with him.”

“I'm not calling you dowdy, but you need to start wearing uniforms that fit your body. Whether you realize it or not, you've allowed one ugly incident to determine how you dress. Aren't you the one who's always preaching about not letting anyone control your life? Isn't that why you stopped seeing Victor Seabrook?”

“You're right, Sofia.”

“If I'm right, then do something about it. Now, back to your patient. Do you like him?”

“This is not about liking or not liking him, Sofia. I haven't known Brandt Wainwright twenty-four hours and—”

“And what, Ciara? You don't have to know someone twenty-four hours to know there's
fuego
between you. I'm online and I just Googled Brandt Wainwright, and judging from the pictures of him and other women, none of them are featuring maternity tops and buns. Wait a minute. There's a close-up of him and I must
say
el hombre es muy guapo.
What do you have to lose by going out with him? Maybe after one date you'll realize you don't want to see him anymore. And poof! It's over.”

She smiled. Sofia often used Spanglish when she was excited. The chef was right about Brandt being gorgeous. She'd found herself staring at him like a starstruck teen after he'd shaved. He had a strong, masculine jawline and the slight cleft in his chin was incredibly sexy.

“Maybe I'm just overreacting.”

“You're probably overreacting because you've been in a sexual drought.”

“It's not about sex!”

“
¡Párelo!
Stop it,” Sofia translated in the same breath. “It's always about sex, Ciara. If it wasn't, then the human race as we know it would cease to exist. Remember, his mother hired you, so that makes a big difference if you're going to start with ‘I can't get involved with my patient because it wouldn't be ethical.' You may be his nurse, but you're also his companion. Flirt and tease him a little bit. I'm certain that will pull him out of his doldrums. And it's not as if he can chase you around the bedroom in a wheelchair.”

Ciara knew she was good for Brandt. She'd made him laugh, eat and take his medication. What she had to figure out was whether he was good for her. Could she afford a dalliance with the superstar athlete behind closed doors? And once he was able to walk, could she walk away emotionally unscathed?

“I'm going to play it by ear,” she told Sofia.

“That's my girl. Always leave your options open. Be sure to text me with updates.”

“Okay. Thanks for lending an ear.”

“
Siempre. Recuerde,
we're
chicas.
”

Ciara smiled. “How can I forget?”

“Because I won't let you. I have to get into the shower. I'm working the lunch shift today. Later.”

She ended the call, feeling less anxious than she had before talking to Sofia. Invariably Ciara could count on her friend to give her another perspective on any situation and vice versa. She'd been there for Sofia when she'd ended her short-lived marriage after she'd discovered her husband was sleeping with another woman, and Sofia had been there for her when she ended her relationship with Victor Seabrook. They didn't need to see a therapist to work through their problems. They had each other.

Checking her watch, Ciara estimated Brandt's therapy session would end in another ten minutes. She left the solarium and took the staircase to the first floor. The sound of the intercom chimed throughout the penthouse. Pressing a button on the panel in the living room, she answered the call.

“This is the lobby. Mr. Jordan Wainwright is on his way up.”

Ciara hesitated. “Please send him up.”

She wasn't about to get embroiled in a family feud, so if Brandt didn't want to see his relative, then let him tell him to his face. She waited in the entryway when the doors to the elevator opened and Jordan Wainwright exited. Living in Harlem, she'd read about the attorney who'd become something of a champion for the poor. But seeing him up close was breathtaking. She stared at the tall, slender man with patrician features, brilliant hazel eyes and a sun-browned face. Everything about
him reeked of elegance and sophistication, from his short-cropped black hair to his tailored suit and Italian shoes. It was obvious he was spoken for when she spied the wedding band on his left hand.

Smiling, Ciara extended her hand. “I'm Ciara Dennison, Brandt's nurse.”

Jordan returned her smile, attractive lines fanning out around his eyes, and took her hand. “My pleasure. I'm Jordan. Brandt's cousin. Is he around?”

“He's with the physical therapist right now. Please come in and sit down.”

Jordan followed Ciara into the living room, waiting until she sat before easing down on a matching chair. “I've been out of the country on my honeymoon, so I was unaware that Brandt had been in an accident until a couple of days ago. My aunt mentioned that Brandt has refused to see anyone, so I decided to come over and check in on him.”

“It's difficult for Brandt to accept that he won't be able to stand on his own without crutches or a cane for at least six to eight weeks.”

Nodding, Jordan crossed his legs. “My cousin has had bumps and bruises, but he's never experienced any serious injuries. He's also extremely competitive. Not once did he ever let me win, whether it was baseball, basketball or football. I've beaten him in tennis only because I'm faster on the court than he is. But he does have an awesome serve.”

“Even with two broken legs, he's still in quite good physical shape,” Ciara concurred.

Jordan wanted to ask the nurse if she was speaking of Brandt as his nurse or a woman admiring his body.
“Brandt works out a minimum of two to three hours a day, even during off-season.”

Ciara stood up when she heard Brandt's voice raised in anger. Moving quickly, she met the therapist as he followed Brandt who was maneuvering his chair as if he were in a race. She stood in front of him, stopping his progress. “What's going on?”

A redness flooded the therapist's neck spreading to his thinning hairline. “I may have pushed him too hard for his first session.”

“May have!” she shouted. “Either you did or you didn't. If you'd read his medical history then you would've been known that my patient has titanium rods and nails in his tibia. Five screws were used to secure it in place, and that the fibula in his left leg was left unaffixed, but will align and heal itself in due time. The key phrase, Mr. Lambert, is in due time!”

“I'm…I'm sorry, Miss Dennison,” the flustered man sputtered. “I'd thought with Mr. Wainwright's conditioning he would do well with a more aggressive treatment plan.”

Ciara narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe in two or three weeks.” She waved her hand.

“I need to take his vitals.”

“I'll take them,” she responded.

“But…but I need them for my report,” the therapist stuttered.

“I have your number. I'll call you, or leave a message on your voice mail.” She turned to Jordan. “Can you please escort Mr. Lambert to the elevator?”

Jordan motioned with his head. “I think it best you leave now.”

Ciara grasped the handles to the wheelchair and pushed Brandt out of the living room and down the hallway to his bedroom. One glance at his face told her all she needed to know. He was in pain—intense pain. He'd clamped his teeth tightly together and his face was covered in perspiration.

She was struggling to get him into bed when Jordan walked in. “He usually gets into and out of bed by himself.”

Slipping out of his suit jacket, Jordan tossed it on a nearby chair. Anchoring his arms under Brandt's shoulders, he lifted him from the chair and onto the bed. “Come on, cuz. Help me out here.” Brandt's two hundred and fifty-plus pounds had become dead weight.

Bracing a hand on the mattress, Brandt shifted until he found a comfortable position. The F-bomb slipped past his lips when stabbing pain shot through his left leg. His eyes met Ciara's. “Sorry.”