Here I Am (9 page)

Brandt had made two telephone calls: to the store manager at Barneys and the other to a car service to reserve a car and driver for her. She hadn't been able to count on both hands and feet the number of times she'd stood on a corner—in the rain or snow—waiting to flag
down a passing taxi to either take her to work or back home. However, a single phone call placed by Brandt Wainwright, lasting less than a minute, had granted her door-to-door service. She entered the store, exchanging a smile with a well-dressed clerk with expertly coiffed streaked hair. It was impossible for Ciara to pinpoint her age; it was obvious the attractive woman had been nipped and tucked to perfection.

“Good afternoon. I'm Rebekah, and is there anything I can assist you with, Miss…?”

“Dennison,” Ciara said. “I need the de rigueur little black dress.”

Rebekah's eyebrows lifted a fraction. When the store manager told her Brandt Wainwright's girlfriend was coming into the store, she hadn't expected the tall, slender, bespectacled woman wearing jeans, a white tee and black leather mules. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

“Day or evening?” the saleswoman asked.

“It's evening. But it's going to be casual.”

“Please come with me, Miss Dennison. I believe I have something that will meet with your approval.”

Ciara nodded when she saw the black cotton asymmetric dress with a draped shoulder. It was not only simple, but elegant. It was perfect. Rebekah also had a good eye, because when she slipped the dress over Ciara's body it was as if it had been made for her, skimming her curves and ending at the knee.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she studied the back of the dress. “I'll take it.”

Rebekah pressed her palms together. There was
nothing better than a quick and easy sale. She pointed to Ciara's bare feet. “Do you need shoes?”

Ciara wiggled her toes, thankful there were no chips in the raspberry polish. “Yes.”

“How about peep-toe?” Rebekah asked, staring down at her groomed feet. “Your dress is simplistic chic, so your footwear can be just a little bit sexy.”

“How sexy are you talking about?”

“An almost five-inch stiletto sexy,” the saleswoman crooned.

Five-inch heels would put her at the six-foot mark. Whenever she'd gone out with Victor, she had been careful not to wear shoes in which she would tower above him. She hadn't been able to understand why, for all his brilliance, he'd had insecurities too numerous to count.

But it would be different with Brandt. He was six-five and she five-seven, and although they wouldn't be seen together publicly, just knowing he was taller was a comfort. “Please let me see what you're talking about.”

Minutes later Rebekah returned, dangling a black satin platform slingback with an origami bow at the peep-toe. Ciara recognized the shoe's designer because of the distinctive signature red leather sole.

“What do you think?”

Ciara's smile was dazzling. “Do you have them in five and a half?”

“I'm certain I do.”

The heels complemented the dress, while flattering her legs and feet. “I'll take the dress
and
the shoes.”

Rebekah's smile matched her client's. “I'll pack up everything for you.”

Less than forty minutes after walking through the doors of the Madison Avenue shop, Ciara walked out. The driver placed her purchases in the trunk after opening the rear door for his passenger.

Slumping against the leather seat, she closed her eyes. The style of Christian Louboutin stiletto she'd chosen was called Miss ChaCha. She wasn't going out dancing, but standing in as hostess to Brandt Wainwright when he entertained his family.

She knew her role and responsibilities were becoming more complex—unorthodox, yet it'd had a profound effect on her patient. Brandt was no longer the sullen, grumpy man who'd fired nurses, refused to eat or cooperate with his medication regimen. Getting him mentally ready in his recovery was as important as his walking again.

The driver maneuvered along the curb in front of the high-rise and the doorman came over to open the door. He took the garment and shopping bag from the driver, carrying them into the building for Ciara. He gave them to her before activating the elevator that would take her directly to the penthouse.

The doors opened and she came face-to-face with Brandt. She hadn't left until after he'd showered, changed his clothes and eaten lunch. “Hey, you,” she said, smiling.

Brandt returned her smile. “Hey. How was shopping?”

“Splendid.” Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she handed him the credit card. “Thanks.”

“Did you get everything you wanted?”

“Not everything.”

“What didn't you get?” Brandt asked.

“There was a diamond necklace in the window at Tiffany's that would've been the perfect accessory,” Ciara said, deadpan.

“Do you want me to call Tiffany's and have it delivered?”

Leaning over, Ciara kissed Brandt's clean-shaven cheek. “I'm joking.”

His eyes met hers, darkening with an emotion that frightened him in its intensity. Brandt wanted his nurse in the most intimate way possible, and he'd spent the time waiting for her to return, cursing the turn of events that wouldn't permit him to move about without the aid of the wheelchair.

He'd made love to women, yet none had turned him on as Ciara Dennison had done with her impromptu lap dance. And he was certain she was as shocked by the act as he'd been. Not only had it been spontaneous, but the result had been explosive. He'd relived everything that had occurred when sitting on the chair in the shower, and his body had betrayed him for the second time that day.

Fortunately for him, Ciara hadn't been there to hear the curses when he struggled not to take care of his own sexual needs. Once he'd adjusted the water temperature to ice-cold and finished his rant, he was back in control.

“I wasn't joking. I don't remember giving you a spending limit, so you could've bought whatever you wanted.”

Ciara felt a shiver race up her back when she met Brandt's penetrating stare. She didn't know what had possessed her to tease him, but apparently it had backfired, because he was serious about her buying anything she wanted. She knew women who would've taken him up on his offer, all the while scheming to take as much from him as they could get. However, she wasn't one of those women. In the past she'd become another wealthy man's darling and she had no intention of it happening again. Even if Brandt Wainwright hadn't become a celebrity athlete he still would be a wealthy man.

She pulled back. “I bought what I needed.”

“Are you going to show me what you bought?”

“No.”

“No?”

Ciara almost laughed at the shocked expression on his handsome face. “You'll see it later.” Stepping out of his reach, she walked through the entryway and great room to the hallway that led to her bedroom. “See you later, baby,” she called over her shoulder.

A
chef, sous chef and waiter arrived at the penthouse a half hour before the Wainwrights were scheduled to arrive. When Brandt had informed Ciara that his friend owned a restaurant, she'd believed he would order takeout, not have everything prepared on site.

She'd assisted Brandt in getting into a pair of Dockers men's shorts and into the removable casts before retreating to her bedroom to dress. He'd remained upbeat, his attitude a lot more positive once the removable ski-boot casts had replaced the heavier plaster ones. He was now able to shower without plastic sheaths, but she still had to dry his legs and feet and help him into his underwear and shorts. It would be another three weeks before he would be permitted to use a pair of crutches.

Ciara glanced at her watch, grimacing. She had less than fifteen minutes to dress, make up her face and style
her hair before the Wainwrights arrived. Removing her glasses, she deftly inserted a pair of contact lenses. She didn't know why she didn't wear the lenses every day, because they improved her vision appreciably.

She slipped into the dress, pulled up the side zipper, then sat down at the vanity in the bathroom to apply a smoky shadow to her lids and a lighter shade under her brow and a coat of mascara to her lashes, followed by a light dusting of powder bronzer to her face; a plum-tinted lip gloss added color to her mouth. Freeing her hair from the confines of the elastic band, Ciara brushed it until it was smooth, then deftly fashioned it into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. It wasn't the bun Brandt had complained about, but an elegant variation on the staid style.

Leaving the en suite bath, she walked into the bedroom at the same time there came a light tapping on the door connecting the bedrooms. “Yes, Brandt,” she called out, sitting on a chair and slipping her bare feet into the slingback stilettos.

“May I come in?”

She stood up. “Yes.”

The door opened and Brandt rolled the chair into the room. Ciara was hard-pressed not to laugh when she saw his expression. He was so still he could've been carved from stone. The only thing that moved were his eyes as they went from her head and slowly downward to her legs and feet. The very air in the room seemed charged with electricity as their gazes met and fused.

She felt the familiar sensation that had precipitated her giving Brandt the lap dance. Closing her eyes, she counted slowly to ten while breathing through parted
lips. She had to think of anything but what she wanted to experience again with the man sitting in the wheelchair. Ciara was at odds with herself, because whenever she helped Brandt with his grooming, her touch was impersonal. Nude, he was her patient. Clothed, she wanted to make love to him.

Brandt felt a lump rising in his throat, not permitting him to swallow or speak. He'd tried imagining and fantasizing what his nurse would look like under her unflattering outfits, and he hadn't come remotely close. Seeing her without the glasses made him aware of the exotic shape of her soft brown eyes. His gaze lingered on her mouth—a sweet, sexy mouth he wanted to taste over and over until gorged.

His gaze moved down to the black dress that fit her slender, curvy body as if it had been tailored expressly for her. It was when he stared at her long, shapely legs and slender feet in the black stilettos that he was glad to be sitting, because he doubted whether his knees would've held him upright. Not only was Ciara hot. She was downright sexy!

“What I wouldn't give to be able to stand and walk right now.” His desire for her had slipped out un-bidden.

Ciara came closer, smiling. “Don't rush it, sport. You'll be walking before you know it.”

The lump in his throat fell to his stomach like a stone. She didn't know how much he wanted to be able to get out of his wheelchair, wanted to pick her up and carry her to his bed, wanted to be inside her and make love to her until he passed out from ecstasy or exhaustion—whichever came first.

“You look so beautiful.”

Ciara felt a rush of heat in her face from the compliment. “Thank you.”

Brandt winked at her. “There's no need to thank me for something I have nothing to do with. I just got a call from the lobby. My parents and sister are on their way up.”

She gestured to the door. “Let's not keep them waiting.”

Opening the door, Brandt permitted Ciara to precede him, then followed. There was something to be said for
ladies
first, because it gave him the opportunity to stare at her long legs in the sexy heels. She slowed her pace, falling back to walk alongside of him in the wide hallway.

“Are you all right?”

He gave her sideling glance. “Yes. Why?”

“You're breathing heavier.”

Brandt stopped. “You can hear my breathing?”

Ciara patted his shoulder. His light blue cotton golf shirt was an exact match for his luminous eyes. “It's my eyes that are less than perfect, not my hearing. My mother used to tease me, saying I must be part bat because of my acute hearing. Now what's up with the increase in respiration?”

“Maybe I'm looking forward to hanging out with my family.” Ciara gave him a look that said she didn't believe him. He'd told only half the truth. He was looking forward to seeing his siblings again—his sister in particular. The real reason for the increase in his heart rate was he'd found his body unwilling to follow the dictates of his brain when it came to his sexy nurse.

It had become his custom since he was drafted into the NFL not to become too involved with women from early August until January. Those five months were what he called his dating merry-go-round—he would see a woman, and take her to dinner or a social event, but would not necessarily sleep with her. His focus was staying in top condition and being mentally prepared for every game. It was now mid-August, and although he wasn't physically playing the game, his head was stuck in the off-season.

A soft chime indicated the elevator had arrived. Brandt maneuvered through the living and great rooms to see Fraser, Leona and Clarissa exiting the car. A flash of humor crossed his face. His sister looked as if she'd gained a few pounds, but it was still not enough for her not to appear emaciated.

He extended his arms. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Clarissa Wainwright leaned over and pressed a kiss to her brother's cheek. “Your girlfriend is beautiful,” she whispered in his ear.

Brandt smothered a laugh. Clarissa was under the assumption that Ciara was his girlfriend. Nothing was further from the truth even though a part of him had wanted it to be true. “I'd like to introduce my nurse and hostess for this evening.” Reaching for Ciara's hand, he cradled it in his larger one. “This is my dad, Fraser Wainwright, and my sister, Clarissa. Dad, Rissa, this is Ciara Dennison. Of course you know my mother.”

Leona exhaled an audible gasp when she stared at the woman standing behind her son's wheelchair.
“Good gracious! I didn't recognize you,” she gushed, blushing.

Ciara smiled at the tall man with cropped silver hair and soulful blue eyes, knowing what Brandt would look like in another twenty-five years. Father and son had the same lean face and cleft chin. Although the older Wainwright didn't have the muscled bulk of his son, she assumed he either worked out regularly or was very fortunate to have avoided the middle-age paunch. Leona was exquisite in a raw silk lime-green pantsuit and Gucci pumps, while her daughter's all-black attire made her appear pale and very, very thin. Wavy, pale hair fell around her narrow face.

“It's nice meeting you, Mr. Wainwright, Clarissa.”

Fraser Wainwright nodded. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Dennison. My wife has been singing your praises, saying you're something of a miracle worker. And I have to agree with her when I see Brandt up and getting around.”

Clarissa, resting a hand on Brandt's shoulder, angled her head. “And I'm going to agree with Mother and Dad, because the last time I saw Brandt he was—shall we say—a little messed up.”

Ciara gave Brandt's sister a forced smile. She wondered if the Wainwrights were aware of the severity of Brandt's injuries. If it hadn't been for the seat belt and air bag, Brandt would have been more than messed up. He would've died. Bruises, scrapes and broken bones healed, but once an accident report documented time of death, then the family would be faced with the task of making preparations for a funeral.

“Brandt is progressing very well,” she said in a quiet
voice. “Give him another few weeks and he will no longer need the wheelchair.”

Brandt let go of Ciara's hand. “Dad, please take off your tie and jacket. Tonight we're going to kick back and relax.”

Fraser shot his wife an I told you so look. “That sounds good to me.”

Leona ignored her husband's glare. “Garth called to say he was picking up Sumner, and they should be here before eight.”

Ciara glanced at her watch. They had a forty-five-minute wait before the other family members arrived. “It would be nice to have cocktails in the solarium.”

Smiling, Leona pressed her palms together. “What a wonderful idea.”

Brandt winked at Ciara. “Please tell the waiter to see me before you go up with the others. Don't worry about me. I'll take the elevator,” he teased with a wide grin.

Ciara wanted to tell him that she, too, planned to take the elevator, because she wasn't about to try and navigate the winding staircase in a pair of heels that were just shy of five inches.

“I'm going to hang around down here until Sumner and Garth show up,” Clarissa said. “I also want to check out the menu.”

Maneuvering the chair in the direction of the living room, Brandt motioned with his head. “Follow me, Rissa.” He waited until they were out of earshot of the others, and then slowed the chair. “What's up?” he asked his sister.

“May I help you with something, Mr. Wainwright?” The waiter had appeared as if out of thin air.

Brandt told the man he wanted him to serve cocktails from the built-in bar in the solarium, waiting until he walked away before returning his attention to Clarissa. “Do you want to tell me why you didn't want to join the others?”

“Let's go to your office,” Clarissa suggested.

He nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you want me to push you?”

“No. Wheelie and I are in perfect synch. Watch this.” Brandt executed a one-eighty spin.

Clarissa shook her head, smiling. “Show-off.”

“If you've got it, then why not flaunt it?”

Brandt had sobered by the time his sister preceded him into the library. He closed the door. “Now, do you want to tell me what's so secret you don't want the others to hear?”

Sinking down to a leather love seat, Clarissa stared at the toes of her ballet flats. “Harper has been blowing up my cell.”

Clasping his hands together, Brandt leaned forward in the chair. “Have you been answering the calls?”

“No. But I want to tell him to stop. I've thought about changing my number, but there are too many people who have it.”

“Have you thought about blocking his number?”

“I'd given it a thought.”

“What's there not to think about? Block his number, and if he continues to bother you, then call me.”

Clarissa's eyelids fluttered as she tried bringing her fragile emotions under control. “I'm telling you because I don't want you to get involved.”

“Then why did you tell me? Either I get involved or
you can go to the police and have them charge him with harassment.”

“I don't want to embarrass his parents,” she argued.

Brandt shook his head in exasperation. He'd never known his sister to be so indecisive. “Either you embarrass him
and
his family, or let him continue to bother you. Make up your mind, Rissa.”

Tunneling her fingers through her hair, Clarissa held it off her face. “I'm so confused.”

“Why? Are you still in love with him?”

She worried her lip between her teeth. “It's not easy to get over a ten-year relationship like striking a letter on a keyboard. Do I still having feelings for him? Yes. Am I in love with him? I don't think so.”

“Why do you think he wants to talk to you?” Brandt asked.

“It's probably to ask me to give him another chance.”

He wanted to tell his sister
hell no,
that she shouldn't give Harper Sinclair the time of day, that his need to control her wasn't going to change. He suspected Harper had cheated on Clarissa during the decade-long relationship. But Brandt had managed to remain uninvolved.

“Whatever you decide, the decision has to be yours. I'll stay out of it, Rissa, until—”

Eyes narrowing, Clarissa stared at her brother. She wanted to ask him
until what,
but was afraid to hear the answer, knowing it would result in an injury—to Harper. She'd come to Brandt only because he was the most levelheaded of her three brothers. Despite having a career in one of the most violent sports, Brandt
Wainwright was a teddy bear off the gridiron. Sumner and Garth were different—especially Sumner.

“I'll block his calls.”

Brandt patted her arm. “Good girl.”

“Enough about me,” Clarissa said, her mood brightening. “You look much better than you did when I saw you in the hospital.”

“That's because I'm feeling much better.”

“She's good for you, isn't she?”

A beat passed as Brandt gave Clarissa a level stare. “Who are you talking about?”

“Your…
nurse.
”

“What are you trying to say, Rissa? That she isn't my nurse?”

“There's no need to get defensive, big brother. All I'm saying is that…” Her words trailed off with the distinctive buzz from the intercom. “I'll get that.” Rising from the love seat, Clarissa punched the button on the wall panel, activating the speaker feature. “Wainwright residence, this is Clarissa.”