Here I Am (7 page)

She smiled. “I'll give you that one.” Reaching for the pitcher of water on the bedside table, Ciara filled a plastic cup from a supply wrapped in cellophane. “I'll be right back.” Brandt had mentioned a fear of dependence on his pain medication, so she'd stored them where he wasn't able to get to them.

Minutes later she returned with the pill in a tiny paper cup, dropped it in his outstretched hand and watched as he popped it into his mouth and washed it down with the water. She took his vitals, winking at him. “I'll leave you to visit with your cousin.”

Brandt smiled for the first time that morning. “Thanks.” He waited until Ciara left the room, then
turned and looked at his cousin. “Marriage looks good on you.”

“Three weeks in paradise with the love of my life says it all.”

“So Fiji was nice?”

Pulling a chair closer to the bed, Jordan sat. “Fiji is incredible. I never thought I'd survive without a cell phone or the internet, but after the second day I was so laid-back I'd forgotten my name and the date.”

“How's Aziza?”

“Beautiful, sexy and hopefully pregnant.”

Exhaling an audible sigh, Brandt closed his eyes. The effects of the pill had kicked in and Brandt felt himself floating outside of himself. “You guys were really serious when you talked about not waiting to start a family.”

“We would like to have at least two children two years apart before Zee turns thirty-six.”

He smiled. “I'm going to enjoy being Uncle Brandt.”

“Any children we have will be your cousins.”

Brandt opened his eyes, frowning. “I'll still be Uncle Brandt.”

Jordan held up his hands. “It's okay. There's no need to get hostile. Your nurse is rather feisty, isn't she?” he asked deftly changing the topic.

“Feisty isn't the half. There are times when she's downright scary.”

“Your mother said you ran the first two nurses off. That's not like you, cuz.”

Closing his eyes, Brandt took a deep breath, held it in before letting it out slowly. “I couldn't stand their bowing and scraping.”

“I take it Ciara doesn't bow and scrape.”

“She's like a Marine drill sergeant. At any time I expect her to order me to drop and give her fifty push-ups.”

“I felt sorry for your therapist.”

“He's lucky she got in his face, because I was a minute from knocking him on his ass.”

“Careful, cuz. You know I don't like taking on criminal cases. Especially those dealing with aggravated assault.”

“That's why I rolled out of there while I was still in my right mind.” He opened his eyes. “Are you staying in the city or Bronxville?” Aziza owned a charming house in Westchester County and Jordan a maisonette on Fifth Avenue.

“We've decided to live in the house.”

“You're commuting?”

Jordan nodded. “I take the Metro North to One-Two-Five, then walk a couple of blocks to the office.”

“That's—that's convenient,” Brandt said, slurring.

“It is,” Jordan agreed. “But I don't know how long I'm going to hang on to the apartment.”

“You're selling it?”

“I'm thinking about it. Zee and I can stay with my folks whenever we come into the city.”

“You guys can hang out here—that is, if you want more privacy.”

“Thanks. When I told Kyle that I was contemplating putting the maisonette on the market, he said the same thing.” His law partner owned a townhouse along Striver's Row in the St. Nicholas Historic District.
Jordan noticed his cousin hadn't opened his eyes for several minutes. “It's time I get back to the office. I've got cases piled up on my desk.”

Brandt tried opening his eyes, but the effort proved too much. “When are you coming back?”

“Probably one day next week. I'll bring Zee with me.”

“Good. I'm not up for having a lot of people over, because I don't want them to see me in a wheelchair.”

“Remember, it's only temporary,” Jordan reminded him. He stood and reached for his jacket, slipping his arms into the sleeves. He patted his cousin's muscular shoulder before walking out of the bedroom.

Ciara sat on the bench in the hallway, her arms folded under her breasts. She'd called the therapist, leaving the data he needed on his cell's voice mail. “Is he asleep?” she asked, coming to her feet.

Jordan nodded. “He's falling asleep. How is he doing?”

“Pretty well, considering he has two broken legs. He has an appointment to see his orthopedist next week. The plaster casts will be removed, his legs x-rayed, and he'll get ski boot-style lighter casts. He probably won't be able to bear any weight for another month. That's when he can begin more aggressive rehab to reverse muscle atrophy.”

“Has he talked about missing the upcoming football season?”

“No. But he did watch a baseball game last night.”

When he'd heard that Brandt had been injured in an auto accident, was refusing to see anyone other
than his mother and had dismissed two nurses, Jordan had prepared himself for the worst. He knew Brandt would recover physically, but he had his doubts whether he would be able to deal with the possibility that his football career was over.

He knew that after more than ten years in the game his cousin's body couldn't withstand too many more injuries. Perhaps the accident would give Brandt the time he needed to decide whether he should retire.

Smiling, he extended his hand. “Again, it's a pleasure to meet you. Brandt is very fortunate to have you as his nurse.”

Ciara shook Jordan's hand. “Thank you.”

“I told him I plan to come back this weekend. Will that pose a problem?”

“I don't believe so. Just give me a call before you come. I don't want him to go from having one or two visitors to so many that he'll become overwhelmed.”

“That's not a problem. I'll call before I come,” Jordan promised.

She waited for Jordan to enter the elevator, the doors closing behind him before she made her way to the bedroom to check on her patient. Ciara knew she had to consciously think of Brandt Wainwright as her patient or she would find herself emotionally too involved.

She'd become a private nurse six months after she'd left the hospital, and most of her patients over the past year and a half had been elderly women, many of whom had opted to live at home rather than in a hospital.

Brandt was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. Her gaze moved slowly over his
clean-shaven face, admiring the classically handsome features—the generous mouth, cleft chin and aquiline nose. Sofia was right. Brandt Wainwright was
muy guapo.

O
ne step forward, two steps backward.
That was how it'd felt to Ciara over the past three days. She sat in the sitting area in Brandt's bedroom, flipping through a magazine. For the past hour there had only been the sound of pages turning to compete with the rain tapping against the windows. When she'd asked him if he'd wanted lunch, and his response was to close his eyes and feign sleep, Ciara waited to see how long it would take before he would finally answer her question.

Brandt's mood had shifted again. He was back to the sullen, surly, disgruntled patient she'd encountered earlier in the week. He barked at her, refused to leave the bed to have his meals, rejected his pain medication and stopped shaving. Whenever Leona called, he'd refused to speak to her, and then issued an order that he didn't want to talk to or see anyone. Ciara had defused the situation by removing the telephone from the bedroom.

Although he'd tried to conceal it, she knew he was experiencing more pain than he had before physical therapy. She'd positioned the railings on the bed to facilitate his getting in and out of it without her assistance whenever he needed to go to the bathroom.

Her cell phone rang and she picked it up before the second ring. “Ciara Dennison.”

“Ms. Dennison, this is Amanda at Dr. Behrens's office, returning your call. We have a four o'clock cancellation. We'll send a medical van to pick you and Mr. Wainwright up at three-thirty.”

“Thank you, Amanda. We'll see you at four.”

Ciara hadn't wanted to deceive Brandt, but she was at her wits' end as to how to deal with his unresponsiveness. Instinct told her that he'd injured or reinjured his legs during therapy. Whether it was machismo or a martyr complex, he suffered in silence rather than ask for something to ease his pain.

Brandt opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, he speaks,” she drawled facetiously.

“Very funny, Ciara.”

“Isn't it, Brandt? A thirtysomething grown man pouting like a spoiled child is hilarious.”

Brandt glared at Ciara. Why couldn't she understand that he wanted to be left alone? As long as she sat quietly, reading or doing crossword puzzles, he didn't have a problem with her hanging out in his room. It was when she wanted to talk that it bothered him. It was as if she just had to make conversation to prove that he didn't need a shrink.

“I don't feel like talking to my mother, because she
asks me the same questions. ‘How are you feeling, darling? Are you better today than yesterday?' My answer is always the same. It's always yes.”

Ciara sat up straight, her eyes boring into a pair in shimmering blue. “If it's yes, then why are you eating in bed? Why are you risking getting blood clots by not moving around?”

“I'm not going to get blood clots,” Brandt argued, “because I'm taking a blood thinner. Do you mind answering my question?”

“What's that?”

“Where are we going?”

“We're going to your orthopedist. His office called to tell me that Dr. Behrens has to rearrange his schedule for the next week and he would like to see you today.” What she hadn't told Brandt was that she'd called the office and asked the doctor to see him.

She swung her legs over the chaise. “I'm going to change, and when I come back I'll help you get dressed.”

Brandt sat up, staring at the woman who'd begun hovering around him as if he were preemie. Everything had begun to bother him: his mother's questions and his nurse.

He just wanted to be left alone.

“Do I have time to eat lunch?”

The seconds ticked as they stared at each other. “Yes. Are you going to get out of bed?”

He narrowed his eyes at Ciara. “Do I have a choice?”

Resting her hands at her waist, Ciara gave him a look parents usually reserved for recalcitrant children. “No.”

Swallowing an expletive, Brandt reached for the wheelchair and smoothly transferred from the bed to the chair, muscles in his biceps flexing with the motion. “Damn, babe. Why do you have to be so tough?”

Ciara rolled her eyes. “It's my responsibility to get you better so you'll have full use of your legs. Lying in bed is counterproductive to that. And don't call me babe.”

“Some of my women like it when I call them babe.”

“I'm not one of your women, Brandt Wainwright. Please try and keep that in mind.” She didn't understand Brandt. He'd gone from being practically monosyllabic to talking about some of his women, and if she had to choose which she preferred it would be the former.

Brandt turned the chair toward the bathroom. “I'll be there as soon as I wash my hands.” Old habits were hard to break. His former headmaster would examine the front and back of each student's hands before they were permitted to enter the school's cafeteria.

He knew he'd given Ciara a hard time only because the pain in his legs had become excruciating—nearly intolerable. He'd decided to forgo the pain medication in the hope that it would ease. Unfortunately, it hadn't.

 

The medical transport van maneuvered along the curb in front of the building where Ciara and Brandt waited under the canopy for their arrival. The attendant positioned the wheelchair on a hydraulic lift, securing it in the rear of the vehicle. The attendant helped Ciara into the van, where she sat on a seat next to Brandt. Being cloistered in the penthouse for four days had
spoiled her—the sound of traffic was deafening, quickly reminding her of the incessant noise of the city.

Brandt, wearing walking shorts, a faded sweatshirt and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, sat with arms folded over his chest. He thought he'd conjured Ciara up when she had come into his bedroom to help him put on the shorts. She'd traded her uniform for a pair of jeans, a cotton pullover and running shoes. Without the smock she appeared taller, slimmer. The denim hugging her hips was a testament that she was unabashedly feminine and sexy. Seeing Ciara like this wasn't going to help him suppress fantasies about her wearing next to nothing.

His thoughts were interrupted when the van stopped in front of a townhouse that housed several doctors' offices. Five minutes later Brandt was wheeled into a room on the second floor and placed on an examining table.

Ciara sat on a stool in a corner of the room, staring at Brandt as he clenched and unclenched his right hand. “How bad is it?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Brandt knew what Ciara was asking, and knew it was useless to lie. “It's very bad.” She popped up like a jack-in-the box and walked to the door, his eyes following her. “Where are you going?”

Ciara stepped out into the hallway, motioning to a passing nurse. “Please inform Dr. Behrens before he removes Mr. Wainwright's casts he should be given something for the pain.”

The woman with flyaway salt-and-pepper curls nodded. “I'll tell Gene. He's the physician assistant,” she said when Ciara gave her a perplexed look.

Ciara waited in the hallway until Dr. Behrens and his assistant entered the examining room. Wallace Behrens, not yet forty, was a highly regarded orthopedic surgeon because of his preference for noninvasive surgical procedures with patients under fifty.

The doctor, redheaded, his brown eyes sparkling like new pennies in a face covered with freckles, shook her hand. “Ms. Dennison. It's a pleasure to meet you. It's always a joy to read your case notes, because not only are they detailed, but also very accurate.”

“Thank you, Dr. Behrens.” She also shook the assistant's hand, and returned to sit on the stool.

Gene swabbed Brandt's hip with alcohol before using a hypodermic needle to give him a shot of painkiller. Brandt's chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm by the time the whirr of the drill cutting through the plaster casts echoed throughout the room.

Without the casts, she was able to see the source of Brandt's chronic pain. The wound above his left ankle was red and frightfully swollen. Dr. Behrens removed the staples, cleaned the area and covered it with sterile bandages.

The surgeon glanced up, meeting Ciara's eyes. “You brought him in just in time to avoid a serious infection.”

She said a silent prayer that she hadn't ignored her gut feeling that something wasn't right, that Brandt should not have been in that much pain three weeks post-surgery.

 

Four hours later, Brandt was back in his bed and able to see his injured legs for the first time in weeks, the
scars and fading bruises substantiating the seriousness of his injury.

He gave Ciara a lopsided smile when she pulled up the railings to help make it easier for him to get out of bed. “I…I think we should… We have to celebrate,” he said, slurring and stuttering.

She wrinkled her nose. “I don't think so, sport. Remember, you're still under the influence.”

“What about tomorrow?”

Leaning over the bed, Ciara stared at the dreamy expression on Brandt's face. She knew he was fighting against the lingering effects of the sedative that had dulled the pain when the casts and staples were removed.

“We'll see how you feel after therapy.”

Brandt pressed his forefinger to his mouth. “I need a little kiss.”

“Nurses aren't permitted to kiss their patients.”

“Come on, Ciara. Loosen up. Do you always have to be so anal?”

Ciara felt as if Brandt had eavesdropped on her conversations with Victor. He'd accused her of being too reserved. Whenever they'd attended social gatherings together, he'd whisper in her ear to “loosen up.” What Victor had failed to realize was she was his date, and when they were approached by other people, it wasn't Ciara Dennison they'd wanted to talk to—it was him. The brilliant doctor was much sought after by women looking for advice on cosmetic surgery. After a stint as a plastic surgery expert on a reality show, Victor had become famous. When he wasn't performing life-altering surgeries to improve his patients' quality of life,
he was in great demand by those who were willing to pay millions to achieve perfection.

“I'm not anal, Brandt. I just play by the rules. I'm certain you're more than familiar with those rules.”

Ciara recalled her conversation with Sofia. What she hadn't admitted to her roommate was her attraction to Brandt. It went beyond patient-nurse. It'd become male-female. Sofia was right. She hadn't slept with a man in more than two years. And whenever her body betrayed her, it was a blatant reminder that she was a woman capable of strong passion.

“But you already broke the rules when you kissed me on the terrace,” Brandt reminded her.

Lowering the rail on his right, she leaned closer. The warmth and natural scent from Brandt's body swept over Ciara. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't as unaffected as she appeared. Each time she viewed his nude body she had to call on all of her professionalism to avoid trailing her fingertips over his body like a sculptor.

She'd told herself that she wasn't into sports, and therefore wasn't attracted to athletes whose egos outweighed their talent but not their paychecks. But Ciara realized that even if Brandt Wainwright had not become a football player, it still would not have diminished his appeal.

He'd been born into money—a lot of money—the penthouse and its furnishings were a testament to that. Sofia had mentioned she'd searched out Brandt Wainwright on the internet, and later that evening Ciara had also looked him up online. There were more than thirteen pages about him, with statistics from his college
and pro careers, awards and accolades, photos of his Super Bowl victory and parades. Another site showed photographs of him with women—a lot of beautiful women from all over the world. It was apparent the camera loved him and Brandt loved being photographed. He was smiling in every shot but one. He was gorgeous with his long blond hair.

What do I have to lose?
she thought to herself. She doubted whether Brandt was one to kiss and tell, because there had been little or no gossip about him and other women. “You're right,” Ciara whispered close to his mouth. “I did break the first rule.”

Brandt stared at the lushly curved lips inches from his own. “What's the second rule?”

“Sleeping with a patient. But that's not going to happen.”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “How can you be so certain?”

“Just am,” she drawled.

“Because you're my nurse?” Ciara nodded.

“What if you weren't my nurse?”

“We'll just have to see, won't we?”

Brandt smiled. Ciara had answered his question with a question. She hadn't said yes, and she hadn't said no either. It wasn't so much the idea of making love to her that had piqued his curiosity—she also had a certain enigmatic quality about her.

“Yes, we will just have to wait and see.”

Lifting his head off the pillow and cradling her face at the same time, Brandt slanted his mouth over Ciara's. Her lips parted, as he swallowed her moist breath and
deepened the kiss. He felt her stiffen then relax, her mouth becoming pliant against his. As much as he didn't want to, he ended the kiss.

“Thank you very much.”

Heat suffused Ciara's face, quickly wending its way down to settle between her thighs. She knew she had to get away from Brandt before she crawled into the bed with him. Securing the rail, she smiled. “You're welcome.”

“Do you like Thai food?” Brandt asked.

Ciara smiled, nodding. “I love it. Why?”

“I have a friend who owns a Thai restaurant. If we're going to celebrate tomorrow, then we're going to need food. I owe my mother an apology, so I'm going to ask her and my dad to join us.”

“I'm certain she would like that.”

“Please bring me the phone so I can call him.”

Ciara walked over to the sitting area, picked up the cordless receiver and cradle and plugged it into an outlet beside the hospital bed. Brandt's willingness to be with others was part of the healing process. It wasn't about physical healing; it was about emotional healing. And she'd tired of lying to Leona whenever she called, making excuses why Brandt wouldn't take her calls. Most times she told the woman that her son was sleeping, anything except the truth—that he didn't want to speak to her.