Chapter 7
One 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, cl
eaned 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.
She placed the receiver on the bed where he could reach it. “I’m going to ask the agency to send another nurse in two weeks. I’d agreed to host a birthday party for a friend before being assigned to your case.”
“I don’t want another nurse.”
“You can’t be left alone,” Ciara argued softly.
“I’ll get someone to hang out here until you get back.”
Not wanting to argue with Brandt, she adjusted the setting on the thermostat, dimmed the floor lamp in the sitting area and walked out of the bedroom and into her own. Ciara slept with the connecting door open, since there was no other way to know if her patient needed assistance. She’d come to enjoy sleeping in the large mahogany canopy bed.
Before going to sleep, she usually spent time in the kitchen, planning the next day’s menu, followed by a leisurely soak in the tub, listening to classic love songs. She reluctantly climbed out of the tub, went through her nightly ritual of moisturizing her face and body, pulled a nightgown over her head and slipped into bed. She woke without an alarm clock, alert and ready.
Chapter 8
Half an hour into Brandt’s session with the therapist, Ciara left them alone. Mindful of the previous encounter, Thomas Lambert took a more conservative approach, putting Brandt through a series of exercises focusing on muscle strengthening using weighted pulleys to keep his upper body toned. She’d found herself mesmerized as she watched his pectorals, triceps and biceps flex as he did the exercises. There was still a fading bruise on his upper left chest where the seat belt had dug in. The bruises on his face from the air bag had faded completely.
He used a chair to exercise, lifting his lower legs parallel to the floor. The therapist started out with five reps and indicated it would eve
ntually increase to twenty-five or more. A printout with illustrations of home exercises was affixed to a corkboard on the wall next to a schedule of NFL and AFL games for the upcoming season.
Dr. Behrens had given Brandt a recovery timeline: six weeks to walk with crutches, eight weeks before he would be able to walk with canes. After ten weeks he predicted he should no longer use a cane and then it would be another five months before he would be able to walk without evidence of limping. He had cautioned Brandt against playing any contact sport until a year after the accident. Only then he would be medically cleared and nearly one hundred percent recovered and discomfort-free. Whether Brandt would ever suit up and play football again was something that would be determined by the NFL.
Walking into the dining room, she removed an armchair at one end of the table to accommodate Brandt’s wheelchair. The table was set for six. Not only had Leona and her husband accepted the invitation to come for dinner, but Brandt’s brothers and sister had also asked to attend.
Picking up a water goblet, she checked it for water spots. She’d returned it to its proper place when Brandt rolled in. “How was it?”
“A lot better than the last time.” He maneuvered closer to the table. “You’re missing a place setting.”
Ciara’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think so. There’s one for you, your sister, brothers and parents. That’s six.”
“Where’s yours, Ciara?”
She gave Brandt a long, penetrating stare. “I’m not eating with you and your family.”
“And why not?”
“Because I’ve made other plans,” she volunteered. She’d searched online for restaurants and cafés on Second or Third Avenue that had caught her interest.
The first thing that sprang into Brandt’s mind was that Ciara was going out with a man, and he didn’t want to think of her smiling, touching and/or kissing another man. She was his…his nurse, and she was there to… His thoughts trailed off when he realized he had no basis for being jealous of Ciara and another man. He would expect her to seek out male companionship.
Here I Am Page 8