Here I Am

by Rochelle Alers

  “I’ll do it, but let me talk to Brandt first.”

  “No rush. Jordan and I are planning our first dinner party as a married couple in a couple of months, and I plan to cook and cater.” Aziza leaned closer, her shoulder touching Ciara’s. “I’d like to thank you for helping Brandt out of his funk. His mother told me that he wouldn’t talk to or see anyone until you became his nurse. You should have seen the faces of the children when he let them sign his casts. It was like waking up on Christmas morning and finding everything you’d wanted under the tree.”

  Ciara smiled. “Brandt’s got a big bark and no bite.”

  “He’s the best, Ciara. I was reluctant to accept him as a client because I didn’t want to have to deal with the overblown ego of a celebrity athlete. After meeting him I realized not only is he an incredible athlete, but he’s also an incredible person. If only all of my clients were like Brandt Wainwright.”

  “How many clients do you have?”

  “Five, including Brandt.”

  “That’s not very many,” Ciara concluded.

  “I know. Jordan and I are planning to start a family, and I didn’t want to find myself overwhelmed with running a practice, taking care of my home and a new baby.”

  “There are two words that should become a part of your vocabulary: cleaning service.”

  Aziza laughed, satisfaction shimmering in her large eyes. “I like you and your style, Ms. Ciara Dennison.”

  “Why, thank you so much, Mrs. Wainwright.” She’d perfected an authentic Southern drawl. “Do you mind coming with me to bring up coffee and dessert?”

  Aziza popped up. “Let’s go.”

  The two women took the elevator to the first-floor kitchen, where Ciara pushed the Brew Cycle button on the coffeemaker, while Aziza set down a platter with cream cheese–topped red velvet cupcakes on a trolley.

  Leaning against the countertop, Aziza watched her hostess fill a crystal bowl with sugar and a matching pitcher with cream, moving around the space with the familiarity of someone who’d lived there for more than the few weeks since Brandt had returned to New York from North Carolina.

  “You know he likes you.”

  Ciara froze for a nanosecond, then continued stacking cocktail napkins on a tray with the cream and sugar. “I’m assuming you’re talking about Brandt?”

  “Who else would I be talking about?”

  She gave the attorney a direct stare. “Alex.”

  Aziza nodded. “You got me there. My brother knew when Brandt called you his date that it was time to dial down the come-on. But you were right the first time. I was talking about Brandt.”

  “Brandt Wainwright is a very exciting, larger-than-life personality.”

  “Are you talking about the ballplayer or the man?”

  Crossing her arms under her breasts, Ciara leaned a hip against the countertop. “I’m not into sports, therefore I know nothing about Brandt the ballplayer. I was talking about the man.”

  “I’d like to believe I got the best Wainwright from this generation, but Brandt is more than a worthy runner-up.”

  “How did you meet Jordan?”

  “Brandt introduced us. I needed an attorney to represent me in a sexual harassment suit and Jordan agreed to take the case.”

  “He won, didn’t he?”

  Aziza angled her head at the same time she narrowed her eyes. “How did you know?” There were only four people who were aware of the outcome of the suit: Kyle Chatham, Jordan’s law partner; her brother; and she and Jordan.

  “I would expect no less from Harlem’s gangsta lawyer.”

  Aziza managed to look embarrassed. “Jordan loves it when people call him a gangsta.”

  “Is he?” Ciara asked, smiling.

  “He has a tendency to morph into gangsta mode, but it’s his grandfather Wyatt who is a certified gangster,” she said. “Jordan’s folks usually spend the summer months in Maryland, but you’ll get to meet Wyatt when they come back after the Labor Day weekend. My in-laws always have a post-summer soirée at their Fifth Avenue residence, and Christiane invites everyone with a single drop of Wainwright blood, just to tick off Wyatt.”

  Ciara smiled. “They sound like a lively bunch.”

  Aziza sucked her teeth. “Don’t let the dollar signs fool you. Some of them can get real funky at times. Brandt’s brother Sumner is a throwback to Wyatt.” The buzzing coming from the coffeemaker signaled the end of the brewing cycle. “To be continued.”

  “Da-yum,” Ciara drawled. “You were just getting to the juicy part.”

  “The juicy parts are the family secrets that go back several generations. Jordan has hinted there are so many it would take at least a week to disclose all of them. When I ask him what they are, he closes up like a clam. He’s reluctant to tell me because I told him I was going to write a novel based on the Wainwrights. I usually pick up a tidbit here and there whenever there’s a family get-together. Invariably someone will have too much to drink and will start spilling the beans.”

  Unplugging the coffeemaker, Ciara placed it on the trolley. “Would you really write a novel if you gathered enough information?”

  Aziza shook her head. “No. I’ll leave that task to a direct descendant of Daniel Patrick Wainwright, who came to this country around the turn of the century with twelve dollars and a dream of a better life.”

  Ciara checked the shelves. “I think we have everything.”

  The two women retraced their steps when they pushed the trolley into the elevator for the ride to the roof. China cups were filled with steaming gourmet coffee then laced liberally with cream. It was the perfect complement for the moist miniature red velvet cupcakes.

  The cupcakes, washed down with several cups of coffee, disappeared quickly. Jordan pulled a sterling cigar case from the pocket of his shirt, offering slender cylinders of tightly rolled tobacco to Brandt and Alexander.

  Alexander and Jordan had helped Brandt move to a chaise. They joined him on matching chaise longues, where they lay, staring up at the sky and puffing on cigars.

  “I can’t believe you don’t have any leftovers,” Aziza remarked as she filled a large plastic garbage bag.

  “I told Brandt that wouldn’t be enough food,” Ciara said.

  “Oh, there was enough. But when you get three guys weighing over two hundred pounds, you don’t expect to have leftovers.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time.”

  Aziza placed four empty wine bottles in a plastic crate. She hadn’t drunk any wine, since she was trying to get pregnant. She would know for certain if she was in another week.

  “I’m going to leave these bags for Jordan or Al to take down whenever they decide to get up,” she told Ciara.

  “When do you think that’s going to be?”

  Aziza threw up a hand. “It could be in an hour or tomorrow morning. It won’t be the first time Brandt has had sleepovers on the roof.”

  Ciara’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding?”

  “I wish I was. Too much food and drink provides the perfect excuse for a sleepover. Besides, Jordan weighs too much for me to try and move him.”

  “Where does your brother live?”

  “He has a house in New Jersey. But he’d planned to stay over with us tonight.”

  Ciara stared at the trio laughing and gesturing in between puffing cigars. She was opposed to smoking, whether it was a pipe, cigar or cigarettes, but Brandt, Alexander and Jordan were adults. They had to be aware of the risks associated with smoking.

  “I’m not quite ready to sleep under the stars,” she told Aziza. “I can give you a nightgown and grooming supplies in case you have to sleep over.”

  Aziza checked her watch. It was minutes before eleven. “If Jordan’s not ready to leave by midnight, then I’m going to take you up on your offer.”

  The hospital bed had been removed, freeing up the guest bedroom, and Ciara had moved her things into Brandt’s bedroom, freeing up another.

  If Al
ex, Jordan and Aziza decided to stay, there was certainly enough room.

  Chapter 15

  Sitting on the ledge of the soaking tub, Ciara shook the canister of shaving gel, then squeezed a small amount into her hand. When she rubbed them together the green gel turned into white foam that she then lathered over her legs from knee to ankle. She was fortunate she didn’t have to shave her legs that often, but tonight she wanted them silky smooth, because the dress she’d decided to wear to Esteban’s birthday displayed more flesh than usual.

  She would shower and dress at the penthouse, then do her hair and makeup at the suite in a hotel near LaGuardia Airport. Sofia had decided to have her brother’s birthday party at a ballroom in the hotel to accommodate out-of-town guests who were flying in for the occasion. Ciara had called Sofia twice to remind her to bring her dress and shoes before she left home.

  “Why don’t you let me do that?”

  Her hand halted before she could pick up the razor. She hadn’t heard Brandt when he’d come into the bathroom, because of the music.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Brandt maneuvered closer, his hungry eyes lingering over the lithe, naked woman perched on the side of the tub. Her hair was done up in countless rollers that looked like soft rods twisted into open figure-eights.

  Four weeks. He couldn’t believe it had only been four weeks since Ciara Dennison had become an integral part of his day-to-day life. They went to bed together, woke up together, shared meals and, in spite of his physical limitations, made love. He couldn’t, and didn’t want to, remember when she hadn’t been there. He’d stopped trying to analyze what it was about Ciara that made her so different from the other women he’d known.

  “I’ll shave your legs.”

  With wide eyes, Ciara watched him come closer and closer until she felt his warm breath on her bare breast. Even though he’d seen her naked before, she still felt exposed. He’d caught her perched on the side of the bathtub with her legs in such a position that he had a bird’s-eye view of her private parts.

  “That’s okay,” she said much too quickly. “I can do it.”

  “What if you nick yourself? Now how would it look if you went out with those little pieces of tissue stuck to those long, gorgeous legs?”

  Ciara picked up the razor, surreptitiously placing her free hand between her thighs. “I’m not going to cut myself.”

  “Weren’t you the one who said you have a problem navigating around one’s jugular?”

  Their eyes met, her gaze tracing his masculine features and the attractive cleft in his chin. Stubble dotted his lean cheeks. She didn’t know whether he’d decided to grow a beard, but he hadn’t shaved in three days.

  “My legs don’t have a jugular, Brandt Wainwright.”

  The corners of Brandt’s mouth twitched as he tried not to laugh. “What do they have, Ciara Dennison?”

  “Nerves and bones.”

  “What types of nerves?”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “What is this? An anatomy test?”

  Brandt covered her breast with one hand, ignoring her exhalation of breath. The nipple hardened against his palm. “Just answer the question, babe.”

  Ciara closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at Brandt—not when he was feeling her up. “Tibial and sural nerves.”

  His fingers tightened, thumb sweeping back and forth over the distended nipple. “What are the differences?”

  “The tibial is the branch of the…the sciatic nerve extending through the posterior tibial nerve that provides sensations to…to certain muscles of the leg and the sole of the foot.”

  Brandt pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. “Why were you stuttering?”

  “You’d stutter too if I were feeling you up.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” His statement echoed confidence and arrogance.

  Ciara opened her eyes, forcibly pushing his hand off her breast. “Let’s find out,” she said in a challenge.

  She didn’t give Brandt the opportunity to react when she lowered her legs, turned to face him, unsnapped his cutoffs and, reaching between his thighs, captured his sex and held it firmly in her fist.

  He gasped loudly, then groaned as she masturbated him. He hardened quickly. “Recite the Pledge of Allegiance, Brandt.”

  “I…I…pledge…”

  Ciara’s hand moved faster, squeezing him, then slowing. She eased her grip. “I can’t hear you,” she taunted.

  Brandt closed his eyes, threw back his head and surrendered to the rush of heat pulling him down into an undertow of the most exquisite ecstasy imaginable. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chanted like a litany. “There’s no yes in the pledge, darling.”

  The expression of pure carnal pleasure on her lover’s face elicited an intense throbbing between her own thighs. Brandt opened his eyes at the same time as a gasp slipped past her lips, the smoldering flame in his eyes kicking her heart rate into a higher gear.

  One moment she was sitting on the edge of the tub and the next she was on Brandt’s lap, his hardness inside her. Swept up in a maelstrom of burning desire and out-of-control passion, she rode his erection like someone possessed.

  Up and down.

  Around and around.

  Back and forward.

  Brandt’s arms circled her body, molding her to his chest so closely that not even a sliver of light could penetrate. Ciara was so hot, so wet and so good. Each time he penetrated her he nearly lost his breath when her flesh closed around him like a glove a half size too small.

  He took her mouth with a savage intensity that matched the sexual mayhem in his groin. His hands moved to her buttocks, his fingers digging into the firm flesh as pleasure, pure and explosive, ripped through his lower body.

  Love flowed through Ciara like warm honey. She leaned into Brandt when waves of erotic pleasure scorched her body. Brandt had awakened her dormant sexuality and she couldn’t get enough of him. Her tongue dueled with his for dominance, rousing both to peaks of desire that threatened to incinerate them whole. The tremors began, vibrating liquid fire as an orgasm held her captive. She let out a moan, the first of many as the orgasms kept pace.

  Brandt’s body jerked, jumped and shuddered violently as he released himself inside Ciara, breathing out the last of his passion into her mouth. It wasn’t until he felt the secretions leaking from her that he realized the enormity of what had passed between them. He’d made love to Ciara without protection.

  Ciara took a deep breath, held it until she felt her lungs burning, then let it out slowly. “Brandt?” The name was a whisper.

  “Yes, baby?”

  “Are you… Do you have an STD?”

  Brandt wanted to laugh, but the situation in which he’d found himself was much too serious. “No.” He wanted to tell Ciara that he’d never contracted a sexually transmitted disease, but she hadn’t asked. She let out a sigh. “Aren’t you concerned about getting pregnant?”

  Easing back, Ciara gave him a mysterious smile. “No. We dodged a bullet. I’m expecting my period.” If she could count on just one thing, it was her menses coming on time. “What’s the matter, darling? Surprised you haven’t seen any of my multiple personalities because I’m PMS-ing?”

  Brandt rolled his eyes upward. “Are you ever going to let me live that night down?”

  He, Jordan and Alexander had fallen asleep on the rooftop, waking up after three in the morning and groggily making their way inside. Jordan found Aziza asleep in one of the guest bedrooms, and Alexander fell facedown and fully dressed across the bed in another room.

  It was the morning after their guests had departed that Ciara read him the riot act, calling him sexist for his PMS remark. He’d apologized, exhibiting enough remorse to garner an Oscar, but something in the way Ciara looked at him said she wasn’t convinced of his sincerity.

  “No.”

  “That’s so wrong.”

  “What would be wrong is if I found myself pregnant because of bad timing. I’m going on
the Pill.”

  “What would you do if you did get pregnant? Would you keep the baby?”

  Ciara struggled with the uncertainty Brandt’s question had aroused. The possibility of becoming pregnant when she dated Victor hadn’t been an issue, because she’d been fitted with an intrauterine device.

  “I don’t believe in abortion.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. Would you give my baby up for adoption?”

  “It wouldn’t be your baby or my baby,” she countered angrily, resenting the tone in his voice. “It would be our baby and if we had to make a decision about a child, then we would do it together.”

  “If you’re not pregnant then this conversation is moot. If you are, then let me warn you in advance that I don’t intend to get embroiled in a custody battle with you.”

  “Neither do I,” Ciara retorted, “and this conversation is moot.” She cradled his face. “I don’t want to fight with you, Brandt—”

  “There’s not going to be a fight,” he interrupted.

  She closed her eyes for a second. “Please don’t interrupt me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her fingers dug into his stubble, causing him to wince. “Don’t say anything until I’m finished.” Ciara couldn’t hold back a smile when he nodded his head like a bobblehead doll. “You know I like you—a lot. If I didn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered how long it’d been since I last had sex. I still wouldn’t have slept with you.” Easing her grip on his face, Ciara pressed her forehead to his. “You’re exciting, easy on the eyes, incredibly sexy and you’re nothing like a dumb jock. You’re the total package for any woman looking for their happily ever after. But…”

  “But what, Ciara?” Brandt asked when she didn’t finish her sentence.

  She lowered her eyes. “But not for me, Brandt.”

  Cupping her chin, he stared deeply into the eyes of the woman on his lap. “And why not you? Aren’t you entitled to your own happily ever after?”

  Ciara affected a wry smile. “Of course I’m entitled.”