Here I Am

by Rochelle Alers

  “Then, what’s the problem?”

  “There is no problem. You know about Victor.” He nodded. “I promised myself I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

  The natural color drained from Brandt’s face. His eyes paled, leaving them an eerie pale blue. “You believe that I’m controlling you? Forcing you do things you don’t want to do?”

  “Don’t get it twisted, Brandt. Victor never forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do. He wasn’t holding a gun to my head or blackmailing me. When I decided I no longer wanted to be his hood ornament, I ended it. What I didn’t tell you was that I’d stopped seeing him before he proposed marriage.”

  “For how long?”

  “Three months. I managed to avoid him at the hospital—I had my shift changed and blocked his number on my cell. I lived in a building with a doorman, so he couldn’t get in unless he was announced. Victor wasn’t able to accept that I no longer wanted to see him after two years of dating him exclusively, so he figured if he proposed marriage I’d take him back.”

  “Where were you when he hit you?”

  “In my apartment.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “I know what I said, Brandt. That he couldn’t get in unless he was announced. I came home one night and he was waiting for me outside the building. He said he wanted to talk, that he, that we needed closure. And because I truly wanted it over, I let him into my apartment. He claimed he’d taken up two years of my life without a commitment, so he’d decided it was time to commit. That’s when he took out a ring and asked me to marry him. I wanted to ask him if he was for real, but instead said I would think about it.”

  “The day I went to the hospital I should’ve asked to see him in private and knocked the hell out of him.”

  Ciara laughed and shook her head. “Have you forgotten that you’re in a wheelchair?”

  “Sitting in a wheelchair would not have stopped me from reaching up and grabbing him by the throat for hitting you.”

  That wasn’t an image she had wanted to see: Brandt’s large hand and strong fingers tightening around Victor’s neck, cutting off oxygen to his lungs. “I don’t condone violence, Brandt.”

  “Neither do I. You don’t have to worry too much about me hitting your ex, because I’m bound by my contract’s personal-conduct clause—mess up on or off the field and I’m fined, suspended or banned from football. And I’m willing to bet the good doctor would have me arrested for assault. So I can assure you that when I go after him it won’t be physical. Now back to us.”

  Ciara couldn’t understand how Brandt could go from talking about Victor in one breath and about their future in the next. Given Brandt’s height, weight and strength he probably could break Victor’s jaw with one punch.

  “Once my assignment ends there can be no us. You’re a celebrity, Brandt, and I cannot and will not live my life in the spotlight.”

  The sweep hand on his watch made a complete revolution before Brandt silently acknowledged Ciara with a nod. She was right. But to Brandt she was so much more: beautiful, intelligent, spirited, charming and the most sensual woman he’d ever known. Ciara had accused him of confusing lust for love. She was wrong. He wasn’t in lust with Ciara. He was in love with her.

  He successfully hid his disappointment behind a bright smile. “I came in here with the intent of shaving your legs, but somehow I got distracted. Do you still want my help?”

  Resting her head on his shoulder, Ciara pressed a kiss below Brandt’s ear. “You can shave my legs and share my shower. But you cannot get my hair wet.”

  “What’s going to happen if I do wet it?”

  “I will tie you to the bed and give you a Brazilian wax.”

  Brandt threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Do you know what you are?”

  “What am I, sport?”

  “You’re a very naughty girl with just a hint of mean.” It was Ciara’s turn to laugh, the low, sensual sound reminding Brandt of a muted horn.

  “Do you like naughty?”

  “I love naughty.”

  Ciara scrunched up her nose. “Have you ever been waxed?”

  Brandt sobered, remembering when he and Alexander had visited an upscale West Side salon offering services to men and women; the aesthetician convinced his teammate to have his eyebrows waxed. Brandt had recorded the action on his camera phone, complete with audio, as a reminder never to go through the ordeal of having someone slather hot wax on his body and then rip off hair and flesh in an attempt to become metrosexual.

  “No.”

  “Would you consider it?”

  “Hell! No!”

  “What are you afraid of? You don’t want to ruin your macho image?” Ciara teased.

  “I’m quite comfortable with my sexuality. It’s just that I’m not willing to endure that type of pain because I have a few stray eyebrows.”

  She gave him a look of incredulity. Brandt had chosen to play a sport where pain was evident with every play. “Don’t tell me you’d prefer some three-hundred-pound guy knocking the wind out of you than to go through even two minutes of a little discomfort.”

  “It’s a different type of pain.”

  “How would you know, Brandt, if you’ve never been waxed?” He stared at a spot over her shoulder. “How would you know?” she asked again.

  “I know because I’ve seen dudes—big-ass dudes—scream like little girls when getting their eyebrows waxed.”

  Eyes narrowing, her mouth opening and closing, Ciara glared at Brandt. “Oh, we’re back to being sexist? FYI, the male patients I’ve taken care of moan, groan, scream and complain more about pain than their female counterparts.”

  “It was just a figure of speech,” Brandt said in apology.

  “It’s a figure of speech that could possibly get you into trouble if a reporter decides to quote you, or someone out to discredit your reputation hears.”

  He smiled, attractive lines fanning out from his eyes. “Wow. I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I do care, Brandt. I care a lot. Now please let me go so I can take my legs off the arms of this chair. My feet feel like someone is sticking them with straight pins.” Sitting on Brandt’s lap, her legs dangling over the arms of the wheelchair while they’d made love, had impeded blood flow to her extremities.

  Looping his arms under Ciara’s shoulders, Brandt lifted her effortlessly, sliding first one leg, then the other off the chair. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from her naked body. There wasn’t one straight line on her curvy frame. She was all natural: no breast augmentation, lip enhancement or rhinoplasty. Ciara Dennison was natural and real—in-your-face real—without compromising her femininity.

  He hadn’t planned to make love to her without protection—it had just happened, spontaneously. What Brandt found ironic was that spontaneity wasn’t a factor in his personality—at least not consciously or overtly. Even his decision to become a professional athlete had been something he’d thought about for more than a year. When he’d enrolled at Stanford, Brandt’s plans had included graduating and joining Wainwright Developers, not playing football.

  Ciara mentioned that they’d dodged a bullet, because they’d picked the right time to have unprotected sex. But for him it was the wrong time. If getting her pregnant to hold on to her was the key, then he would become a more-than-willing accomplice and participant. However, trickery wasn’t what he wanted to base their relationship on. For him if it wasn’t straight up, he wanted no part of it.

  There had been women who’d said they were on birth control so he didn’t have to use protection, but too many guys he knew had become unwitting fathers that way.

  Brandt had always planned to marry and father children, but never had the pull been strong as it was now. And he knew it had something to do with the woman who was his nurse and lover.

  “Please give me the towel and razor,” he told Ciara when she sat down on the ledge of the tub, “then reapply the shaving cream and put your foot in
my lap.”

  Ciara did as Brandt directed, smiling when he eased the razor over her outstretched leg without cutting her. She’d left Brandt after breakfast to keep an appointment at a salon for her hair, and a mani-pedi. She was supposed to have had her legs waxed, but the waxer had called in sick.

  “I reserved a car and driver for you for tonight,” said Brandt.

  Ciara’s head popped up. “I told you I didn’t need a car service. The doorman will hail a cab for me when I leave, and I’ll have someone bring me back.”

  Brandt’s hand stilled. “Someone, Ciara? You don’t even have a name. What if that someone decides to take a detour between here and the airport and something happens? How many women have ended up either missing or dead? Too many,” he said, answering his own question. “You will either go with my driver or I’m tagging along—in the chair.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  She met his resolute stare. “No.”

  “What’s it going to be? Me or the car service?”

  A beat passed. “Are you trying to check on my whereabouts?”

  The question was out before Ciara could stop it. The first thing that had come to mind was Brandt making certain she wouldn’t take a detour, perhaps hang out with another man, before she returned to the penthouse. Clarissa had volunteered to come and spend the night with him, thus alleviating her concern about having to leave the party early.

  “Don’t ever lump me into the same category as Victor Seabrook.” Brandt enunciating each word.

  “I didn’t say you’re anything like Victor,” she replied.

  “That’s not how it sounded to me, Ciara,” Brandt countered. “I reserved the car because I want to make certain you’ll be protected.” What he didn’t tell her was the man who would take her to the hotel and back was not only his personal driver, but also a professional bodyguard.

  Ciara ran a hand over her forehead. She didn’t want to fight with Brandt, not when her body thrummed whenever she recalled his hardness inside her. All of her life she’d craved male protection, first from her father and later from the men she’d dated, but none of them had been forthcoming—until Brandt Wainwright.

  “I’m sorry. I misinterpreted your concern. Thank you, Brandt,” she whispered.

  Raising her foot, Brandt kissed each of her brightly painted toes. “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter 16

  The rear door of the Town Car opened and Ciara placed her hand in the outstretched palm of the pale, dark-haired, black-suited man who’d picked her up in front of the high-rise and driven her to the LaGuardia Marriott. She felt the strength in his arm as he helped her out of the car. He took a large, quilted bag from her hand, then led her by her elbow, escorting her to the hotel entrance.

  He handed her the bag, reached into the pocket of his jacket and extended a business card. “I’ll see you to your room. But I want you to call me when you’re ready to leave and we’ll meet in the lobby,” he said with a distinctive Midwestern accent.

  Ciara stared at the card. There was no name, only a number with a familiar area code. She nodded. “Okay.” To say her driver was scary was an understatement. He wasn’t tall, but what he lacked in height he made up in bulk—he was built like a tank. During the drive from Manhattan to Queens he hadn’t removed his sunglasses or his jacket. Only when he reached over to open the door for her did she see the automatic weapon in a holster under his left arm.

  They walked through the lobby to the elevators, riding up in silence. Ciara walked the carpeted hallway, her bodyguard following. She stopped at the suite Sofia had reserved for the night, rapping lightly on the floor.

  “¿Quién?” asked Sofia from behind the door.

  “It’s Ciara.”

  “Coming, chica!”

  Sofia opened the door dressed in a pair of black bikini panties with a matching demi-bra. Like Ciara, her hair was still in rollers. “¡Coño!” she swore in Spanish when she saw the man standing behind her roommate.

  Ciara smiled at the driver. “I’ll see you later.” She walked into the suite, closing the door.

  “Who was that?” Sofia asked, slipping into a short silk robe she hadn’t bothered to put on when she went to open the door.

  “My driver.”

  Sofia Martinez plopped her petite body down on the sofa separating the living room from the suite’s dining area. She hadn’t seen her friend and roommate in weeks, but had to admit she looked better than she had in a very long time. Her face wasn’t as gaunt as the last time she’d seen her, and even her jeans fit her hips a bit more snugly. When she and Ciara didn’t catch up with each other by phone, they usually exchanged emails. Ciara was the ideal roommate. Sofia didn’t have to be concerned about Ciara entertaining men, because in the two years they’d lived together she’d never invited one home with her. “Whoa, chica. Usted está llevando la gran vida realmente.”

  Ciara understood two words: grand and life. “Chica. I’m living la vida loca.”

  She smiled at the woman who was like a sister to her. The thirty-five-year-old, five-foot-one, hundred-and-ten-pound former dancer was always bubbly and optimistic. She’d given up her dance career after she’d discovered her choreographer husband had been sleeping with a female dancer in their troupe. Sofia moved out of her Tribeca loft, and after her divorce and a sizeable settlement, she bought the two-bedroom co-op in West Harlem.

  The two had first met at a dermatologist’s office. Sofia had been undergoing a procedure to minimize the appearance of acne caused by her heavy stage makeup. Sofia had shown Ciara an ad for a three-thousand-dollar pair of designer shoes. Ciara had admitted the most she’d paid for a pair of shoes was four hundred dollars, and that had been a bargain, because not only were they last year’s model, but the original price was twice that much. Sofia disclosed because she wore a sample size she was able to indulge in her shoe fetish to her heart’s content. She’d given Ciara two tickets to her dance troupe’s off-Broadway opening. After seeing the performance, Ciara had been awed by the exceptional talent of the woman with the long, black hair, large dark eyes and friendly smile.

  Ciara went back to see the performance again, this time with several nurses from the hospital. They were invited backstage to meet the cast and joined several of them for a late dinner at a nearby restaurant. The gathering set the stage for a close friendship between Sofia and Ciara spanning eight years.

  The two women had had one argument, when Ciara had offered to pay her share of the maintenance on the spacious co-op. Sofia went into high-drama mode, declaring tearfully that she couldn’t take the money because Ciara had let her live with her rent-free during her separation and drawn-out divorce. They finally reached a compromise: Ciara was responsible for paying the cable bill.

  Sofia threw up a hand in a dramatic flourish. “My life should be so crazy.” She folded her legs under her body. “Now I want to hear all about it.”

  Ciara, kicking off her sandals, feigned ignorance. “What are you talking about?”

  “I want to hear all about you and Brandt Wainwright. I don’t need to know the juicy details, because all it’s going to do is make me more frustrated.”

  “Why are you frustrated?”

  “No puedo creerlo. I can’t believe you,” Sofia translated without taking a breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve met a man who makes me want to sleep with him. It’s like that with Bobby.”

  Pulling her feet up under her body, Ciara leaned in closer. “Does he feel the same way?”

  Sofia lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know. He hasn’t sent out any signals that he wants more than friendship.”

  “Maybe it’s because you’re coworkers.”

  Shaking her head, Sofia worried her lip. “I don’t think it’s that. I believe he thinks I want to get married.”

  “But you don’t want to get married again. Or do you?” Ciara asked when seeing the faraway look in her friend’s eyes.”

/>   Sofia’s eyelids fluttered wildly. “I would never marry again, even if I met what I thought was the perfect man, because there’s no such animal.”

  “Not all men are cheaters, Sofia.”

  “The only thing I’ll say is that all men aren’t control freaks like that butthead you finally threw out with the garbage.”

  Ciara recalled her accusing Brandt of monitoring her whereabouts to try to control her. But he hadn’t wanted to control her, only to protect her. She knew she wouldn’t be sitting in a hotel suite preparing to celebrate a friend’s birthday if Brandt were a control freak. After all, she was being paid to care for him 24/7.

  “I had to, chica. Otherwise I would have ended up as Victor’s punching bag.”

  “Esteban still owes him one for hitting you.”

  “Well, he would have to stand in line behind Brandt.”

  Unfolding her legs, Sofia leaned forward. “So you told Brandt about Victor?” Ciara nodded. “Does this mean you and Brandt are beyond the nurse-patient relationship?”

  Whispering like a coconspirator, Ciara told Sofia about her reluctance to become involved with her patient because of her ethics, but how after the first time they’d made love she’d felt as if she was finally able to exorcise all the fears she’d had with Victor.

  Sofia clapped her hands like a child. “Good for you, chica. What’s going to happen when he stops being your patient?”

  Ciara stared at the framed landscape print that was affixed to thousands of hotel room walls. “We go our separate ways to live our separate lives.”

  “Stop playing, Ciara.”

  She knew Sofia was serious whenever she called her by her name. “I’m not playing. Brandt Wainwright is a celebrity athlete—”

  “Who just happens to like a little chocolate in his milk,” Sofia teased, grinning. “The media will have a field day with the two of you, with Brandt as Ken and you as his black Barbie.”

  Ciara shook her head. “You’ve got it wrong, Sofia. It’s not about what we look like, but who he is.”

  “He’s ‘the Viking,’ football’s golden boy. The gridiron’s Brad Pitt.”