Here I Am

by Rochelle Alers

  Running her hands over her face, Ciara wanted to scream at her roommate, but instead counted slowly to ten. “He is a celebrity,” she said between clenched teeth, enunciating each word, “and I don’t want a repeat of what I had with Victor. The tabloids dubbed him Dr. Eye Candy or Dr. Do Good, and he loved the attention.

  “When I asked if he ever tired of the cameras and flashbulbs, he said no. He claimed some people lived all their lives without ever having their fifteen minutes of fame. Victor vowed he would make certain he had his fifteen minutes and then some. That’s when I realized he was an egomaniac.”

  “Maybe it will be different with Brandt.”

  Ciara heard the wistfulness in Sofia’s words, wishing they were true. “I can’t afford to take that chance, Sofia. Maybe if he lived in a small town somewhere in the South or Midwest he would be able to maintain some privacy, but that’s not going to happen in New York.

  “Don’t forget Brandt is a native New Yorker who plays for a New York team and New York is the media capital. In my book that’s the trifecta.”

  Groaning inwardly, Ciara reached up and began removing the rollers from her hair. Instead of wearing her hair swept up, she’d had the stylist set her hair on rods. When removed it would result in a profusion of spiral curls.

  Sofia unfolded her lithe body and walked over to the wet bar. “Hable de hombres suficientemente. Enough man talk. What would you like to drink?”

  “White wine.” It was the first thing Ciara could think of. “Shame on you, chica,” Sofia chided. “Wine is when you’re sitting down to a nice dinner. Tonight we’re going to be anything but nice. There’s going to be a live Latin band, comida deliciosa, an open bar and so many men to dance with. You have door-to-door car service, so you don’t have to worry about driving. Let me fix you something that will make you feel as free-spirited as you’re going to look once you slip into your dress and shoes.” Ciara had bought a black off-the-shoulder dress that hugged her body like a second skin and a pair of matching peau de soie pumps.

  A rush of heat swept up Ciara’s neck to her hairline. The dress was an impulse buy. But Ciara wasn’t usually impulsive. She attributed it to the fact that she hadn’t gone out dancing since attending a wedding a year before. Once she’d gotten to the dance floor, she hadn’t sat down. When she got home, she’d collapsed from sheer exhaustion. The night had been memorable because it was the first time she’d attended an event without Victor in years. It had been like being paroled after serving time for a crime she hadn’t committed.

  “Whatever you concoct, just make certain I’ll be able to walk out of this suite without assistance.”

  Sofia perused the bar, selecting a bottle of gin and some pineapple juice, maraschino liqueur and diced fresh pineapple. “We’re both Harlem girls, so I’m going to fix us a Harlem cocktail.” She combined all the ingredients with cracked ice in a cocktail shaker, then strained it into old-fashioned glasses, handing one to Ciara. “Here’s to a night filled with love and laughter.”

  Ciara touched her glass to Sofia’s, then took a sip. “It’s delicious.” She took another sip, savoring the differing flavors on her palate. “To love and laughter.”

  Ciara ate, drank and danced until she was exhausted. Once the band struck the first chord, everyone in the ballroom was up and dancing. Esteban had arrived with friends from his childhood and from the NYPD. Between courses, he went from table to table like a politician—shaking hands and kissing cheeks, thanking everyone for coming to help him celebrate his fortieth birthday.

  It was after one o’clock when Ciara wound her way through the crowd to find Sofia. A profusion of curls pinned up at the crown of her head added several inches to her petite stature, while a shimmering navy blue halter dress showed off her dancer’s body to its best advantage.

  “I’m leaving,” she whispered in Sofia’s ear.

  Sofia frowned. “Some of us are going back to Esteban’s house after this ends. Why don’t you come with us?”

  “I’d love to, but remember I’m working.”

  “¡Coño! I forgot.”

  She kissed Sofia’s cheek. “I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  “Later, chica.”

  Ciara left the ballroom and took the elevator to the suite. Opening her evening bag, she took out her cell phone and the driver’s card. He answered after the first ring, sounding as alert at one in the morning as he had earlier.

  “I’m ready to leave. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  She ended the call, tossed her evening bag in the larger quilted bag, zipped it and left the room’s card key on the coffee table for Sofia. Making certain she hadn’t left anything, Ciara closed the door behind her. When she stepped out of the elevator, she saw her driver looking at her as if she had a third eye in the middle of her forehead. Then she realized why he was staring. She looked vastly different than she had when he’d picked her up. He took her bag, cupped her elbow and led her out into the cool night to the parked Town Car.

  Ciara slid into the back seat, sinking into the supple leather seat and closing her eyes. The last thing she remembered before falling asleep was the sound of airplanes overhead.

  “Miss Dennison, we’re here.”

  Ciara sat up straight and looked around. She was in Manhattan in front of Brandt’s building. “That was quick.”

  The driver extended his hand, pulling her gently to her feet. “Traffic was very light tonight. I’ll see you upstairs.”

  She managed a tired smile. “That’s all right. I can make it upstairs by myself.” Ciara wanted to remind him that the building was monitored around the clock. Everyone coming and going was observed on closed-circuit cameras.

  The doorman on duty touched the shiny brim of his cap. “Good evening, Miss Dennison, Mr. Landis.”

  Ciara acknowledged his greeting with a smile, while her companion stared straight ahead. Brandt had given her an extra card key for the elevator, but she hadn’t had to use it, because Mr. Landis reached into his jacket pocket and inserted his into the slot for the penthouse.

  The elevator rose swiftly, and the doors opened to a scene that rendered Ciara speechless. A small crowd had gathered in the great room, laughing and talking. A scantily dressed woman, perched on the arm of Brandt’s wheelchair, leaned into him, her mouth pressed to his ear. Approaching the revelry, Ciara spied Clarissa sitting on a love seat in the living room, arms crossed under her breasts. A man seemed to be coming on to her, and from her expression she wasn’t very receptive.

  “Hey, we have a new one!” announced a booming male voice.

  Ciara didn’t and couldn’t react for several seconds after someone had captured her image with a camera phone. She turned back to the driver, who hadn’t moved from the elevator. “Mr. Landis, please get them out of here!” Her voice was low, demanding.

  The driver and bodyguard nodded. Brandt Wainwright had asked him to protect his nurse, and she had flipped the script, because she now wanted him to protect his employer. Striding forward, he caught the wrist of a woman, forcibly taking the flute of champagne from her hand.

  “The party’s over and it’s time for you to go home, miss.”

  A stocky man spun around. “Says who?”

  “Says me,” Ciara announced.

  Brandt looked up, his stunned gaze taking in everything as she must be seeing it. “Ciara.” Her name came out a whisper.

  “I want them out of here, Brandt.”

  “Go home, Stubbs, and take your friends with you.” Brandt’s voice seemed to come from a long way off—a voice he almost didn’t recognize as his own. His teammate had called, asking if he could stop by. Brandt told him he could, but he hadn’t expected Jon Stubbs to bring an entourage and groupies.

  “You heard the man,” Ciara said loudly when no one moved. “Go home.”

  Clarissa popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “How many times do you have to be told to get the hell out of here?” Her eyes were shooting daggers at the man who’d tried m
auling her. “Mr. Landis, if these people don’t leave in two minutes, I want you to call the police and have them arrested for trespassing.”

  Landis removed his jacket, tossing it on the table between the great room and living room. The butt of the handgun in the shoulder holster looked like a small club against the stark white shirt. “Good night, good people.”

  As if it had been choreographed, everyone turned and walked to the elevator. The penthouse was as quiet as a tomb when the elevator doors closed.

  Brandt broke the silence. “Ibrahim, will you please take my sister home?”

  Clarissa rounded on her brother. “I thought I was staying…” Her words trailed off when she was saw Brandt glaring at her. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Landis.”

  Ibrahim Landis slipped into his jacket. “I’ll wait outside for you.”

  Ciara waited for Clarissa to retrieve her overnight bag, then walked her to the elevator, punching the button. “I’m sorry it had to end like this,” she apologized in a quiet voice. She and Clarissa had made plans to spend the day together.

  “That’s okay. I’ll probably see you again when my aunt and uncle host their family get-together at the end of the month.” She offered a bright smile. “Thank you for taking such good care of my brother. And please don’t tell me it’s your job, Ciara, because I know it’s more than that.”

  Ciara angled her head. “What is it you know, Clarissa?”

  Dark lashes framed a pair of sky-blue eyes that knew too much. “Brandt’s in love with you. I’d suspected it when we came for dinner, but when you walked in here tonight dressed like you just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine, I knew for certain when he looked at you.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “No, I’m not, Ciara. I’ve seen my brother with more women than I have fingers and toes, and not one of them—”

  Ciara held up a hand. “That’s enough, Clarissa. I’m tired and I’m certain Brandt’s tired, and I need to get him into bed.”

  Clarissa managed a bright smile. “I’ll see you,” she said cheerfully, then stepped into the elevator.

  Waiting until the doors closed, Ciara slipped off her heels, leaving them under the table in the entryway. Walking on bare feet, she made her way to where Brandt sat waiting for her. She sat opposite him, crossing one leg over the other.

  “This may be your home, Brandt Wainwright, but you are still my patient. And you know better than anyone that you can’t hang out drinking—”

  “I wasn’t drinking,” Brandt said defensively.

  “What’s up with the girl on your lap?”

  “She wasn’t on my lap. She was on the arm of the chair.”

  “And if I hadn’t come in when I did would she have been on your lap?” Ciara asked.

  “Why is it you sound like a jealous wife?”

  “You wish,” she said, glaring. His lids were drooping and the dark circles under his eyes were a testament to his exhaustion. He was entertaining when he should’ve been in bed.

  “Yeah, baby. I wish.”

  Ciara arose from the chair. “I know it’s way past your bedtime, because now you’re talking nonsense.”

  “I say something you don’t want to hear and it’s nonsense?”

  Releasing the brake on his chair, she pushed it out of the living room. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  “It’s already tomorrow.”

  Ciara tried controlling her temper. “Why are you being so stubborn? Because if you’re looking for a fight, then I’m willing to oblige. I come back expecting you to be in bed, not entertaining ladies—and I’m using that term very loosely—”

  “They’re not my groupies,” Brandt said, cutting her off.

  “Groupies, whatever. They’re all the same, Brandt.”

  “You forgot ho,” he drawled, chuckling under his breath.

  “That too. And it’s not funny,” she chided, pushing him into the elevator off the pantry.

  “Did I tell you how sexy you look tonight?”

  “Don’t try and change the subject, Brandt.”

  “How many men tried coming on to you tonight?”

  “I told you not to change the subject.”

  “I’ve got it,” Brandt said, taking control of the chair when the elevator reached the second floor.

  Ciara was angry with him and he was thoroughly frustrated. His feelings toward her were becoming more confusing with every night she spent under his roof. They shared a bed, but with the dawn of each new day, Ciara was more of a stranger than she had been the night before.

  He’d fallen in love with her, but what nagged at him was getting Ciara to change her mind about him. He couldn’t help what the media had created—it wasn’t as if he could turn the image off and on by flipping a switch. As the Viking he was able to fill stadium seats with rabid fans. But would that success cause him to fail to win the woman he loved?

  Brandt entered the bedroom, maneuvering close and transferring from the chair to the bed. He felt Ciara’s closeness as she took off the casts and his shorts, his gaze lingering on the spiral curls falling around her face. There was going to come a time when he wouldn’t need her help dressing or undressing, and that was when he would have to count down the time when she would walk out of his life, and pride would prevent him from begging her to stay.

  There was a lethal calmness in his eyes when he captured her eyes. Always remember you’re a Wainwright. And we Wainwrights don’t accept defeat. His father’s mantra came to mind. Ciara may have won a battle when she told him she wouldn’t date another celebrity, but she hadn’t won the war.

  What he had to do was formulate a game plan where he would not only win her love but also her heart.

  Chapter 17

  Brandt smiled at Ciara. The weather had changed from hot days and warm nights to warm days and cool nights, and so had their relationship. They’d continued to sleep in the same bed, but hadn’t made love in more than three weeks. The first week was because Ciara was on her menses and the next two found them in bed together without either making an overture to the other.

  Brandt knew it had something to do with Ciara returning home to find the penthouse filled with strangers and her annoyance with his teammate’s groupie sitting on his chair. He’d accused her of being jealous, but in truth he was hurt that she hadn’t demonstrated a depth of emotion that went beyond their making love to each other. He knew men who had long relationships and never told their women “I love you.” He didn’t intend to be in that kind of relationship with Ciara.

  She’d dated Victor Seabrook for two years, and she hadn’t mentioned loving him. Victor, who’d monopolized two years of her life and had proposed marriage when he’d feared losing her, had gotten an “I have to think about it.”

  What was there to think about? Brandt mused. He’d dated Courtney Knight for a year before asking her to marry him. Fortunately he’d discovered before they exchanged vows that if she couldn’t be a faithful fiancée then she wouldn’t be a faithful wife.

  Using crutches for the first time, he’d taken half a dozen steps, turned and then retraced his steps. “Congratulations,” she crooned.

  Brandt winked at his nurse. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Ciara shook her head as she studied the man who’d become more than a patient. “You would have done it without me, Brandt, because you’re very competitive and refuse to accept defeat.”

  He’d ramped up his physical therapy, exercising and pushing himself to extreme limits. If his therapist wanted him to perform twenty-five reps of an exercise three times a day, Brandt would increase it to fifty reps three times a day. He exercised on the days not scheduled for therapy, strengthening his leg muscles while shortening his recovery time.

  Switching the crutches to one hand, Brandt used them as support when he sank down next to Ciara on an exercise bench in the home gym. “Let’s go out and celebrate.”

  Ciara was taken aback by his suggestion. “Whe
re?”

  “Out to dinner.”

  Even though Brandt spent time in the solarium or on the rooftop, she knew he was experiencing cabin fever. Whenever he left the penthouse it was to keep a doctor’s appointment. “Okay.”

  Brandt glanced down at his legs. The casts had concealed the scars. “It’s going to feel good to put on a pair of long pants.”

  “Where are we going?” Ciara asked when she wanted to tell him that she’d enjoyed looking at his legs. They were well-formed and developed. If he hadn’t been in tip-top condition, his recovery would’ve taken longer.

  “Someplace local and very casual.” He winked at her. “You don’t have to change.” Jeans hugging her hips and legs, a pastel-pink twinset and her hair pulled into a ponytail made her look like a college coed.

  “Do you need help getting dressed?”

  “Not this time.”

  Ciara averted her gaze. “Not this time,” she mused. Not this time or the next time. Her patient was rapidly becoming more independent. After the crutches it would a cane or canes, and then he would be able to walk unaided. That’s when it would be over for her.

  She’d wrestled with her conscience about sleeping with Brandt, then vacillated because the pleasure she derived offset her ambivalence. There were times when she’d called on all of her emotional resilience not to fall in love. It had been easier not to fall in love with Victor once she’d become cognizant of his controlling, possessive traits, but it was different with Brandt. At any time she could call the agency and ask to be reassigned, when it hadn’t occurred to her to resign her position at the hospital until the physical altercation with Victor.

  Ciara loved nursing, and when she’d joined the hospital staff her intent had been to begin and end her career there. The staff had become her extended family and she still maintained friendships with many in the nursing department.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Brandt’s query broke into her musings. “Not much,” she lied smoothly.

  “How much is not much?”