Here I Am (17 page)

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 mauling 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.

B
randt 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. “Where?”

“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?”

“Nothing worth talking about.”

Reaching over, he tugged at her ponytail. “How would you like a break?”

Ciara stared at Brandt's profile, surprisingly shocked by his question. “You want another nurse?”

Leaning closer, he pressed a kiss to her hair. “Now why would I want another nurse when I'm crazy about the one I have? I was talking about going away for a week or two.”

She wondered if Brandt was thinking about his aborted vacation. He'd been on his way to North Carolina when he'd had the accident. “You want to go to North Carolina?”

“No, babe, I don't want to go to North Carolina. I'd have a problem getting around on crutches.”

Wrapping her arm around Brandt's waist, Ciara rested her head on his shoulder. Their relationship had an undercurrent of uneasiness these days. It was as if they'd reached an impasse: they couldn't go forward and there was no going back. There was no way they could undo making love.

“What about your therapy?”

Brandt chuckled. “Do you always have to think like a nurse?”

It was Ciara's turn to laugh. “Of course. Once a nurse, always a nurse.”

“Well, Nurse Dennison, there are some exercises I can do without using a treadmill or bike. Now, where should we go?”

He was offering her a choice—something Victor never had done. It had always been his way or no way. She hadn't thought about or spoken Victor's name since Esteban's birthday celebration, and she knew it was just a matter of time before she would be able to exorcise him completely from her mind.

“We'll discuss it over dinner.”

Brandt angled his head and brushed his mouth over her parted lips. “Wherever we decide to go, it will have to be after Sunday. I promised the guys on the team I would come see them play Sunday afternoon.”

“What else do you have planned?” she asked, smiling.

“That's it for now. I'm going to have to call my aunt and let her know we'll be away and won't be able to join the others for her fall frolic fête.”

Ciara wanted to tell Brandt that reconnecting with his family took precedence over an impromptu vacation, but didn't know his current state of mind. Perhaps getting away was what he needed to prepare himself for the next phase of his life—because there was still the possibility that he wouldn't be able to play ball again. He would always have his family, but even if he'd remained healthy the career of a professional football player was not a long one. He'd chosen a career path measured in mere years and wishes that he would be able to retire physically unscathed.

 

Brandt had selected a tiny Italian restaurant two blocks from the apartment building, and what should've taken them five minutes to walk stretched into a laborious fifteen with him stopping to rest every twenty feet. Ciara chided herself for allowing him to perform the task his first day on crutches, but kept silent.

When the waiter recognized Brandt, he showed them to a table that provided a modicum of privacy. Placing a hand over his heart, the man angled his head. “My wife said a special novena for your recovery when we heard about your accident. I will tell her that her prayers were answered.”

Brandt smiled. “Let your wife know I really appreciate her prayers.”

“I'll give you and your lady time to look at the menu,” he said, backing away from the table.

Ciara glanced around the restaurant; like many Manhattan eating establishments, the owner had maximized all available space with the positioning of tables along the brick walls. It was designed to duplicate an underground grotto with a waterfall, gaslight sconces and a cobblestone floor.

“This place is charming,” she said, smiling at Brandt across the table. A lighted candle threw long and short shadows over his lean face.

“I like coming here because the service is good, the food is exceptional and I can blend in.”

Ciara stared at her dining partner. It was the first time Brandt had alluded to his celebrity status being a hindrance. Even if he hadn't been football's Viking, it
would have been difficult for him to blend in, given his appearance.

“Does it bother you when people stop and stare?” she asked.

Brandt lifted a broad shoulder under a cotton sweater. He was dressed entirely in black: sweater, jeans, running shoes and baseball cap. “Not too much. In the beginning I felt uncomfortable because I didn't know how someone would react to me. Were they angry because we hadn't won a game, or were they mad because we had beaten their team? It's impossible to tell what someone is thinking when they come up to me, so I find myself on guard most times.”

“When you go out do you usually travel with Mr. Landis?”

A wry smile softened Brandt's mouth. “Ibrahim provides the necessary buffer I need whenever I attend something on the scale of a charity event.”

“What about the clubs?”

“I stopped going to clubs a few years back. Alex had just joined the team and we went with several other players to a club in the Meatpacking District. Some dude threw a punch at Alex because he claimed he was flirting with his woman, and all hell broke loose. A running back was jumped by two guys and when it was all over the other guys were unconscious with broken jaws and busted ribs. A bouncer led us out through an emergency exit and by the time the police arrived we were nowhere in sight. That was the last time I went to a club.”

Ciara narrowed her eyes. “Please don't tell me you got into the melee.”

“Did you actually think I was going to let someone tag one of my teammates without retaliating? There were only two hits: one when I clocked the idiot and the other when he hit the floor. We hauled ass because Alex would've violated his personal conduct clause and could've been banned from the game, while the rest of us would've faced suspension and substantial fines.”

“Was Alex flirting?”

“No. It was the woman who'd been coming on to him, but when he told her he wasn't interested, she told her boyfriend he was trying to pick her up. Alex's so-called playboy image is nothing more than media hype. He was seeing a woman for a couple of years, but they broke just before the new year. He claims she was drama personified.”

Resting her elbow on the table, Ciara rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “Aren't most relationships filled with drama?”

Brandt stared at the doll-like face of the woman totally unaware of her impact on him and his life. “They don't have to be, Ciara.”

Her delicate eyebrows lifted. “Were yours?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“What makes you the exception?” she asked.

“It's not about being the exception. It's about recognizing it and taking the necessary steps to avoid it. I don't do well with needy women, or those who crave the spotlight.”

“Is it because you're not willing to share the spotlight?”

Brandt recoiled as if he'd been struck across the face. “Is that what you believe, Ciara?”

“It's not what I believe, Brandt. It's what I'm asking.”

“The answer is no. It's not easy living in a fishbowl where everything you do or say is scrutinized. It took a while, but I learned to play the game. There are times I smile when I don't feel like smiling, because once you become a so-called celebrity, everybody wants a piece of you. And you can't preen on the red carpet one night then beat up a photographer the next day. You forfeit what you crave most: privacy.

“I could've bought a condo anywhere in the city, but chose the building where I live because it's the most secure Wainwright property in the city. The elevator you take to get to the penthouse only stops at certain floors, because those tenants want to remain anonymous to everyone but the security staff. All of the doormen and security personnel have to go through extensive background checks, and then sign a confidentiality clause not to disclose what goes on in the building. You said you lived in a doorman building, so you know New York doormen are notorious gossips.”

“So that little orgy I witnessed was the exception rather than the norm?”

“It wasn't an orgy, Ciara,” Brandt spat out angrily. “I thought we'd settled that little misunderstanding. I had no idea Stubbs was bringing his crew with him when he asked to visit.”

“Crew? The girls looked more like rump-shaking backup dancers.”

“I wouldn't know what they looked like, because I
wasn't interested. And if I had been, what was I going to do sitting in a wheelchair?”

Lowering her arm, Ciara gave him an incredulous look. “I know you didn't ask me that when you know exactly what we did with you sitting in a wheelchair.”

Grinning and flashing straight white teeth, Brandt winked at Ciara. “We did some pretty incredible things in that chair. I'll never forget your lap dance as long as I live.”

Thankfully she did not have to respond—a waiter set a basket of warm bread and two goblets of water on the table. She picked up the menu and perused the selections, feeling the heat of Brandt's gaze on her.

“Were you jealous?”

She glanced up. “Jealous of whom or what?”

A beat passed. “Were you jealous of the woman sitting on my chair?”

Ciara knew the time had come for her to stop lying to Brandt and to herself. “Yes,” she whispered. “I was jealous and angry enough to pull the heifer's bleached blond hair out from her black roots.”

If Ciara's admission hadn't been so critical to their relationship, Brandt would've laughed. But he didn't, because he knew that if she was jealous, then her feelings for him went beyond casual sex. Suddenly he was sure of himself and what he had to do to win Ciara over completely.