Here I Am (19 page)

Reaching for the cell phone on the bedside table, he punched “Contacts” and scrolled through the directory until he found the name he wanted. He smiled when he heard the husky female voice.

“Hey, you,” he said, repeating her unorthodox greeting. “I've got something for you that should sell out your next edition.”

“Shall I come over now?”

Victor frowned. “I'm in bed.”

“When has that ever stopped us from conducting business, Dr. Seabrook?”

“You're right, Poppy.” He didn't want Poppy Rayburn
and she didn't want him. But that didn't mean they didn't need each other. “Come on over.”

Tapping a button, he ended the call and swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for pajamas. Even though it wouldn't make a difference to Poppy if he did come to the door without clothes, he didn't want her distracted from what he planned to divulge to her.

C
iara stood at the rail, staring at the choppy waters of the Atlantic as the sleek yacht sliced through the ocean with a minimum of rocking motion. She and Brandt had arrived at the pier at seven and been shown to a stateroom that had every convenience of a hotel. The crew of seven was as inconspicuous as they were efficient.

A steward had unpacked their luggage, putting everything away, and half an hour after sailing the on-board chef served them a buffet breakfast of herbed scrambled eggs, sausage patties, baked country ham, buttermilk biscuits, homemade jams, navel oranges, hot coffee and tea and fresh orange juice with champagne.

Closing her eyes, she wrapped her arms around her body. The autumn sun was hot, but it was the wind that chilled her exposed flesh.
Ciara opened her eyes when she felt another source of heat. Brandt had replaced the crutches with two tripod canes; he admitted the canes helped him with balance and stability. She turned and smiled up at him. She'd gotten so used to seeing him seated that she was overwhelmed by his towering height and the breadth of his shoulders.

“How was your nap?”

Brandt stared at Ciara from under lowered lids. Barefoot and wearing a sweatshirt over a pair of shorts and with her ponytail whipping in the wind, he found her more tantalizing than when she wore the body-hugging dress and stilettos. She looked so incredibly beautiful, delicate and innocent that he found it hard to draw a normal breath.

“It would've been better if I had someone to share it with me.”

Looping her arm through his, Ciara went on tiptoe to brush her mouth over his. “Why didn't you ask me?”

“I did, but you told me you wanted to stay on deck and enjoy the ocean.”

Ciara pressed closer, her breasts molding to the contours of his hard chest. “Ask me again, Brandt.”

Lowering his head, Brandt trailed kisses down the column of her scented neck. “Ciara Dennison, will you come to bed with me?”

Curving her arms under his shoulders, she rested her cheek over his heart while counting the strong, steady beats. “I'd thought you'd never ask.”

He let out an audible exhalation. “What I wouldn't give to be able to pick you up and carry you downstairs.”

“Patience, sport. That time will come,” she whispered.

Ciara lowered her arms, wrapping one around his waist as she led him below deck.

Brandt knew he would eventually regain enough strength in his legs to lift more than his body weight. It was the realization that Ciara might not be around when he reached that milestone that had him anxious and frustrated.

His taking her away was to give her a break from what had become a mundane ritual of checking his vitals, examining his legs, preparing meals, conferring with the physical therapist and accompanying him for his scheduled visits to the doctor's office.

His routine hadn't varied much: he spent time in the solarium reading or pruning his plants, exercising, occasionally viewing movies from his extensive collection and sharing meals on the rooftop with Ciara, weather permitting. It was when they retired to bed that the floodgates opened and they talked—about anything and everything but themselves and what they wanted for their futures.

Brandt was able to keep his balance as he followed Ciara into their stateroom. He could've reserved the Wainwright family yacht the
Mary Catherine
for the trip, but that meant driving down to the shipyard on the Chesapeake. The
Mary Catherine
was smaller, sleeker, but this one was better able to ride out a storm if they were to encounter rough seas—there still were another two months before the official end of hurricane season.

There were three decks of cabins and salons, with the crew occupying the lowest deck. The interior staterooms were luxurious—walnut, teak, a gleaming stainless-steel
stair on the main aft deck and ebony-and-cherrywood tables bespoke elegance and grace as seen in the finest homes.

Ciara hung the Do Not Disturb tag on the doorknob, then closed the door and turned the security lock until she heard the soft click.

Brandt sat on the bed, watching her intently as she closed the distance between them. He extended his arms and she walked into his embrace, burying her face in his hair. He felt so good and smelled even better.

“I think I'd better close the curtains or the crew will get an impromptu peep show.”

She pulled the heavy fabric over the porthole, shutting out sunlight and endless miles of water. Turning back, Ciara met Brandt's eyes as she pulled the sweatshirt over her head, then the tank top. Her shorts and panties followed, leaving her completely naked for his rapacious gaze.

She felt no fear or shame whenever she took her clothes off for Brandt, because it always felt so natural. Perhaps it was because within hours of meeting Brandt for the first time it had been she who'd gazed on his magnificent nude body. He may have been her patient, but he was also a man—a very attractive man who made her feel things she didn't want to feel. Her fingers were steady as she unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it off his broad shoulders. He pushed her hand away when she attempted to unsnap his khakis.

“I can do it.”

Ciara nodded. For weeks she had performed the task of helping him to dress and undress, so it'd become a habit. She knew Brandt didn't like relying on her for what
was a basic human function, but he'd endured it until he was able to reestablish a modicum of independence. She got into the bed, lying on her side and watching as he relieved himself of his pants and boxer briefs.

Brandt lay on his back and swung his legs into the bed, smiling when he executed the move without pain. Using the strength in his upper body, he turned on his right side, facing Ciara, and rested a hand over her breast. Her eyes fluttered, then closed.

His eyes ate her up, from the hair spread out on the pillow to the rapidly beating pulse in her throat and heaving breasts. He forced himself not to stare at the area below her waist, because he wanted to visually savor her for as long as he could without penetrating her. Once inside Ciara, Brandt experienced a loss of control and common sense.

Whenever he was buried in her moist heat he found himself swept up in a magical journey where he could see himself growing old with her, surrounded by their children and grandchildren. Even as a child he'd been a realist, never giving in to flights of fancy like some children who'd pretended they were superheroes. The only place where he'd achieved superhero status was on the gridiron. Blessed with quick reflexes, an accurate throwing arm and the uncanny strength to stave off being sacked, he'd become the Viking, a real-life flesh-and-blood superhero to the media and football fans.

He was close enough to Ciara to see the outlines of her contact lenses. “Thank you.”

A slight frown appeared between her eyes. “For what, Brandt?”

“For being here with me.”

She gave him a mysterious smile. “I should be the one thanking you.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm supposed to be working, but you're spoiling me.”

“You're not working, Ciara. Remember, my mother terminated your services last night. You're Brandt Wainwright's girlfriend, and as such I'm going to try to do everything I can to spoil the hell out of you.”

“You don't have to try,” she countered. “You're doing it.” She was on a luxury yacht with a crew at her beck and call. She didn't have to cook, do laundry or make her bed. All she had to do was get up, shower, dress and go up on deck to lie in the sun.

“I'm going to ask one thing from you as my girlfriend,” Brandt said after a comfortable silence.

Ciara felt her heart kick into a faster rhythm. Now it's time for the other shoe to drop, she thought. “What is it?”

Brandt's hand moved from her breast to her hip. “Why do you make it sound as if I'm asking you to do something you don't want to do?”

“I didn't mean for it to come out like that.”

He kissed her forehead. “You are precious to me, baby. What I'm asking is for you to give yourself to me and I'll give you all of myself in return.”

Ciara stared at the attractive cleft in his strong chin. “Is that it?”

“If you want me to ask for more, then I can come up with a laundry list, baby,” Brandt said, chuckling softly.

“No, Brandt. I don't have a problem with what you're asking for.”

He sobered, meeting her eyes. “It's just not your body I want, Ciara.” The seconds ticked by as they stared at each other.

“You want me to love you,” Ciara said perceptively. To her surprise, Brandt showed no reaction, and she knew that she'd read him correctly.

“Am I asking too much from you?”

She felt a momentary panic before it disappeared like a wisp of smoke. Brandt was asking her to love him when she'd used everything in her emotional arsenal to fight her deepening feelings for her patient. She'd rationalized, telling herself she had no time for love and that when she walked away from Brandt she would take her love for him with her.

“No, darling. You aren't asking for too much.”

Brandt's gaze softened, becoming a caress when he stared into her eyes. “I love you, Ciara, and because I do I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Ciara placed her fingers over his mouth. “Let's enjoy what we have.” Her mouth replaced her fingers when she caressed his mouth, silently communicating her love for the man holding her to his heart.

Reaching down, Brandt placed Ciara's leg over his. He bit down on his lip when his penis hardened quickly. He still couldn't make love to Ciara using positions that would bring them maximum pleasure, but at least now he didn't have to rely on her straddling his lap.

He longed for the day when he could place her on her back and he would start at her neck and taste every inch of her fragrant body until they experienced the full
range of lovemaking. Grasping his erection, he guided it between her thighs, closing his eyes and moaning when her moist heat closed around his sex.

Making love facing each other made Ciara feel vulnerable. She wasn't able to hide her reaction to Brandt's lovemaking from him. He hadn't put on a condom because she was now using a contraceptive, and without the barrier of latex the sex was more intense.

Brandt raised her leg, resting it over his waist, while he angled his lower body for deeper penetration. He rotated his hips, pulled back and pushed, each time deeper, harder. If it were possible, he wanted to stay inside her until hunger or forces of nature forced him to pull out. Whenever he made love with Ciara he felt as if he'd come home. She was safe haven, a sanctuary where he found a peace he hadn't known was missing in his life.

“Open your eyes, baby.” He smiled at the dreamy expression on her face. “I want you to look at me when I tell you that I love you.”

A rush of tears filled Ciara's eyes, spiking her lashes. “I'm listening.” The two words were whispered.

Brandt clamped his jaw and went completely still in an effort not to release himself inside her, but not making love to her for weeks had tested his resolve. He went to bed wanting her, woke with an erection and craved her throughout the day. There were days when he deliberately avoided her because he feared forcing her into a situation she hadn't agreed to. He always wanted their coming together to be by mutual consent. She was not his possession, something he could use, put away and use again at his whim.

“Not only do I love you, but I'm also in love with you.”

Ciara smiled through the watery tears threatening to overflow. Her chin quivered. “I hate you for making it so easy for me to fall in love with you.”

“You love me and you hate me. What's up with the ambivalence?”

“I didn't want to get involved with you.”

“But you did,” Brandt confirmed.

Ciara closed her eyes for several seconds. “I didn't want to even like you.”

“But you do,” he countered.

She flashed a sexy moue. “Not only am I involved, but I'm also in love with you, Brandt Wainwright.”

He kissed the end of her nose. “How did I get so lucky?” He'd asked her the same question weeks ago.

Ciara moaned when Brandt began moving again, reigniting her passion. Heat and cold clashed, sweeping her up in a maelstrom of desire that made her feel faint. They established a rhythm, choreographing a dance of desire, as shivers of delight eddied up and down her spine.

Brandt's groans overlapped Ciara's, his hips moving faster and faster. Then it happened. The tightening in his scrotum, the burning sensation at the base of his spine, then the rush of semen, leaving him unable to speak or breathe.

Ciara Dennison was the first woman with whom he'd slept without a condom. And she was the only woman with whom he'd made love that he wanted to have his child. He hadn't lied to Ciara. He did love her—more than he could've imagined loving any woman.

 

Brandt and Ciara stood at the rail, watching as the shoreline of Charlotte Amalie grew smaller and smaller as the yacht sailed in a northerly direction. They'd spent the day shopping and touring the island by car.

Over the past week their ports of call had been Miami; Key West; San Juan, Puerto Rico; and St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. They were going home, with a stop in Miami to refuel before continuing on to New York. The weather had decided to cooperate. It'd rained twice, during the early morning hours, and when they had disembarked it was to days filled with sunshine and tropical trade winds.

Their days began with leisurely lovemaking, shared showers and hearty breakfasts eaten on the top deck. Days at sea were spent sunbathing, watching movies or playing chess. The midday meal was always served buffet-style with fresh salads, tropical fruit, cold fish platters and fruity beverages. Dinners were extravaganzas fit for visiting royalty. Each evening the chef prepared a special dish, cooked on deck with accompanying wines, and served by white-jacketed waiters.