Here I Am (20 page)

Brandt felt the vibration against his leg. It was the first time someone had called his cell phone in eight days.

Reaching into the pocket of his slacks, he took out the BlackBerry. A frown appeared between his eyes when he saw that Jordan had called him. He retrieved the voice mail message. His cousin had sent him an email he thought would be of interest to him.

Walking over to a deck chair, Brandt sat, placing the canes on deck beside the chair. When he accessed his
email account and read the article Jordan had forwarded, Brandt knew if he hadn't been seated he would've lost his balance. Ciara's greatest fear was manifested. Her association with him had become fodder for the tabloids.

“Is something wrong?”

He glanced up as Ciara sank down on the chair next to his. “No.” When he punched a button, the article was replaced by the phone's wallpaper. “Why do you ask?”

Ciara stared Brandt through the lenses of her sunglasses. “You had this strange look on your face.”

Brandt was faced with the dilemma of showing her the email or waiting until they returned to New York. Within seconds, he decided on the latter. He wouldn't take any action until he spoke directly to Jordan.

“Someone sent me a bunch of chain letter emails,” he lied. “I hate those damn things clogging up my inbox.”

Ciara rested her hand on Brandt's forearm. His sun-browned skin and ash-blond hair reminded her of a magnificent palomino. Two days. They had forty-eight hours before returning to New York and reality.

C
iara walked into the kitchen and threw several newspapers and a magazine at Brandt, hitting him in the chest. “You knew about this, didn't you?”

They'd returned to New York at seven in the morning, and twelve hours later during one of the televised entertainment shows, her worst fear had become a reality. The photos of her and Brandt kissing at the New Meadowlands Stadium had opened a Pandora's box, releasing a swarm of lies, rumors and scathing innuendos.

She'd left her cell at the penthouse, and when she'd retrieved her messages there were several from her mother, Sofia and many of the nurses she'd worked with at the hospital. All of the messages carried a similar tone:
We're here for you if you need us.

Ciara hadn't known what they were talking about. She'd called her mother, but there was no answer at
home and the call to her cell went directly to voice mail. It was then that she'd called Sofia, who was forthcoming about what had become the latest celebrity gossip.

An anonymous source had told gossip columnist Poppy Rayburn that Ciara Dennison was a gold digger, trading in men every two years as if they were leased cars. The article went on to say that she'd used celebrity plastic surgeon Dr. Victor Seabrook and when she tired of him she'd moved on to Brandt Wainwright. The article ended with:
Who's her next target?

Brandt closed his eyes, hoping to shut out the photograph of Ciara clinging to Victor Seabrook's arm that had been taken at a fundraising event to benefit juvenile diabetes, but the image of her beautiful face when she'd smiled at the camera remained.

He opened his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

Sitting on a stool at the cooking island, Ciara glared at him. “When did you know?”

Brandt's gaze shifted to the images on the screen of the muted television. “I found out from Jordan. He emailed me when we were on the ship coming back from St. Thomas. I wanted to tell you, but I knew it would upset—”

“Upset me!” she spat out, cutting him off. “I'm livid because you lied to me, Brandt. I asked you if anything was wrong and you told me no. I don't know what kind of women you're used to dealing with, but in case you haven't figured it out I am not a girl. Did you think I was going to have a meltdown? Or did you want me in a good mood so we could continue to—”

“You don't know what the hell you're talking about!”

Ciara went completely still. “I know you'd better not
ever raise your voice to me again.” Her threat was low, cutting.

“Or you'll what, Ciara?” Brandt challenged, his temper rising to meet hers. “You'll leave me like you left Victor Seabrook? I don't think so.”

Her eyes narrowed like she was a cat ready to pounce. “You don't believe I'd walk out on you?”

“No. Because if you do, then you'd just validate the lies. You know what you are and I know who you are,” he continued, his voice softer, more conciliatory. “What you have to do is try and come up with the name of someone who'd want to discredit you.”

Covering her face with her hands, Ciara shook her head. “I don't know.”

“Think, Ciara. What about a vindictive girlfriend or boyfriend?”

She lowered her hands. “Maybe I'm naive, but I never had a problem with anyone at the hospital. Not with my coworkers or supervisor.”

“What about an old boyfriend?”

“I dated one boy when I was in college, but we ended it after a year. He eventually married a girl from our graduating class. I went out with another guy a couple of years before I began seeing Victor. We'd see each other for a couple of months, break up, then we'd reconnect six months later. We both knew it wasn't going anywhere, so we decided not to continue to waste each other's time and ended it.”

“I need their names.”

Anxiety spurted through Ciara when she thought about Brandt's request. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” she repeated. “Then why do you need to know who they are?”

“Jordan's coming over to talk to you about this. He'll let you know what he needs to sue Poppy Rayburn and that rag she writes for for slander and defamation of character.”

Hot tears pricked the backs of Ciara's eyelids. She was hoping if she kept a low profile the gossip would eventually go away. But it wasn't going to go away. Not when the Wainwrights were talking lawsuit.

She shook her head. “No, Brandt. I don't want my life disrupted with what amounts to silliness and a ‘he said, she said.'” Ciara couldn't blame Poppy for writing the article. She blamed herself, because she'd known what to expect when she'd been seen with a man in the public eye.

“It's too late, baby. This is just not about you or me. It's about us.”

“Us because you're a Wainwright?” she asked sharply.

“It's about…” The intercom rang and, using only one cane, Brandt limped over to answer it. “Jordan's on his way up.”

Sliding off the stool, Ciara walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. She wanted to cry, but couldn't. She wanted to scream, but didn't. It had taken only one public appearance with Brandt to start tongues wagging about her identity, and one kiss to defame her character.

She heard the distinctive chime indicating the elevator had arrived at the penthouse level. She sat straighter when Jordan and Brandt and an older man who bore a
striking resemblance to Jordan walked into the living room. Both wore dark blue pinstripe suits, white shirts, dark ties and wingtips. Brandt dropped down beside her, holding her hand, while she studied the other two men.

Waiting until his cousin and great-uncle sat on the love seat, Brandt squeezed Ciara's hand. “Ciara, I'd like you to meet my uncle, Wyatt Wainwright. Wyatt, Ciara Dennison.”

Wyatt Wainwright rose, extended his hand and smiled at the young woman who had caused quite a stir because of her association with his nephew. “Miss Dennison.”

Ciara smiled at the elegant man with a head of shocking white hair and piercing blue eyes. He and Jordan shared the same lean face, jawline and patrician features. She recalled Aziza mentioning that her husband's grandfather was an old-school gangster.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wainwright.”

Wyatt retook his seat, his eyes taking in everything about Ciara Dennison. He had been watching the football game when he saw Brandt kiss the young woman sitting next to him. He'd known the gesture was certain to elicit curiosity as to who she was. What he hadn't known was that she'd been romantically linked to the celebrity plastic surgeon.

Wyatt found the nurse attractive, and there was something behind her eyes he recognized as determination. She was no shrinking violet. “I'm sorry I didn't get to meet you at the family fall get-together, Ciara. If I had, then I doubt whether I'd be here tonight.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Wainwright?”

Crossing one leg over the opposite knee, Wyatt stared
at the toe of his polished wingtip. “I wanted to see for myself the woman who is responsible for dragging the Wainwright name into sleazy rags.”

“Grandfather!”

“Uncle!”

Brandt and Jordan had spoken in unison, but Wyatt waved at them as if they were annoying insects. “Stay out of this!” He redirected his attention to Ciara. “I also came because I want to hear the truth, Miss Dennison.”

Annoyance snaked its way up Ciara's spine. If Wyatt thought he was going to intimidate her, then he was mistaken. Like she'd told Brandt, she didn't scare easily. “How do you know what you read in the paper isn't the truth?”

Black eyebrows lowered over the penetrating blue eyes. “One thing I'm not, Miss Dennison, is a fool. So don't take me for one,” he chastised. “Jordan has agreed to represent you when we sue Poppy Rayburn and that rag she calls a paper, but we need to know about your past relationship with Victor Seabrook.”

Ciara felt as if she'd been ambushed by the Wainwrights, and she wondered why they were focusing on Victor. Had they uncovered something she didn't know? She exchanged a sidelong glance with Brandt. He squeezed her hand again.

“You have to tell them, babe.”

Her voice was low, calm when she told them everything from her initial introduction to Victor, to when she ordered him to leave her apartment and when he showed up uninvited to the retirement party for her former supervisor.

The muscle in Wyatt's jaw twitched. “You didn't have him arrested for assaulting you?”

Ciara shook her head. “I just wanted to be rid of him. But if he'd continued to harass me then I would've had him charged with stalking.”

“His blowing up your cell was enough to have him charged with harassment,” Jordan said.

Wyatt snorted. “In my day we didn't go to the police, but meted out our own form of street justice. If a man hit a woman, then he found himself with a broken arm. And if he beat her up, then it was both arms and legs.

“That's because you were an OSG,” Brandt said under his breath.

Jordan shot his cousin a “no you didn't say that” look before he redirected his attention to Ciara. “Who, other than Dr. Seabrook, would know where he'd purchased your clothes?”

“Other than the salespeople at the boutiques and department stores, I wouldn't know. Victor had his favorites: Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue and Bloomingdale's. He also shopped at Wolford, Montmarte and a few other shops at Columbus Circle. Anyone could get this information off the internet. There are more than forty pages on Victor if you search for his name.”

Jordan reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and took out a small leather-bound book. He flipped to a flagged page. “I had someone look up Victor Seabrook, and Montmarte and Wolford weren't mentioned anywhere.”

Wyatt slapped his thigh. “I told you the son of a bitch gave Poppy that information. The article was too detailed for hearsay, and that poor excuse for a journalist
slanted it to sound as if Seabrook was the wronged party. That he was so in love with Ciara that he proposed marriage, but she'd laughed in his face and then left him to hook a bigger fish. When I first read the article I was under the assumption that a woman had fed Poppy the information, because most men, unless they're clothing designers, could care less about labels or the stores that carry them.”

Ciara closed her eyes, not wanting to believe Wyatt. But she knew there was some truth in what he was saying. Not only was Victor controlling, but he was also guarded. He only shopped in certain stores and ate at certain restaurants because then he could control his environment.

When she opened her eyes Ciara saw three pairs of eyes staring at her. “I'm sorry, Jordan, but it sounds too simple.”

“So was breaking into the Democratic National Committee's office at the Watergate back in '72,” Wyatt drawled. “It's the smart ones who end up outsmarting themselves.”

“Whether simple, crude or sophisticated,” Jordan said with deceptive calmness, “the person or persons who persuaded Poppy Rayburn to print that article managed to humiliate you and get their fifteen minutes of fame—even if vicariously.”

Ciara nodded. Jordan was right. The article had become an exposé of her past relationship with a man who was admired as much for his medical expertise as for his humanitarian work. Dr. Victor Seabrook had become a much-sought-after plastic surgeon and medical expert. Meanwhile, the article had portrayed Ciara as a
parasite, a gold digger who'd taken advantage of a man she'd snared in a carefully spun web of deception.

“If someone was out to hurt me, then they've succeeded. Who's going to hire me if they believe I'm going to take advantage of a family member—especially if they're male and wealthy?”

“Don't worry about it, Ciara,” Brandt said, joining the discussion.

She rounded on him. “I have to worry about it, Brandt. It's my career that's in jeopardy, and I'm not ready to give it up because some vindictive cretin decides to feed malicious lies to the media. What's next, Brandt? Or is it who's next? Should my next patient be an octogenarian worth billions? This time I'll persuade him to marry me, and then convince him to change his will so I'll stand to inherit everything. Of course there will be the proverbial fight when his family decides to contest the will because their beloved wasn't of sound mind and body when he disinherited them.”

Brandt's expression was a mask of stone. He knew Ciara was upset, but he preferred her screaming and throwing things to her cynicism. “We're going to get Poppy to print a retraction.”

“How, Brandt? By using your uncle's method of breaking her arm?”

Wyatt chuckled. “That is a thought.” He sobered like quicksilver. “This isn't only about you, Ciara. Except for an incident or two, the Wainwrights have managed to remain scandal-free. Brandt is the most recognizable Wainwright, followed by Jordan, but so far the others have kept a low profile. And as the head of the family that's the way I want it.

“You're Brandt's nurse, and it is also obvious you two have something else going on. I don't want to know what it is, but as long as you're involved with my grandnephew you'll be afforded the same protection as anyone with a drop of Wainwright blood. If you and Brandt decide to separate, then you're on your own.”

“My grandfather's right,” Jordan confirmed. “As your legal counsel, I'm going to insist you not speak to anyone about this.”

“What about my mother?” Ciara asked.

“Have you spoken to her?”

“No. I called her, but she hasn't called me back. When she does, what do you want me to tell her?”

“Tell her you're not going to publicly rebut anything, and if anyone approaches you your reply will be ‘no comment.' Let your mother know she's not to talk to anyone about this.”

Ciara nodded. “Should I tell her that you plan to sue the paper?”