Here I Am (3 page)

“I don't want any trouble from Sumner. He and Harper can't stand being in the same room together.”

“Don't worry about Sumner,” Brandt said, hoping to reassure his sister that their hot-tempered brother wouldn't cause her soon-to-be ex-fiancé physical harm. Of all the Wainwrights, Sumner was the one who wouldn't hesitate to use his fists in a confrontation.

“I'm going to talk to Mother and Daddy first. Then I'm going to give Harper back his ring.”

Brandt curbed the urge to smile. He'd never liked Harper Sinclair, because the man reminded him of a snake-oil salesman. He talked too much, grinned too much and spoke to Clarissa as if she were a child instead of his partner.

“I'm leaving for North Carolina tomorrow morning. Call me on my cell and let me know how everything turns out. If Harper decides to give you grief, then he'll wish it was Sumner rather than me jacking him up.”

Clarissa laughed and a rush of color flooded her face. “No one believes me when I tell them my brothers are thugs.”

“Remember, we're only three generations removed from the Wainwrights who fought their way out of the Lower East Side to become wealthy.”

“Please don't remind me of the so-called good old days when Grandfather and his brothers were always one step ahead of the police.” Leaning closer, she rested her head on Brandt's broad shoulder. “Don't worry about me, Brandt. Saying I don't want to marry Harper aloud is what I needed to end this sham of an engagement. I know Mother will be disappointed, but this is not about her happiness. It's about mine.”

“Good girl.”

“Let me get back to Harper before he comes looking for me.”

“You're going to be all right?”

“I'm good.”

Brandt released his sister's hand, and watched as she walked out of the suite. He knew she was going to be all right. After all, she was a Wainwright.

C
iara Dennison held a small plate filled with spicy shrimp in one hand as she tried balancing a glass of chilled lemonade in the other, slowly wending her way through the throng that had gathered in the ivy-ringed backyard garden called the Ninth Ward. The restaurant, a brand-new New Orleans–inspired restaurant, had become an East Village favorite for down-home cooking.

It wasn't often that she got a chance to hang out with the people who worked at the hospital where she'd begun her nursing career, but she was glad she'd come to her former supervisor's retirement party. Katie O'Brien had given up supervising young graduate nurses to teach.

The glow from the flickering candles and low-wattage lightbulbs behind old hurricane shutters provided the only illumination inside the restaurant. The backyard garden with its fountains, wrought-iron fleurs-de-lis
and shrouded, backlit statue of voodoo high priestess Marie LaVeau made Ciara feel as if she was truly in New Orleans instead of the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

“Aren't you going to try the catfish po' boy?”

Ciara felt her heart stop for a few seconds before it started up again, this time at a runaway pace that made her feel slightly lightheaded. It had been more than two years since she'd come face-to-face with the man with whom she'd thought she would spend the rest of her life.

Turning slowly, she glared at him. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said sarcastically. “I never would've thought Dr. Eye Candy would come down from his lofty perch to hang out with—what was your phrase? Lowly nurses.”

Ciara had been enthralled by the brilliant doctor ten years her senior. He radiated a charisma that made him appear taller than his slight five-foot-nine frame. Victor wasn't classically handsome, but his custom-made suits and shirts enhanced his attractiveness.

Dr. Victor Seabrook stared at Ciara. Her hair was brushed off her face in a ponytail that hung down her spine. His eyes moved slowly from her perfect face to a body women paid him, as one of the best plastic surgeons in the country, in the high six figures to achieve. The black pencil skirt, white linen man-tailored blouse and black-and-white zebra-print slingback stilettos showed off her tall, slender body to its best advantage.

Initially, he'd found himself drawn to Ciara because she was a chameleon. At work, her loose-fitting scrubs, glasses and hair secured in a matronly bun at the nape of her neck gave her the appearance of a no-nonsense nurse.
But away from the hospital, contact lenses replaced her glasses, her hair came down and form-fitting clothes replaced her baggy nursing attire.

“Why are you here, Victor? I'm certain you weren't invited.”

Victor blinked. “I came because I knew you would be here. Please hear me out,” he pleaded when Ciara turned away. “I came to say I'm sorry, Ciara.”

“Two years, Victor. It has taken two years for you to tell me you're sorry,” she said incredulously.

“You left the hospital, moved and you wouldn't take my calls on your cell,” he replied.

“Well, you see me now. Apology accepted. We have nothing else to say to each other. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to get back to my date.”

Victor's eyebrows and the expression on his face lifted. “You're dating someone?”

She let out an unladylike snort. “Did you actually believe I wouldn't find someone after we broke up?” Ciara leaned closer, her head eclipsing the plastic surgeon's by several inches. “Get away from me before I tell my boyfriend that you're stalking me.”

Victor held up both hands. “Okay, Ciara. I get the message—loud and very clear.” Turning on his heel, he walked back inside the restaurant. Ciara Dennison had done to him what no other woman would think of doing—walk out on him. It was as if history was repeating itself. Victor's mother had walked out on him and his father, destroying the older man, who turned to drugs and alcohol. His father died of an overdose, and Victor became a ward of the state. Eventually he was adopted by his foster parents.

Ciara waited until her ex disappeared, hoping it would be the last time she ever had to see him. What she'd told Victor was only half-true. Although she'd invited her roommate's brother to attend the party with her, NYPD Sergeant Esteban Martinez was not her boyfriend, but just a very good friend.

 

Pushing a button, Brandt switched from the radio to the playlist in his iPod. He'd left New York City before dawn in an attempt to avoid the morning rush, but had run out of luck when traffic came to a standstill between Baltimore and Washington, D.C. It had taken more than an hour before traffic began to move again.

When he'd stopped in Norfolk, Virginia, to eat a late breakfast and fill up his Escalade, the skies had opened up, with the rain coming down in torrents, flooding many of the local roads. Brandt had considered whether to spend the night in Norfolk or continue on to North Carolina. The decision was made for him when rays of sunlight broke through watery clouds.

The cell phone rang and he pushed a button on the Bluetooth. “Hello.”

“Hi, Brandt.”

He smiled. “Hey, Rissa. What's up?”

“I did it. I gave Harper back his ring.”

Brandt lowered the volume on the music filling the SUV. “How did he take it?”

“He was upset, but there wasn't much he could do with Sumner glaring at him. I'd told Mother, Daddy and Sumner what I'd planned to do, and Mother really shocked me when she said she was relieved.”

“You're shi…you're kidding me,” he said, before the profanity slipped out.

“No, I'm not. She admitted she found Harper a little too pushy, but hadn't wanted to interfere.”

“It looks as if you underestimated Leona Wainwright.”

“I know. We're going out for lunch and I'm going to order a burger with bacon, cheese and grilled onions. And, if I'm not too full I'll down an order of steak fries.”

“Careful, little sister, or you'll ruin your girlish figure.”

Clarissa's lilting laugh came through the speaker. It had been a long time since Brandt had heard her laugh. “I lost whatever curves I used to have. But that's all going to change. Right now it's all about Clarissa Odette Wainwright.”

“That's my girl.” The skies darkened again and within seconds rain splattered on the windshield. Brandt adjusted the speed of the windshield wipers.

“I want to apologize,” Clarissa said.

“What about?”

“Going off on you yesterday.”

“I've forgotten about it, so I want you to do the same.”

“Consider it done. I have to go, because you know how ticked Mother gets when she has to wait. Bye, and thanks, Brandt.”

“Any time, Rissa. Bye.” He ended the call, turned up the volume and settled back to concentrate on the rain-slicked road.

Brandt had begun spending more and more of his
off-season time at his modest two-story, three-bedroom house in western North Carolina. He'd come to value the quiet of his retreat, where he took long walks along foot trails, learned to fly-fish from the locals and caught up on his reading. There were times when he'd believed spending so much time alone was turning his brain to mush. But whenever he returned to the endless noise and hustle and bustle of the city he appreciated the pristine wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains even more.

He'd purchased the property as a gift to himself for his twenty-ninth birthday. Over the next two years he'd rarely come down to spend time there during the off-season. Then last year everything changed. Not only had he come south several times during the year, but the visits went far beyond his regular weeklong stays. The first visit—a week after the Super Bowl—he'd found himself stranded when a storm downed power lines and trees, making it dangerous to drive on the rural roads.

Brandt thought himself blessed that he'd been able to survive for a week with his backup generator. The pantry had been stocked with essentials—powdered milk, eggs, canned soup—and the refrigerator and freezer had been stocked with vegetables, fruit, juice, meat and fish. He'd spent the time watching movies and reading. Even after the power was restored and the roads had been cleared, Brandt had come to value his privacy and appreciate his own company.

This time he planned to spend a week at the vacation retreat before returning to New York and preseason play. He'd participated in the team's mini-camp several months ago, solidifying his position as the starting quarterback.

He maneuvered onto a two-lane county road. It was going to take longer to reach his destination, but he was sure not to encounter any traffic delays. The distinctive voice of Michael Bublé's “Home” filled the interior of the SUV. One second Brandt was singing along, and a nanosecond later a large object appeared on the road in front of the Escalade. It was a deer. Brandt swerved to avoid hitting it, turned the steering wheel to the right and hit the brake. The thud of the deer landing on the hood sounded like an explosion as the SUV skidded off the road and came to a stop, colliding with a tree.

Brandt didn't know how long he'd been sitting in the smashed car. He didn't know what hurt more—the throbbing in his head, the burning in his jaw or the crushing pain in his legs.

“This is OnStar. We just received a signal that your air bag has deployed. Can you confirm you've been in an accident?”

Brandt heard the voice, but the pain in his jaw wouldn't permit him to open his mouth except to mumble unintelligibly, “Help me.”

“Hold on. We're sending someone to help you.”

He couldn't count the number of times he'd been tackled, or felt the impact of the wind being knocked out of him. But that pain did not compare to what he felt in the lower part of his body. Each time he tried to move the pain intensified. Then he gave up altogether. The falling rain sounded a rhythmic beat on the roof of the SUV, and Brandt wondered if he could withstand the pain until help arrived. He drifted in and out of consciousness as the disembodied voice from OnStar continued to talk. The last thing he remembered was
the sound of her soothing voice and the wail of sirens before he sank into a comfortable darkness without any pain.

When Brandt awoke in a hospital a day later, he learned that in his effort to avoid hitting the deer, he'd crashed his SUV into a tree and broken both legs in several places.

 

Brandt lay in a hospital bed in his penthouse suite, his legs in plaster casts. He'd spent nearly two weeks in an Asheville hospital before he was flown back to New York in a private jet. Instead of an outpatient rehabilitation facility, Brandt's personal physician had recommended that he do his rehab therapy at home, since he had all the equipment he needed in his penthouse. The news that he would miss the upcoming football season was enough to send him into an emotional tailspin.

“Get out!” he shouted at the nurse who'd come into his bedroom. “Get the hell out and stay out! By the way, you're fired!”

Leona waved to the startled woman. “It's all right, dear. You can leave.” She got out of the chaise longue in the sitting area of the bedroom suite and walked over to the bed. Positioning her hands at her waist, she glared at her son. “That's the second nurse you've fired this week.”

Brandt turned away, burying his face in the mound of pillows cradling his head. “Please leave me alone.”

“You can't be left alone, Brandt.”

He closed his eyes. “Well, I don't want her here.”

Leona threw her hands up in exasperation. Her fun-loving son had turned into an ogre. He'd refused to take
telephone calls or have visitors, insisting that he didn't want to see or talk to anyone. Leona had spent the past three days sleeping in the guest wing, but knew it was time to go home to take care of her own household.

She reached for the telephone on the bedside table, picked up the receiver and dialed the number to the private-nurse agency. Normally she would've made the call in another room, but Leona was past caring about Brandt's feelings.

“This is Mrs. Leona Wainwright. I need you to send another nurse.”

“Mrs. Wainwright, are you aware that we've provided you with two excellent nurses this week? Is there a problem?”

She rolled her eyes at her son. “Yes. The patient is the problem.”

“If that's the case, then we'll send someone who is an expert in caring for difficult patients. You're in luck, because she happens to be available. Her name is Ciara Dennison.”

“When can I expect her?”

“Let me call her, and I'll call you back.”

Leona flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “Thank you.”

“I told you I don't want anyone in my home,” Brandt snarled between clenched teeth after his mother had put the receiver back in the cradle.

“What you want really doesn't matter, Brandt. You're laid up with two broken legs and you need someone to help you get around, give you your medication and make certain you eat. If you want to lie there feeling sorry for yourself, then I'm going home. After you stew in your own waste for a few hours I'm certain you'll change your
mind about letting someone into your home. Make up your mind!”

Her words trailed off when the telephone rang. Leona picked it up on the first ring. She smiled. “Thank you very much.”

Propping himself up into a sitting position, Brandt reached around to adjust the pillows supporting his shoulders. “When is she coming?”

“Her name is Ciara Dennison and she'll be here between one and two.”

 

Ciara Dennison had the advantage when she'd accepted the assignment as a private nurse for Brandt Wainwright. She knew who he was, but he knew nothing of her nursing skills or unorthodox bedside manner. The agency occasionally called her to deal with difficult patients, and she'd earned a reputation as a no-nonsense nurse who provided excellent care.

When the news broke that pro quarterback Brandt Wainwright had been involved in a car accident in North Carolina, the presumption on most sports news shows was that he'd been driving under the influence. Once it was confirmed that there were no drugs or alcohol in his system, it quieted the skeptics and the gossip.