HERE I AM

Here I Am
Rochelle Alers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Evette Porter—

thanks for the encouragement, chats and the laughs

as we continue this incredible journey together.

Dear Reader,

In Here I Am, we revisit the Wainwrights and meet another hunky scion, who is heir to the family’s New York City real-estate empire. This time it’s Brandt Wainwright—an NFL quarterback and Super Bowl MVP—who has chosen professional sports over the family real-estate business.

Always in tip-top shape, Brandt faces his greatest challenge when he is forced to endure months of physical rehabilitation after a horrific automobile accident. Unable to take care of his most basic needs, he is forced to rely on the assistance of no-nonsense nurse Ciara Dennison.

Unimpressed by his celebrity-athlete status, Ciara tries to repress her feelings toward Brandt—both as a patient and as a man. Despite the spotlight and tabloid rumors, Brandt must convince Ciara that true love is worth fighting for and that there is a happily-ever-after.

Of course, there are more Wainwrights whose stories are yet to be told. In the meantime, look for my Hideaway summer wedding trilogy in 2012, and get reacquainted with the Cole family.

Read, love and live romance,

Rochelle Alers

When I say, my bed shall comfort me;

my couch shall ease my complaint.

—Job 7:13

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 1

Brandt Wainwright gritted his teeth. It was as if he had ten thumbs instead of two. He had tried three times before, but he was unable to secure the striped, silk tie into a Windsor knot.

He’d given up wearing ties, or as he called them, corporate nooses, the day after he was drafted by the NFL. That was more than ten years ago. Now, as his cousin’s best man in a wedding that was certain to make the Vows section of the Sunday New York Times, he’d agreed to wear a tuxedo.

He wasn’t completely surprised when his cousin had asked him to be his best man, but what had shocked him was Jordan Wainwright’s announcement that he’d planned to marry Aziza Fleming. Brandt had introduced the two of them at the New Year’s Eve party he’d hosted earlier that year. Seven months later, and in less than half an hour, they would become husband and wife.

Brandt ran a hand over the back of his neck. He felt practically naked having cut his hair, which usually covered the nape of his neck. He hadn’t wanted to, since like many athletes he was superstitious about things like that. But then again, he had to when Jordan asked him to get a haircut like the other groomsmen in the wedding—his brothers, Noah and Rhett, and Jordan’s law partner, Kyle Chatham.

If it had been anyone else, Brandt would’ve told them exactly where they could go and what they could do in the most colorful language imaginable. He was used to that kind of language in the locker room, on the gridiron and on occasion at family gatherings, much to the chagrin of his straitlaced mother. Brandt usually didn’t make New Year’s resolutions, but this year he’d made a promise to himself to watch his language.

Two quick taps on the door caught his attention. Turning, Brandt smiled as Jordan Wainwright leaned against the doorframe in one of the guest suites in the landmark Fifth Avenue mansion. After a raucous Vegas-style bachelor party at Brandt’s penthouse, the groomsmen managed to clean up well enough to attend the rehearsal and the dinner that followed in the magnificent four-story greystone mansion where Jordan had grown up with his brothers and sister. Instead of returning to his place, Brandt had spent the night in one of the guest suites to ensure he would make it to the wedding on time.

Brandt’s pearly white teeth were a stark contrast to his deeply tanned face. He smiled at Jordan, who wore a pair of dress trousers, black patent leather oxfords, a white tuxedo shirt and a platinum-hued silk tie. Jordan’s looks were dark and dramatic. His raven hair, hazel eyes and olive complexion made him stand out among the Wainwrights, who were mostly blond and fair-skinned.

“I came to see if you needed help with your tie.”

Brandt frowned. “You’ve got jokes?” The question was laced with sarcasm. “You should’ve had a beach wedding so we wouldn’t have to wear tuxedos, ties or shoes.”

“You can have a destination wedding once you decide to stop chasing skirts,” Jordan replied, with a smile.

Brandt’s frown deepened. “For your information, I only chase skirts during the off-season. Did you come to check on my Windsor knot–tying skills, or are you getting cold feet?”

Jordan folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Not even close. My mother would have a minor breakdown if I didn’t go through with this wedding. Initially, she wanted to invite three to four hundred people from my side of the family, but Aziza was adamant. She told her no more than one hundred fifty. After all, it is her wedding.”

“Which mother?” Brandt asked. The question was out before he had chance to think about it. “I’m sorry about that.”

Jordan waved a hand. “Don’t apologize, Brandt.”

It wasn’t until he’d announced his engagement to Aziza that Jordan decided to put the skeletons from his past to rest. It had taken thirty-three years for him to finally meet his birth mother.

Jordan walked into the bedroom and sat on the tufted bench at the foot of the bed.

“Christiane is leading the way, and Diane is hot on her heels,” Jordan admitted.

A decades-old feud ended when Jordan brokered a real-estate deal in which the Wainwright Developers Group and RLH Realty had formed a fragile partnership, resulting in the companies agreeing to jointly own and manage four properties in Harlem. Once the deal was finalized, Wyatt Wainwright, the family patriarch, had summoned anyone with a drop of Wainwright blood to attend a family gathering. It was to stunned silence that Wyatt disclosed the circumstances surrounding his eldest grandson’s birth. It had been Diane Humphries-Andrews and not Christiane Johnston-Wainwright who was Jordan’s birth mother.

Brandt sat next to his cousin, stretching out long legs and crossing them at the ankle, while staring at the tips of his shoes. “I know it’s not easy for you to talk about it, but how does it feel to have two mothers?”

Jordan sandwiched his hands between his knees. “I really don’t give it much thought.” He gave Brandt a sidelong glance. “Ironically, I feel closer to my half sisters than I do to my biological mother. I don’t hold it against Diane that she gave me up at birth, because she had unwittingly been sleeping with a man who was engaged to another woman. What I’m still dealing with is my grandfather Wyatt’s and Diane’s fathers’ underhanded wheeling and dealing. When I discovered what they’d engineered, I couldn’t help but think about what would’ve happened if my father had ended his engagement to Christiane and married Diane.”

Brandt managed a wry smile. “You’d still be a Wainwright. And what made the lie so easy to pull off is that you look like Wyatt—even down to the black hair.”

Jordan smiled. “Maybe, as long as I don’t start acting like him.”

“Are you that certain you’re not like him?”

Jordan’s deep-set eyes stared at his cousin. Brandt Wainwright was the NFL’s golden boy. In the sports world he was known as “The Viking,” with his rakish good looks and long, blond hair. A hefty two hundred fifty-five pounds were evenly distributed over Brandt’s muscular six-foot-five frame. Although Jordan was just a few days older than Brandt, there were times when he’d felt a few years older. Jordan attributed the difference in maturity to the fact that Brandt had chosen to become a professional football player, while he had decided to become a lawyer.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jordan asked.

Brandt smiled. “Don’t get your nose out of joint, cuz. After all, I don’t want you to get a headache—especially on your wedding night.”

“When did you become a comedian?”

The uncomfortable silence seemed to grow with each passing second. Rarely did the two cousins argue or disagree about anything. Jordan had been an only child for ten years before his brother Noah was born, so in the meantime Brandt had been Jordan’s unofficial brother.

Brandt had lost count of the number of times he’d stayed over at Jordan’s family’s mansion across from Central Park. Back then, he’d been too young to understand why his aunt and uncle had slept in separate bedrooms before the birth of Noah Wainwright, who was ten years Jordan’s junior. But what no one had known at the time was that Christiane was not Jordan’s biological mother. And it had taken Edward Wainwright’s wife almost a decade to forgive her husband for his indiscretion.

“Jordan, I’m not trying to be funny,” Brandt said. “I know it can’t be easy for you to see family members who were once at each others’ throats come here today. And I saw you go through hell when you had to decide whether to invite Diane and your half sisters to your wedding. All I can say is better you than me.” Jordan nodded.

“I know you blame your grandfathers for being puppet masters who manipulated the lives of their children, but you have to put that behind you,” Brandt continued. “Especially today when you’re beginning a new life with the woman you love.”

The room grew quiet again.

“You asked me whether you should invite Diane Andrews to your wedding and I said yes,” Brandt continued. “Every family has its secrets and the Wainwrights and Humphrieses are no exception.”

Jordan put his arm across Brandt’s shoulder. “You missed your calling, cuz. You should’ve become a lawyer rather than let a bunch of three-hundred-fifty-pound linemen beat the crap out of you every Sunday.”

Brandt chuckled. “I may play football, but I do know how to read and write.”

“What do you plan to do when you stop playing ball?” Jordan asked.

Brandt shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Noah said there’s a position for you at Wainwright Developers whenever you’re ready to hang up your jersey.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Jordan patted his cousin’s back. “Don’t think too long, cuz.” He didn’t want to remind Brandt that there was always the possibility that his career could end with him being carried out on a stretcher.

“I won’t,” Brandt said after a reflective pause. “I plan to play for another two years and then I’m out.” Aziza, Jordan’s soon-to-be wife, had renegotiated his contract for three years instead of five. He wanted to retire at thirty-five while he was still at the top of his game. He’d entrusted his legal affairs to Aziza Fleming after he’d asked his teammate Alex whether his sister would be willing to negotiate his contract extension. Aziza proved her worth when she’d stood firm on what she’d wanted for her client, and in the end he’d been rewarded by becoming the highest-paid quarterback in the league.

Jordan exhaled audibly and stood up. “I guess I’d better finish getting dressed.”

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Jordan replied.

“Damn,” Brandt drawled. “You’ve always been cool and calm, never let anyone see you sweat. What’s up with you?”

A wry smile spread across Jordan’s face. “When I woke up this morning, I finally realized the enormity of what it means to become a married man. It’s no longer about what I want or need, but also what Zee wants and needs. We’ve talked about starting a family, and it scares the hell out of me when I try to imagine being a father. Will I be too hard on my kids, or too easy? And what if I have girls? Do I chase away every boy who looks sideways at them?”

“You have a long time before you have to worry about your daughter going out with a boy,” Brandt said. Jordan nodded.

“I don’t know about your father, but every time my dad saw me with a new date he’d say, ‘think of her as your sister.’ Do you how that can mess with your head? Once, I did go out with a girl who reminded me of my sister, and even though I’d wanted to sleep with her it never happened.”

Jordan chuckled. “That’s what you get for dating blondes. They’re all going to remind you of your sister.”

A sheepish expression spread across the quarterback’s face when he smiled. “Some really weren’t natural blondes.”

“That’s why I prefer brunettes,” said Jordan. “I’ve never been surprised once we decide to take our relationship to the next level.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get involved with a woman.” Brandt waved his hand dismissively. “Thanks for coming to check on me, but I think I’m good here. As soon as I’m dressed, I’ll come down to see you.”

Jordan checked his watch. “I’ll see you downstairs in twenty minutes.”

Brandt nodded.

Aziza Fleming had hired wedding planner Tessa Whitfield-Sanborn of Signature Bridals and Event Planners to plan the ceremony, which was being held in the Wainwright mansion, as well as the cocktail reception in the small ballroom and dinner and dancing in the larger ballroom. Although the well-known wedding planner was on maternity leave, she’d agreed to oversee Jordan and Aziza’s wedding since Jordan’s law partner had been her husband’s law school mentor.

Brandt reached for the gold monogrammed cufflinks, a gift from Jordan to his groomsmen, and fastened them to the French cuffs of his shirt. Then he reached for his tuxedo jacket and slipped each arm into the sleeves. He stopped to contemplate his cousin’s wedding, unable to understand why once their children reached a certain age, their mothers suddenly became obsessed with marrying them off. Brandt had to assume it had something to do with wanting grandchildren.

Lately he’d had to suffer through his father’s lengthy discourses about taking responsibility for his actions. What he hadn’t wanted to mention to his father was that since he’d become sexually active, he’d never slept with a woman without using protection. If he wasn’t ready for marriage, then he was even less prepared for fatherhood.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed on the quarter hour. Everyone in the wedding party had been instructed to meet in the antechamber on the second floor overlooking the entrance hall at five forty-five. Leaving the suite, Brandt walked the length of the hallway to a rear staircase. The groomsmen were huddled together, waiting for their boutonnieres, which were fashioned from miniature white roses and lilac. The sound of feminine laughter floated from a nearby room.

There had been two rehearsals—the first time for the wedding party to familiarize themselves with the logistics, and the second time to confirm that everyone knew what they were to do. Brandt and Jordan were to enter the foyer through a hallway leading from the west wing of the mansion. The groomsmen and bridesmaids were to descend the curved staircase and walk along the white carpet to a floral-covered canopy where the bride and groom would exchange their vows.

The wedding planner touched the earpiece in her left ear. Although she was a new mother, Tessa had decided to personally coordinate the Fleming-Wainwright nuptials. Her wedding planning business had grown so much that she’d had to hire two assistants. Both young women were bright and had quickly learned the business. But Tessa continued to closely monitor important clients, especially those who were part of her elite social circle.

She raised her hand to get Jordan’s attention. “Jordan, it’s time for you and Brandt to head out.”

The bridesmaids filed out of the room and into the hallway wearing flowing silk chiffon strapless bias-cut gowns in varying shades of blue, ranging from cobalt to robin’s egg to periwinkle to sapphire. Each woman wore a large cushion-cut sapphire-and-diamond pendant that had been her gift from the bride. As a gesture designed to bring the Humphrieses and the Wainwrights together, Aziza had asked Jordan’s two half sisters—Stephanie and Keisha Andrews—to be her bridesmaids. Jordan’s sixteen-year-old sister, Chanel Wainwright, resplendent in sapphire blue, was maid of honor.

Brandt leaned closer to whisper to Chanel. “Remember you’re right behind the flower girl and ring bearer.” The ring bearer was one of Aziza’s nephews, and one of the younger Wainwright cousins was the flower girl. “Are you going to be all right, Chanel?”

Her blue-green eyes shimmering excitement and her face flush with color, Chanel nodded as she shifted her bouquet of violets, irises and white roses to her left hand. “I hope I don’t faint.”

Brandt smiled at the slender young woman who seemingly had grown up overnight. He’d always remembered her as a tall, skinny girl with a waist-length ponytail. She was now quite the young woman, her round face framed by a short mass of curls, which were adorned with baby’s breath and tiny white roses.

“Stop being a drama princess, Chanel.”

“What if I make a mistake, Brandt?”

“You’re not—”

Whatever he was going to say was preempted when Tessa signaled for him to follow Jordan. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to his cousin’s hair. He squeezed the tiny hand resting on the sleeve of his jacket, then turned on his heel, and with long strides he walked into the entrance hall to stand next to Jordan.

A minute later Rhett and Noah, followed by the rest of the wedding party, descended the curved staircase as the string quartet began playing “One Hand, One Heart” from West Side Story.

Chapter 2

As the music began to play, Brandt experienced a strange, unsettling feeling. He’d attended plenty of weddings involving family members, friends and teammates. But this was the first time he’d been part of the wedding party. As he stood next to Jordan, the love between bride and groom seemed so palpable, Brandt felt as if he was the one exchanging vows with his future bride. It was the first time he’d ever thought that.

When Aziza’s father escorted her down the rose-petal-strewn carpet, Jordan released an audible sigh upon seeing his bride for the first time. Because it was her second marriage, Aziza had insisted that everything be low-key. But there was nothing simple about the bride, with her flawless brown skin and the body and face of a runway model, as she walked down the aisle effortlessly exuding grace and elegance. She wore a platinum-colored, strapless mermaid gown with silk tulle that wrapped around the skirt and a waist-length veil. Her thick, dark hair was brushed off her face and pinned into a chignon with jeweled hairpins.

Brandt smiled when his gaze went to the magnificent pear-shaped blue-and-white diamond earrings and the matching pendant, nestled between Aziza’s breasts. He’d accompanied Jordan to a jeweler where they’d spent a couple of hours going over designs for his bride’s wedding jewelry, and then another hour examining a collection of loose stones. When they left Brandt was more than familiar with intricacies of diamonds’ cut, color, clarity, carat weight and certification.

He turned his attention back to the proceedings, and he smiled when Jordan cradled Aziza’s face between his hands and pressed his mouth to hers, sealing their vows. They were no longer bride and groom, but husband and wife.

“Ladies, gentlemen, friends and family, I’m honored to present Mr. and Mrs. Jordan Wyatt Wainwright,” announced the black-robed judge in a voice that carried easily in the expansive space.

Thunderous applause quickly followed as Christiane Wainwright dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief. Her blue-gray gown complemented her summer tan and ash-blond hair that was pinned up in an elaborate twist at the nape of her long, slender neck. Leaning to her right, she hugged Diane Humphries-Andrews, the two women sharing a bond as adoptive and birth mother.

Diane, only two years younger than Christiane, was stunning in a royal blue sheath dress that showed off her still-slim figure to its best advantage. Her hair was cut into a becoming style reminiscent of First Lady Michelle Obama. Her features were delicate, but it was her large light brown eyes framed by a face the color of golden-brown autumn leaves that garnered the most attention.

How very civilized, Brandt thought. If it had been left up to his great uncle Wyatt, he doubted whether the two women would’ve ever met. He felt the utmost respect for Jordan and Aziza in bringing the two families together.

The wedding party proceeded out of the expansive foyer to the elevator that would take them to the solarium, where they would spend the next hour posing for photographs. Meanwhile, the guests were escorted into the ballroom where cocktails and hors d’oeuvres awaited them before they were seated for a seven-course dinner. The menu included filet mignon, Alaskan salmon, lobster tails, stone rock crab and carving stations with roast turkey, prime rib and trays of foie gras and caviar.

Brandt escorted his mother to an area of the ballroom that had been set up like a large parlor with sofas, settees, floral arrangements, candles and enormous floor pillows and ottomans scattered around the marble floor. He led his mother to a settee, and sat down next to her. He watched Leona Burroughs-Wainwright’s impassive expression. His mother didn’t smile during dinner, when the many toasts were made, or when wedding cake was cut and passed around to the guests.

“What’s bothering you, Mom?”

Leona forced a smile. “What makes you think something is bothering me?”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “First of all you’re answering a question with a question, and secondly you look as if you’ve just lost Smooches.”

“Bite your tongue, Brandt Wainwright. My baby may have a few years on her, but the vet said there’s still a lot of life in her.”

Brandt rolled his eyes. Smooches was overweight, visually impaired and eighteen years old. Seemingly the only thing the toy poodle lived for was low-fat treats. “If it’s not Smooches, then why the long face?”

Leona patted her coiffed silver hair. “I would have liked it if you were the one getting married tonight instead of Jordan.”

He shot his mother an incredulous stare. “Don’t tell me you have your nose out of joint because Christiane married off one of her children before you did?”

“Jordan and Aziza know Clarissa’s wedding is scheduled for the fall, so why couldn’t they have waited until next year? It’s not as if Aziza is pregnant.”

“Whether Zee is pregnant or not has nothing to do with you,” Brandt chastised in a soft tone. “They didn’t need to check with you to get the go-ahead.”

Leona pouted, a gesture that never failed to get her whatever she wanted. “How do you expect me to compete with this…this extravaganza? When I contacted Signature Bridals more than a year ago I was told they have a two-year waiting list. Jordan gets engaged in February and yet he manages to get them to plan his wedding.”

“That’s because Jordan and Zee know Tessa Sanborn personally.”

Leona turned to her eldest son. “You’re just like your father. You have an answer for everything.”

“The difference is you don’t like my answers,” Brandt countered. Leaning to his right, he kissed his mother’s cheek. “Clarissa will have a beautiful wedding. You’ve waited a long time to marry off your daughter, so come November it will be your turn to be the mother-of-the-bride. And what a magnificent mother-of-the-bride you’ll be.”

Leona’s expression brightened. “Do you really think so?”

Brandt smiled. “I know so.”

He couldn’t understand how a woman who’d managed to marry one of New York’s most eligible bachelors and had given him four children whom he adored continued to compete with her in-laws for status. Most of the Wainwright men had married women who’d gone to finishing school, had coming-out parties, were in the Social Register and had attended elite colleges. Leona had been the exception, and most times she’d tried too hard to become a high-society grande dame. What she hadn’t realized was that Fraser Wainwright had chosen to marry her because she was different. She wasn’t affected or a snob. During their thirty-five-year marriage, however, Leona had changed—becoming a social climber in the hopes that her mother-in-law would accept her. Unfortunately, it hadn’t happened. And in Leona’s mind, the only thing she had done right was to give her mother-in-law, Francine Wainwright, grandchildren.

Leona, whose natural beauty hadn’t faded despite having recently celebrated her fifty-fifth birthday, flashed a dimpled smile. The fuchsia-colored silk suit complemented her smooth, peaches-and-cream complexion. “Brandt, you’re going to make a wonderful husband for some very lucky woman.”

“I’m going to have to find that very lucky woman first before I can even consider getting married.”

Leona sobered. “Are you against marriage?”

His mother’s question had caught him off guard. He’d never been one to advertise his relationships, but it had been a long time since he’d brought a woman home to meet his family. It was just that he wasn’t ready to settle down.

“No.” The single word answer hung in the air. “Why would you ask me that?”

“It’s just that it’s been a very long time since you’ve introduced us to one of your girlfriends. By the way, I ran into Courtney Knight last week and of course she asked about you.”

Brandt averted his gaze. He’d been engaged to Courtney for less than two months when he’d discovered that she was sleeping with one of his college buddies. In response, Brandt had issued an ultimatum: either she break off the engagement or he would disclose why he wasn’t going to marry her.

“That’s nice,” he drawled sarcastically.

“There you are, Brandt. I thought you’d left.”

He turned to find his sister standing a few feet away. Rising to his feet, he smiled at her. “What’s up, Clarissa?”

The enormous diamond on Clarissa Wainwright’s finger sparkled like a headlamp. She was a tall, blue-eyed blonde with striking features. But every time Brandt saw her, she appeared thinner than she’d been before. Tiny blue veins were visible under her eyes, which were framed by long, dark lashes.

Slipping her hand into her brother’s, Clarissa gave him a tender smile. “Do you plan to host any parties at your place before the end of the year?”

“I don’t know. Why?” Aside from the New Year’s Eve bash at his penthouse, get-togethers were usually spontaneous. In the off-season, he would sometimes invite his teammates and their wives or girlfriends to his place for a casual dinner party.

“My friend Tonya wants you to introduce her to Alexander Fleming.”

“Clarissa!” Leona gasped.

The younger woman waved a hand. “Please, Mother. Let me handle this.”

“There’s nothing to handle,” Brandt retorted. “You know I’m not into matchmaking.”

Clarissa rested her hands at her narrow hips. “But you introduced Aziza to Jordan.”

“I’m not going to discuss their relationship with you.” He’d asked his attorney to talk to his cousin because he’d believed Jordan would be able to help Aziza with a sexual harassment suit she sought to bring against her former employer. Brandt hadn’t known their involvement had segued from business to personal until they’d announced their engagement six weeks after first meeting. He also made it a rule not to introduce any women to teammates, because if the relationship soured he would never hear the end of it.

Leona touched her daughter’s shoulder. “Let it go, darling. Let Tonya find her own boyfriend.”

“What harm would it do for Brandt to introduce his friend to my friend? I’m beginning to believe all the hype. It’s always Brandt this and Brandt that in this family. If I’d decided to go into professional tennis instead of getting degrees in art history and interior design, then maybe someone would pay attention to me.”

Brandt didn’t want to believe that his sister was pestering him to introduce her best friend to his best friend. Alexander Fleming was not only his teammate, but he roomed with him during away games. He was also the bride’s brother and in the wedding. It had been Alex who’d introduced him to Aziza when he was thinking about getting a new attorney.

Alex Fleming, who despite being a much sought-after bachelor, had always managed to keep a low profile when it came to his relationships. He’d recently split with a woman who he’d been seeing for several years, and had just begun dating again. What Brandt had noticed during the rehearsal and the dinner that followed was that Alex appeared enthralled with Jordan’s half sister, although Stephanie Andrews hadn’t given him a passing glance.

“Please excuse us,” he said to Leona, who sat slack-jawed at her daughter’s request. Reaching for his sister’s hand, Brandt led her out of the ballroom.

“Where are you taking me?” Clarissa asked, breathing heavily as she tried keeping up with Brandt’s long strides. If he didn’t slow down, she would certainly turn an ankle in her four-inch stilettos.

“Somewhere where we can’t be overheard,” he said over his shoulder. Maneuvering around two couples who were standing in the hallway outside the ballroom, they made their way to the suite where he’d spent the night. “Sit down.” Clarissa sat in a club chair, crossing one leg over the other. Brandt pulled up a straight-back chair, and reached for Clarissa’s hands. They were ice-cold. “What’s going with you?”

Clarissa averted her eyes. “What makes you think something is wrong with me?”

“I didn’t say wrong. Something has you on edge, and I’m willing to bet it has nothing to do with me refusing to set Alex up with your girlfriend. Every time I see you you’re thinner and thinner. How much weight have you lost?”

She lifted her bare shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” he repeated. “Is that a new gown?” Clarissa nodded. “What size is it?”

“I think it’s a two.”

Brandt tightened his hold on her fingers. “What’s next, Clarissa? A double-zero?” He leaned closer. “What does Harper say about you losing weight?”

Clarissa stared into a pair of eyes much like her own. Brandt had always been her favorite brother. Garth and Sumner were always too caught up with what was going on in their lives to pay much attention to her. And in a family where the birth of a boy was celebrated like that of an heir to the throne, she had always tried hard to get attention.

“He says he likes me slim.”

“Slim or emaciated? You look anorexic, Clarissa. Are you losing weight because Harper asked you to, or is it your decision?”

Although she was thirty, her body now seemed prepubescent. When she lowered her gaze Brandt knew the reason why his sister looked so frightfully thin. He wondered if their mother had noticed the drastic change in Clarissa’s appearance. “Why are you letting someone else control your life?”

“I don’t want to marry him.”

The admission stunned Brandt. July was almost over, and in another four months Clarissa was expected to exchange vows with the man she’d planned to share her life.

“You don’t have to marry him, Rissa.”

Clarissa’s eyes filled with tears. It had been years since Brandt had called her by her childhood nickname. “But Mother expects us to marry.”

“This is not about Mother, and what she wants or expects. This is about you. If you don’t want to marry the guy, then you don’t have to. Whatever you decide, you can count on me having your back. And I’m certain Sumner and Garth will support you, too.”

“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.

Chapter 3

Ciara 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.

Ciara arrived at a luxury high-rise overlooking the East River, paid the fare, got out of the cab and walked toward the entrance of the apartment building. As the doorman opened the door to the lobby, she was met with a blast of cool air.

“I’m Ciara Dennison. Mrs. Wainwright is expecting me.”

The tall, slightly built man smiled. “I’ll let her know you’re here and escort you to the elevator.” He reached for the intercom receiver under the lobby desk and punched in several numbers. “Ms. Dennison is on her way up.” Ciara followed the doorman past a bank of elevators to one in an alcove. He inserted a card key in the PH slot. “It will take you directly to the penthouse.”

The doors closed before Ciara could thank him. The car rose smoothly and swiftly, making her ears pop from the rapid ascent. The car slowed, and then stopped. The doors opened to a panoramic view of the East River bridges linking Manhattan to other boroughs. A profusion of flowers in vases and urns crowded a round mahogany pedestal table between the entryway and great room. For some reason she expected no less from a multimillionaire celebrity athlete.

She was met by a tall, slender woman with hair several shades lighter than her gray eyes. Leona Wainwright was the epitome of casual chic: white silk blouse, black linen slacks and low-heeled Ferragamo shoes. The requisite diamond studs graced her earlobes and a wedding band adorned the ring finger of her left hand.

Leona’s eyebrows lifted when she stared at Ciara Dennison. The woman at the agency had said she was tough as nails, but there was nothing about the nurse in the artist’s smock that looked menacing. She was younger than Leona had expected and her flawless, dark brown complexion made her appear even younger. The large, clear brown eyes staring back at her behind a pair of glasses reminded her of a cat’s. Her hair was brushed off her face and secured in a tight bun. Nurse Dennison had come highly recommended, and Leona realized she was her last hope.

She extended her hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Leona Wainwright, Brandt’s mother.”

Setting a duffel bag on the floor, Ciara shook her hand, finding it soft and cool to the touch. “Ciara Dennison. And before you say anything, I’d like to meet with my patient—alone.”

Leona knew immediately that Ciara was very different from the other nurses. Both had been so awestruck by their patient’s celebrity that they hadn’t assumed a take-charge position. “Please come with me.”

Ciara followed Leona through the expansive entryway that led into a great room. A curving staircase off to the left led to another level. “Is he on this floor or upstairs?” she asked.

Slowing her pace, Leona glanced over her shoulder. “He is in a bedroom on this floor.” She didn’t tell the nurse that the second floor was usually off-limits to everyone. The only exception was when her son hosted parties in the rooftop solarium. She turned down a wide hallway and walked into one of three bedroom suites set aside for guests.

“I’ll wait out here for you.”

Ciara nodded and then walked into the room. Brandt Wainwright lay in a hospital bed positioned near the floor-to-ceiling windows, eyes closed, with a sheet covering his lower body, the rise and fall of his bare chest in an even rhythm revealing the steadiness of his breathing. The bedroom was furnished in a traditional style, in contrast to the post-war architecture of the apartment.

She approached the bed. The rapid pulse of the large vein in his neck indicated that he wasn’t sleeping. Her gaze lingered on his face. He hadn’t shaved and a full day’s growth covered his jaw and chin. Ciara wasn’t into sports, but only someone completely cut off from civilization wouldn’t recognize the NFL’s golden boy.

His hair was a mess, indicating it hadn’t been combed or brushed. It was also oily, which confirmed it needed to be shampooed. Reaching out, she placed a hand on his shoulder. His skin was cool to the touch. But before she could withdraw her hand, Ciara found her wrist trapped between Brandt’s fingers.

“Do you usually shake someone’s hand even before you’ve been introduced?” she said, meeting his angry gaze. His eyes were a startling shade of sky blue. “Get out!”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. After all, you are holding on to my wrist.”

Brandt released her hand. “I’ve let you go. Now get out!”

Ciara took a step backward, far enough to evade his long reach and folded her arms under her breasts. “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Wainwright. In case you haven’t been counting, I happen to be your third nurse and that means you’ve just about struck out.”

“Wrong sport,” Brandt drawled, flashing a sardonic grin.

She inclined her head. “I stand corrected. Maybe I should’ve said the clock just ran out, sport! Game over.”

He stared at the nurse in the tie-dyed smock that overwhelmed her slender frame. His gaze shifted downward to a pair of leather clogs. At least the dark blue scrubs fit. He wasn’t exactly sure of her age, but he guessed she was anywhere between twenty-five and thirty.

Brandt had decided on another approach. He knew growling like a wounded bear wasn’t going to intimidate this nurse. “Please don’t take it personally, but I don’t want or need someone taking care of me.” His tone was soft, almost soothing.

Ciara wasn’t fooled by his sudden change in tone. “Whenever I take care of a patient I can assure you that it’s never personal. You have a choice, Mr. Wainwright. Either you let me take care of you here or you can go to a rehab facility.”

He snorted. “That’s not going to happen.”

Her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her black plastic frames. “You think not? If I walk out of here and file my report with the agency my recommendation will be that you see a psychotherapist and go to an inpatient rehab facility. I’m also certain you don’t want to remain on injured reserve next season. And I’m sure you’ve been cautioned about blood clots. We’ll begin by showering and washing your hair. If you want, I can help you shave or you can continue to look like Grizzly Adams.”

Brandt sat up straighter. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a very unusual bedside manner?”

Ciara’s expression did not change although she wanted to laugh. “So you noticed. Do you like it when I talk tough?”

He lifted a broad shoulder. “That’s something I have yet to decide. One thing for certain is you did get my attention.”

“Now that I have your attention, Mr. Wainwright, what do you plan to do?”

“Do about what, Nurse Dennis?”

“It’s Dennison. And there’s no need to be so formal.”

“How shall I address you, miss?”

“Ciara will do.”

“Since we’re becoming so familiar with each other, then I insist you call me Brandt.”

Ciara felt as if she’d scaled one hurdle. Brandt was talking to her instead of yelling at her. “I think it’s best that you shower and wash your hair first.”

His hand went to his face, absentmindedly scratching his beard. He’d grown the stubble to conceal the bruises on his face from the impact of the air bag. He wasn’t certain whether they’d faded, but not having to shave was one less thing he had to concern himself with. Getting out of bed and into the shower was not only difficult, it had become all but impossible.

Brandt’s mood changed like quicksilver. “I can shave myself.”

“Good,” she countered. “I’ve been known to have a problem with the blade getting a little too close to the jugular.”

“Don’t tell me you’re auditioning as a stand-up comic.”

“Very funny, Brandt,” Ciara drawled sarcastically.

“You’re the one with the jokes. Let’s just call a truce.”

“You’re in no condition to negotiate. Your mother is paying top dollar for me to be your nurse until you’re able to take care of yourself. I’ll help you with the day-to-day stuff and follow up with the therapist as you progress. I’m required to write up daily reports and give you pain medication, so it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

Chapter 4

Brandt continued scratching his face. There was something about Ciara Dennison he liked. There was fire under the dowdy exterior. When he’d yelled at the other two nurses, they’d scurried away like frightened mice. The last one had turned on her heel so quickly she’d almost lost her footing.

What everyone, including his mother, had failed to understand was the feeling of helplessness. Without having the wheelchair at his disposal, he was unable to get out of bed and make it to the bathroom before embarrassing himself. The ultimate humiliation was having to use a bedpan.

During his two-week stay in the North Carolina hospital, he’d believed he would never leave alive. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness from the sedative, unaware of any visitors. When the head of orthopedics recommended his transfer to the hospital’s rehabilitation unit, Brandt knew it was time to leave.

He’d returned to New York City, not to a hospital or rehab facility but to his own home. After his personal physician and a leading specialist reviewed his medical records, they approved his convalescing at home with round-the-clock nursing care and physical therapy three times a week for a period of three to four months.

“Are you going to stay here 24/7?”

Ciara hesitated, debating whether to lie or tell the truth. She decided on the former, because she had to know for certain that Brandt would become a cooperative patient. “No. I’ll alternate with another nurse. Twelve hours on, twelve off.”

“I don’t want another nurse.”

Ciara took a step closer to the bed, her expression reflected surprise. “You want me to work a twenty-four-hour shift?”

“Will that pose a problem for you?” Brandt asked.

“Not really. But I hadn’t planned to work around the clock.”

“Well, tell your man that he’s going to find something other than you to occupy him while you’re at work.”

There was no way Ciara was going to admit to Brandt Wainwright that she didn’t have a man, husband or boyfriend. After dating Victor Seabrook for two years, she’d decided to not get involved with another man—at least for some time.

“Let’s not get personal,” she warned softly. “After I help you get cleaned up, I’ll have your mother call the agency to change my hours. Then, I’m going to have to return to my place to pick up enough clothes to last for at least a week,” she said, lying smoothly. Her carry-on bag contained enough clothes and toiletries to last several weeks.

Unaware that Ciara had skillfully manipulated him into doing something he hadn’t wanted, Brandt said, “I have a cleaning service that comes in several times a week. They do laundry. If you need them to take care of anything for you, then leave your clothes in the laundry room.” He reached for the sheet, uncovering his legs. He’d changed from wearing boxer-briefs to boxers in order for them to fit over the casts. “I need you to bring the wheelchair closer to the bed so I can go to the bathroom.”

Ciara walked around the bed and pulled the wheelchair closer before applying the brake, while Brandt braced his hands on the mattress and pushed himself into the chair. The muscles in his chest, arms and abs were magnificent. She had to remind herself that her patient was a professional athlete, and being in peak physical condition was a major factor in his earning an astounding amount of money for throwing a ball down a football field. He earned as much for one game as most people earned in ten years. She had little interest in sports, especially in jocks with overblown egos.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

Brandt pointed to a door on his right. “It’s over there. I don’t need you to watch me.”

Releasing the brake on the chair, Ciara pushed him toward the en suite bath. “I’m not going to watch you. I just want to make certain you make it inside.”

“I’ve made it okay before you got here, and I’m certain I’ll make it after you leave.”

“Why don’t you try dialing down the tough-guy talk, Brandt. You don’t frighten me.”

“What does frighten you?”

She pushed the chair into a bathroom that was larger than the kitchen and dining room she shared with her roommate in a two-bedroom renovated apartment in West Harlem. There was a free-standing shower, double sinks, a soaker tub with jets and a dressing area. The doors to an antique cupboard were removed to reveal shelves filled with an ample supply of towels and bathrobes.

Ciara wanted to tell Brandt he didn’t frighten her in the least. In fact, she found his outbursts rather amusing. There was no doubt he was an imposing figure on the gridiron, but she wasn’t a professional football player, and whether or not she was scared of him was irrelevant.

“I’m not afraid of anyone or anything,” she stated confidently.

Brandt smiled for the first time in weeks. “I’m impressed.”

Pushing him closer to the commode, Ciara positioned Brandt where he could easily get out of the wheelchair. “Are you certain you’ll be all right?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know if I require your assistance.” His words were dripping with sarcasm.

Ignoring his comments, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Standing next to the door, she exhaled deeply. Going toe-to-toe with Brandt Wainwright was exhausting—it always was that way with a stubborn patient. Dealing with difficult patients always took a lot out of her.

As a psychiatric nurse she knew exactly what Brandt was going through. As an athlete his physical limitations were even more devastating. And although his inability to walk was only temporary, to Brandt it was torture. For most patients in his situation, the feelings of helplessness were often followed by anger and depression. Ciara had to intervene before he succumbed to his emotions. She was certain he would walk again, even if she doubted whether he would be able to play ball again.

His readiness to play football was something she would leave up to the team doctors. Her responsibility was to help with his recovery so that the physical therapist could get him up and walking again. Brandt opened the bathroom door and wheeled the chair into the bedroom. She lowered the bed, making it easier for him to get back into it.

Ciara noticed beads of perspiration on Brandt’s forehead and that he’d gritted his teeth when he fell back to the pile of pillows. “Would you like something to help the pain?” She knew he was hurting.

Brandt tried willing the pain to go away, but it’d persisted. It was as if someone was driving hot spikes into his legs. Once he’d left the hospital, he’d resisted taking painkillers, even though he’d been told there was no honor in suffering in silence.

“Please.”

Leona arose from the padded bench outside the bedroom where she’d sat waiting for Ciara Dennison to emerge. She hadn’t heard Brandt shouting at Ciara, so she prayed things had gone well between him and his latest nurse.

“How did it go?” she asked as Ciara stepped into the hallway.

“Well, Brandt needs to wash his hair, but that’s going to have to wait until later. Right now he needs his pain medication.”

A sigh of relief escaped Leona. She’d sat praying Ciara Dennison would succeed where the other nurses had failed. She was also surprised Ciara had asked her for Brandt’s medication. Whenever she’d asked her son whether he needed something for pain, he’d refused to take anything.

“It’s in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.”

Ciara took Brandt’s pulse as she waited for his mother to return with the painkillers. It was within normal range.

She’d gotten over one hurdle when she had managed to get him to agree to her being there. But she wasn’t ready to declare victory just yet. She didn’t like getting into his face, but apparently it had worked—if only temporarily.

Ciara waited until Brandt was asleep before she left the bedroom. “He’s asleep,” she told Leona who popped up from the bench. “Is there some place we can go and talk?”

“We can talk in the kitchen. I could use a cup of chamomile tea to calm my nerves. Would you like coffee or tea?”

Ciara gave her a sidelong glance. “Tea would be nice, thank you.”

“After tea, I’ll give you a tour of the penthouse. All of the bedroom suites on the first floor have connecting doors. Brandt installed an elevator between the pantry and the kitchen, so you don’t have to climb the stairs. If you take the suite next to his it will give you easy access whenever he needs you.”

“Does he sleep through the night?” Ciara asked, following Leona into a spacious kitchen finished in an antique white with a coffered ceiling, paneled-door refrigerator, black granite countertops, an eight-burner commercial range and double ovens. The kitchen opened to a formal dining room with the same coffered ceiling.

“I’m not certain.” Leona gestured to a quartet of stools at the cooking island. “Please sit down.”

Ciara sat, giving the older woman a questioning look. “Why don’t you know?”

A rush of color suffused Leona’s face. “Since the accident I’ve been unable to sleep, so my doctor prescribed a sleeping aid. I always make certain Brandt is settled before I take the pill.”

So if he were to fall out of bed or need something, you wouldn’t know it until the following morning. Ciara shook her head as if to banish the thought. Throughout her nursing career, she had been taught that it was always and only about the patient.

“Is he eating?” she asked, changing the subject.

Leona filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stovetop range. “His appetite is improving.”

“What do you mean improving?” Ciara asked.

“During his hospital stay he’d refused to eat, so they fed him intravenously. Since his return, he has been picking at his food.”

“Who cooks for him now?” she asked, continuing her questioning, and watching Leona as she moved comfortably around the kitchen, opening cabinets, drawers and removing china and silver.

“I ordered frozen entrées.”

Resting her elbows on the countertop, Ciara cupped her chin in the heel of her hand. She decided to reserve comment on the frozen meals. Her mother, Phyllis Dennison, was a registered dietician and abhorred processed food. If it wasn’t made from scratch, then it didn’t end up on Phyllis’s table.

“The pantry and refrigerator are stocked, so if you want to make something for yourself, then please feel free to do so,” Leona continued as she placed a bottle of honey and a sugar bowl on the countertop. “If you prefer ordering takeout, then just call the building’s concierge. You do cook, don’t you?” she asked without taking a breath. “I’m only asking because most young women nowadays are so busy with their careers that cooking isn’t as much a priority as it was years ago.”

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Ciara’s mouth. “My mother is a registered dietitian at a nursing facility and my roommate is a chef. Thankfully I’ve learned to prepare more than a few dishes.”

Leona dropped several teabags into a teapot and added boiling water. “Good for you. I have some scones that go very well with tea. Perhaps you would like some?”

“No, thank you.”

She wanted to tell Leona Wainwright that she was on duty and sharing afternoon tea with her patient’s mother was not a part of her job description. However she had to go along with it. Private nurses were well paid—and in Brandt Wainwright’s case, extremely well paid. Ciara estimated her stint with Brandt would probably last two months, give or take a week. Once the casts were removed and he could bear his own weight, then her assignment would be over. After that, her plans included taking two weeks off to visit with her mother in upstate New York before returning to Manhattan for her next case.

Leona poured the tea into fragile, hand-painted china cups, adding a teaspoon of sugar to hers, while Ciara opted for honey. The two women sat sipping tea in comfortable silence until Leona said, “I hope you don’t get the wrong impression of my son. I’ve never known him to be so rude—”

“There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Wainwright,” Ciara interrupted. “I’m more than familiar with—”

“Please call me Leona. I always think of my mother-in-law as Mrs. Wainwright.”

Ciara smiled over the rim of her cup. “Okay. As I was saying, there’s no need to apologize. Brandt’s anger and frustration aren’t unique to his type of injury. I’ve had patients who’ve gotten depressed and refused to eat, talk or even try to do their rehab.”

Leona leaned closer, her brow knitting in concern. “What did you do?”

“I recommended a psychiatric evaluation. Some are prescribed antidepressants, but it was usually enough to get them to open up about their feelings of helplessness or loss of independence.”

“Do you think that’s what wrong with Brandt?”

“I’m a psychiatric nurse, not a psychiatrist. Your son is a professional athlete, and that means that his body is integral to his self-image. The fact that he can’t use his legs would affect him more than someone who sits behind a desk for seven or eight hours a day. I don’t think Brandt is as depressed as he is frustrated that he needs help with his most basic needs.”

“I pray you’re right, Ciara. Seeing Brandt in physical and emotional pain is more than I can bear right now.” Leona’s eyes filled with tears.

Ciara’s hands tightened around her cup to prevent her from reaching out to comfort Brandt’s mother. She wanted to remind her that her son had survived a horrific accident that could’ve ended his life. And the fact that he did survive meant he would recover. Whether he’d ever be able play football again was another matter.

“Brandt’s going to be all right, Leona. It’s just that he’s going through a rough time now. Give him another few weeks.”

“I’m trying to be patient, but every time he lashes out I don’t recognize him. Of all of my four children he is the free spirit, the most fun-loving. When he told me he wanted to be a professional football player, it was the darkest day in my life. I had visions of him being carried off the field or spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair paralyzed from some freak accident. Little did I know that he would still end up in a wheelchair.” Leona sniffled, then dabbed at her nose with a napkin. “I’m sorry about becoming weepy. I’m usually not so emotional.”

Ciara gave Leona a warm smile. “You’re entitled, because that’s what mothers do when there’s something wrong with their children.”

Blinking back tears, the older woman managed a weak smile. “Even when that child is thirty-three?”

“Yes. Even if that child is fifty or sixty-three.”

Leona stared at the young woman sitting opposite her. “Do you have any children, Ciara?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Would you like to have children one day?”

“Perhaps one day,” Ciara confirmed, staring into her cup of tea.

She’d thought about having a child, but only if she met the right man. Unlike some women, she didn’t want to be a single mother and raise a child by herself. Her parents had divorced the year she’d celebrated her tenth birthday, and not having her father in her life had had a negative affect on her relationships with men. Sometimes she hadn’t chosen wisely, and when she did choose to commit to a long-term relationship it was for the wrong reason. At the time, Ciara had wanted to prove to her mother that not only could she get a man, but she could also keep him.

William Dennison was in and out of her mother’s life so often that Ciara thought he’d worked for the CIA and that he’d had to go undercover for long periods of time. What she didn’t learn until she was in her early teens was that her father was living a double life. Although married to Phyllis, he’d also married another woman. His job as regional manager for a major beverage company kept him on the road, so he was able to divide his time between two households with relative ease. Although a bigamist, William never fathered a child with his second wife.

“You’re young, so you have time before you have to decide whether you want to have children.”

Leona’s soft voice broke into her musings. Thirty-three wasn’t that young, Ciara thought.

After wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Leona placed it on the countertop. “I think it’s time I show you where everything is.”

They walked out of the kitchen, passed a laundry room and entered an area off the pantry. The elevator, large enough to accommodate four, was next to a wine cellar filled with bottles of wine too numerous to count. Ciara smothered a gasp when the elevator door opened to a wall of glass, running the length of the hallway and spanning the width of the penthouse.

Leona turned to her left. “This floor is still under construction. Brandt’s private quarters have been completed, but the opposite wing is an open space. He said once he’s married with children he’ll have a contractor build several bedrooms and a nursery.”

Ciara was too enthralled by the sight of a rooftop solarium to respond. Palm trees and exotic flowers made the space seem like an oasis in the middle of Manhattan. She stared at the exotic orchids spilling out of baskets, a riot of color in hues ranging from the deepest purple to pure white.

“Who takes care of the plants?”

“Brandt,” Leona replied smiling.

“It appears he has quite the green thumb.”

Leona laughed. “He installed a programmable irrigation system similar to the ones in supermarket produce sections where a spray of water keeps everything hydrated. The exception is the cacti.”

Ciara smiled. Brandt’s mother had unknowingly given her something she would use to motivate her patient. If Brandt liked working with his plants, then it was something he could do while still using his wheelchair.

The atrium took up half the rooftop. The other half was open to the elements. Tables, chairs and love seats with weatherproof cushions were set up for dining and entertaining outdoors.

She didn’t know what to expect when she walked into Brandt’s private suite, but it wasn’t a loft-like space with brick walls, aged plank floors, massive beams crisscrossing the ceiling, support columns and crystal chandeliers. A pair of French doors opened out onto the roof, which was filled with large potted palms and exotic plants. The style was bohemian yet elegant and masculine.

Ciara’s shoes made soft swishing sounds on the polished wood floor as she walked beyond an area where a chessboard sat on a leather ottoman between straight-back upholstered chairs. She stood under the arched entryway, staring at a collection of swords mounted on a wall. Her eyes were drawn to one that looked very much like a samurai sword. Moving closer, she admired the intricate carving on the handle and scabbard.

“His bedroom is to your left,” Leona said behind her.

It was apparent that Brandt Wainwright was more complicated than Ciara thought. His apartment was a retreat high above the noisy city streets.

“Where did he get the columns and architectural cornices?” Ciara asked.

“My daughter works at a gallery dealing in architectural elements from old buildings. Some of the columns come from Hollywood movie sets; the wooden arch support is from a cathedral in Montreal and the lion heads are from an old library.”

She and Leona retraced their steps, taking the wrought-iron spiral staircase instead of the elevator to the first floor.

A fully functional gym, home theater with a large, wall-mounted screen and an expansive living room made up the next floor. The library furnishings were unexpected for a professional athlete. There were no trophies or photos, framed newspaper articles or magazine covers. It appeared lived-in, a place were one came to read and relax. Espresso-colored leather chairs and a love seat, a massive antique mahogany desk and dark built-in bookcases completed the room.

Ciara stood at the window, staring down at the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching its way along FDR Drive. They looked like miniature cars from more than thirty stories above the street. “I’d better check on Brandt,” she said when Leona joined her at the window. “I have your numbers, so if there’s any change in his condition I’ll let you know.”

Leona smiled. “I know I’m leaving him in good hands.” She let out a soft sigh. “Now that you know where everything is, it’s time I go home and make certain my household is still intact. I just want to remind you that the cleaning service is scheduled to come tomorrow, and the physical therapist will call to let you know when he’s coming. However you plan to deal with Brandt…” Her words trailed off when Ciara gave her a look that spoke volumes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tell you how to do your job.”

“It’s okay. I’ve had to deal with much more difficult patients than your son.”

Brandt Wainwright would probably yell, but Ciara doubted that she would have as hard a time handling him as some of her other patients.

She waited for Leona to leave and then went to see if Brandt was still asleep. Walking into his bedroom, she saw him lying on his back, arms above his head. At first she thought he was asleep, but as Ciara moved closer to the bed she realized he was staring up at the ceiling.

“How are you feeling?”

Brandt turned his head slowly. He’d tried to remember the timbre of Ciara Dennison’s voice, but couldn’t because of the drug that managed to not only dull the pain racking his body but also his brain. He didn’t like taking it because it tended to impair his speech and ability to think. His eyelids fluttered as he fought against the dulling effects of the painkiller.

“Better.” He pointed at the armchair near the bed. “Please sit down and talk to me.”

Ciara complied, staring at the powerfully built, bearded man with the piercing blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes. “What do you want to talk about?”

A hint of a smile tilted the corners of Brandt’s strong mouth. “Anything, as long as it keeps me awake.”

“Have you ever thought that perhaps you need to sleep?”

Brandt closed his eyes. “I slept enough when they doped me up in Asheville.”

“The term is sedated, not doped,” Ciara countered.

“You call it whatever you want, but it’s still doping to me.”

Sitting up straight, she met his angry glare. “There’s no need to get testy, Brandt.”

“And you don’t have to be so prissy.”

Ciara could give as well as she could get but decided to swallow her response, realizing that going head-to-head with Brandt would end in a stalemate. “I’m willing to sit and talk. What I’m not going to put up with is you cursing at me. Save that language for the locker room.”

Brandt’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re that prim and proper.” As soon as the words were off his tongue he realized he may have misread Ciara Dennison.

“What I am is none of your concern. What you should concern yourself with is taking a shower and washing your hair. After that I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Brandt ran his fingers through his mussed hair. “I took a shower this morning, but I didn’t get around to washing my hair, because there wasn’t any shampoo in the bathroom. As for food, I don’t want that stuff my mother left in the freezer.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s right with it?” Brandt asked. “It tastes like hospital food.”

Ciara looked away so he couldn’t see her smiling. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

“What do you want? Steak and potatoes?”

Brandt grinned at Ciara, revealing a set of beautiful straight white teeth. “Steak and potatoes, Philly cheese-steak or sausage and peppers.”

“What are you, on some kind of bodybuilding diet?”

“Hell, yeah,” he drawled.

“I’m going to set up a swear jar, and every time you curse you’ll have to put a dollar in it.”

Brandt crossed his arms over his chest. “And what do you intend to do with the contents?”

“Donate it to charity.”

“If that’s the case, then I’ll put a couple of thousand in it beforehand and cuss away.”

Ciara rolled her eyes at him. She’d dated a man who after one drink couldn’t complete a sentence without using four-letter words. The alcohol lowered his inhibitions and loosened his tongue. After their second date she told him it wasn’t going to work out between them.

“Just try and watch your language.” A long silence followed as they engaged in what had become a stare-down, neither willing to concede.

“I’ll watch what I say if…”

“If what?” Ciara asked when he didn’t finish his statement. She then realized he’d closed his eyes. “Brandt?”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“What are you doing?”

Brandt smiled. “I’m resting my eyelids.”

Ciara rose from the chair. “You rest your eyelids while I go and get some shampoo.” Maintaining his personal hygiene was essential to his emotional well-being. She didn’t want to give herself kudos, but she was making progress with her patient; she’d gotten Brandt to take his pain medication and he’d agreed to wash his hair. He’d also admitted to being hungry, and that meant he didn’t intend to starve himself to death.

“You should find shampoo on a shelf in the pantry, and there’re steaks in the freezer.” He opened his eyes. “You do know how to broil a steak?”

She’d just discovered who Brandt Wainwright was. He was a big dog with a big bark but with little or no bite. “I’ve broiled a few. How do you like yours cooked?”

“Medium-well.”

“Your mother gave me a tour of your place and I think it would be nice if you eat upstairs. It would do you good to get some fresh air.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, Brandt gave his nurse a long, penetrating stare. “Are you going to eat with me?”

“What?”

“‘What?’” he mimicked. “I asked if you were going to eat with me, Ciara Dennison, or is that not allowed in your book—sharing meals with your patients?”

“I don’t have any hard-and-fast rules, just what is and isn’t appropriate between a nurse and a patient. We’re not in a hospital setting, so there’s nothing wrong with me sharing a meal with my patient.”

Lying back down onto the mound of pillows cradling his shoulders, Brandt closed his eyes again. “Thank you.”

The seconds ticked as Ciara stared at the bearded man whose very size was intimidating enough without him raising his voice. If he’d thought he’d frighten her into leaving then he didn’t know how stubborn she could be. Push and she would push back—harder. Yell and she would yell even louder. Her only focus was making certain her patient received the best possible care.

“You’re welcome.” The two words were barely off her tongue when soft snoring filled the room. He’d fallen asleep again. Ciara was glad. It would give her time to prepare dinner.

Chapter 5

Ciara positioned the retractable nozzle so Brandt could reach it when sitting on the shower chair. She’d placed a towel around his waist before removing his underwear to provide him with a modicum of privacy. It didn’t matter to her whether he was nude or fully clothed. She’d lost count of the number of naked bodies she’d seen in more than a decade of nursing. Some male patients were uncomfortable with female nurses. But even with more men going into the field, there were still too few nurses. She rechecked the Velcro fastenings on the plastic sheath covering his feet and casts, then handed Brandt a plastic squeeze bottle filled with shampoo.

She rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be in the bedroom. Call me when you’re finished.”

Brandt covered her hand with his, increasing the pressure on her fingers when she tried pulling away. “Aren’t you going to help me wash my back?” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Ciara wrinkled her nose. “No. That’s why I gave you a back brush.”

“Ah, come on.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You must really be feeling better.”

Attractive lines fanned out around Brandt’s eyes when he returned her smile. “You think?”

“I think. Please let go of my hand. I have work to do.”

For reasons he could not fathom, Brandt didn’t want to let her go. There was something about Ciara that intrigued him. Why, he pondered, did she wear clothes that definitely didn’t flatter her figure? And what was up with the bun? The glasses were all right—at least they were stylish. But the rest of her was dowdy. It was as if his nurse had gone out of her way to make herself look frumpy.

He’d seen her smile a few times and the gesture made her look like an entirely different person. It softened her sensually curved, full lips and scrunched up her very cute little nose. Even without makeup her skin was flawless, giving the appearance of whipped chocolate cream. Brandt released her hand and shook his head. What difference did it make to him that his nurse looked as if she were auditioning for a role on Little House on the Prairie?

“I’ll call you when I’m finished.” Ciara had asked him whether he was feeling better. His head was better, but physically he wasn’t. Every time he’d tried moving his legs he was reminded of his limited mobility. And he’d decided after dispatching two nurses that he was going to try and cooperate with the third. He wanted to feel better, regain full use of his legs, and he wanted to play football again. Playing football was not only what he did, it had become his obsession.

Ciara changed the linen on Brandt’s bed and adjusted the temperature level on the thermostat while she waited for him to finish in the bathroom. The temperature in the bedroom was sixty-two degrees. She’d positioned the ultra-thin, flat-screen television resting on a stand in the sitting area so that Brandt would be able to view it from the bed. Underwear, a pair of shorts and a T-shirt lay across the foot of the bed.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Brandt shouted from the bathroom.

She smiled. Under the mass of muscle was a grown-up boy whose only objective in life was to play ball. “Ready or not, here I come!”

Ciara entered the bathroom, reaching for two towels from the stack she’d left on the bench next to the bathtub. He sat on the shower chair; droplets of water had beaded up on his naked body. Water had turned his palomino-gold hair to a burnished shade.

Brandt tunneled his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. He went completely still when Ciara came up behind him and towel-dried his hair. The warmth from her body, the subtle fragrance of her perfume swept over him like a cool breeze. But instead of cooling him it generated a swath of heat that settled between his thighs, stirring his flaccid sex like a roused cat.

“Give me a towel!” The demand had come out harsher than he’d intended.

“Whatever happened to please,” she hissed in his ear. Ciara nearly slapped Brandt with the towel as she shoved it at him. Taking the other towel slung over her shoulder, she blotted the moisture from his neck and back.

He gritted his teeth as he covered his thighs in an attempt to conceal his growing erection. It hadn’t been that long since he’d slept with a woman, so what was it about this woman that had him aroused?

“Please and thank you very much,” he drawled sarcastically.

“That’s better.”

Brandt hoisted himself from the shower chair to the wheelchair after Ciara removed the plastic covering the casts. He suffered her light touch as she drew a damp cloth over and through his toes, dried them and followed with a light dusting of talc.

He met her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses, his gaze lingering on her delicate features. Her face was doll-like: round, wide-eyed, with delicate features. Brandt had overheard men talk about being attracted to the schoolteacher type. Even with her glasses and hair pulled back, Ciara didn’t quite fit the category. Twenty-four hours ago he hadn’t known Ciara Dennison existed. But he didn’t have to have to be a rocket scientist to know that her dowdy style was a feeble attempt to minimize her femininity.

He smiled. “Thank you. I can take it from here.”

Ciara gave him a skeptical look. “Are you certain you don’t need help getting dressed?”

Brandt nodded. “I’m certain.”

She plucked the wet towels off the floor, hanging them up to dry and prayed that Brandt hadn’t noticed that her hands were shaking. What she had noticed was his erection, wondering whether it was spontaneous or if she had in some way aroused him.

When she’d worked at the hospital her colleagues would tease her relentlessly about wearing too-large tops. An incident with a male patient early in her nursing career had traumatized her to the point where she refused to wear anything that would reveal the outline of her upper body.

“I’m going to the kitchen to start dinner.” She’d marinated the steaks, prepared a salad. All that remained was microwaving the potatoes.

“Are we eating on the rooftop terrace?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Or would you prefer eating in the kitchen or dining room?”

“No. The rooftop will be nice.”

Brandt stared at Ciara’s retreating figure. When it came to the opposite sex his radar never failed him. If he met a woman for the first time he was able to conclude after the first five minutes whether he’d wanted to see her again. If not, he knew right away. Ciara was in the former category rather than the latter. But his mother had hired her as his private nurse. She looked nothing like the women he usually dated, yet there was something about her that tugged at him. He wondered if she hadn’t been his nurse if he would want to date her.

Releasing the brakes on the chair, he rolled it out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

Brandt sat across the table from Ciara in an area of the terrace where lengthening shadows offset the lingering heat of the summer sun. She’d prepared skirt steaks, baked potatoes and a summer salad of melon and feta with balsamic vinaigrette. Freshly squeezed lemonade made with sparkling lemon-lime-infused water was a refreshing alternative to water.

He pointed to the salad. “I can’t believe you found all of this in the refrigerator.”

Ciara set down her goblet of lemonade. “I had to pick through the mixed baby greens to select the ones that were still fresh. You hadn’t cut the melon, so it was still ripe.” She’d crumbled some feta cheese and added thinly sliced scallions.

“You’re an incredible cook,” Brandt said, raising his goblet.

She raised her goblet in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

Brandt speared another forkful of salad, savoring the differing flavors and textures on his tongue. “I’d ordered groceries before driving down south, because I knew I wouldn’t have time once mini-camp and preseason began.”

“Do you usually cook for yourself?”

Brandt nodded. “Not enough, even though I enjoy cooking.” He put up a hand. “Before you ask, I’ll admit to watching cooking channels. I’ve learned to make Paula Deen’s Southern fried chicken and Aaron McCargo Jr.’s stuffed pork chops.”

Leaning back in her chair, Ciara saw excitement light up Brandt’s eyes. It was apparent football, plants and samurai swords weren’t Brandt’s only interests. “What’s your best dish?”

“Shrimp and grits. I’m still trying to perfect an authentic New Orleans po’ boy.”

“Hey-y-y,” she crooned. “So you like Southern cuisine.”

“I love it. That’s why I bought a place in North Carolina.”

Resting her arms on the table, Ciara leaned closer. “Why North Carolina?”

Brandt speared a slice of steak and popped it into his mouth, moaning under his breath. “Delicious. Why North Carolina?” he repeated. “I had a teammate who’d gotten into real estate with his brother-in-law. They gave me a prospectus of new homes and lodges going up around Lake Lure. It only took one visit to convince me to buy.”

“Where is Lake Lure?”

“It’s near Chimney Rock, around twenty-five miles southeast of Asheville. The long-time locals told me the exterior shots in Dirty Dancing were filmed in Lake Lure.”

“I thought it was filmed in the Catskills,” Ciara admitted.

“I’d thought so, too. It’s the same with Last of the Mohicans—it was also filmed in North Carolina.”

The topic segued from food to movies and music, Brandt confessing he had a fondness for movie sound-tracks. Ciara felt as if she’d escaped to another universe devoid of city noise and traffic. If it hadn’t been for the sound of passing air traffic overhead she would’ve forgotten she was sitting on a rooftop terrace in the middle of Manhattan.

The conversation came to an abrupt halt when Ciara’s cell phone rang. Reaching into the pocket of her tunic, she stared at the display. It was Leona Wainwright. Excusing herself, she stood up and walked a short distance away so Brandt couldn’t overhear her.

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