Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,16
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