up.”
Ciara hesitated. “Please send him up.”
She wasn’t about to get embroiled in a family feud, so if Brandt didn’t want to see his relative, then let him tell him to his face. She waited in the entryway when the doors to the elevator opened and Jordan Wainwright exited. Living in Harlem, she’d read about the attorney who’d become something of a champion for the poor. But seeing him up close was breathtaking. She stared at the tall, slender man with patrician features, brilliant hazel eyes and a sun-browned face. Everything about him reeked of elegance and sophistication, from his short-cropped black hair to his tailored suit and Italian shoes. It was obvious he was spoken for when she spied the wedding band on his left hand.
Smiling, Ciara extended her hand. “I’m Ciara Dennison, Brandt’s nurse.”
Jordan returned her smile, attractive lines fanning out around his eyes, and took her hand. “My pleasure. I’m Jordan. Brandt’s cousin. Is he around?”
“He’s with the physical therapist right now. Please come in and sit down.”
Jordan followed Ciara into the living room, waiting until she sat before easing down on a matching chair. “I’ve been out of the country on my honeymoon, so I was unaware that Brandt had been in an accident until a couple of days ago. My aunt mentioned that Brandt has refused to see anyone, so I decided to come over and check in on him.”
“It’s difficult for Brandt to accept that he won’t be able to stand on his own without crutches or a cane for at least six to eight weeks.”
Nodding, Jordan crossed his legs. “My cousin has had bumps and bruises, but he’s never experienced any serious injuries. He’s also extremely competitive. Not once did he ever let me win, whether it was baseball, basketball or football. I’ve beaten him in tennis only because I’m faster on the court than he is. But he does have an awesome serve.”
“Even with two broken legs, he’s still in quite good physical shape,” Ciara concurred.
Jordan wanted to ask the nurse if she was speaking of Brandt as his nurse or a woman admiring his body. “Brandt works out a minimum of two to three hours a day, even during off-season.”
Ciara stood up when she heard Brandt’s voice raised in anger. Moving quickly, she met the therapist as he followed Brandt who was maneuvering his chair as if he were in a race. She stood in front of him, stopping his progress. “What’s going on?”
A redness flooded the therapist’s neck spreading to his thinning hairline. “I may have pushed him too hard for his first session.”
“May have!” she shouted. “Either you did or you didn’t. If you’d read his medical history then you would’ve been known that my patient has titanium rods and nails in his tibia. Five screws were used to secure it in place, and that the fibula in his left leg was left unaffixed, but will align and heal itself in due time. The key phrase, Mr. Lambert, is in due time!”
“I’m…I’m sorry, Miss Dennison,” the flustered man sputtered. “I’d thought with Mr. Wainwright’s conditioning he would do well with a more aggressive treatment plan.”
Ciara narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe in two or three weeks.” She waved her hand.
“I need to take his vitals.”
“I’ll take them,” she responded.
“But…but I need them for my report,” the therapist stuttered.
“I have your number. I’ll call you, or leave a message on your voice mail.” She turned to Jordan. “Can you please escort Mr. Lambert to the elevator?”
Jordan motioned with his head. “I think it best you leave now.”
Ciara grasped the handles to the wheelchair and pushed Brandt out of the living room and down the hallway to his bedroom. One glance at his face told her all she needed to know. He was in pain—intense pain. He’d clamped his teeth tightly together and his face was covered in perspiration.
She was struggling to get him into bed when Jordan walked in. “He usually gets into and out of bed by himself.”
Slipping out of his suit jacket, Jordan tossed it on a nearby chair. Anchoring his arms under Brandt’s shoulders, he lifted him from the chair and onto the bed. “Come on, cuz. Help me out here.” Brandt’s two hundred and fifty-plus pounds had become dead weight.
Bracing a hand on the mattress, Brandt shifted until he found a comfortable position. The F-bomb slipped past his lips when stabbing pain shot through his left leg. His eyes met Ciara’s. “Sorry.”
She smiled. “I’ll give you that