Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,27

atrophy.”

“Has he talked about missing the upcoming football season?”

“No. But he did watch a baseball game last night.”

When he’d heard that Brandt had been injured in an auto accident, was refusing to see anyone other than his mother and had dismissed two nurses, Jordan had prepared himself for the worst. He knew Brandt would recover physically, but he had his doubts whether he would be able to deal with the possibility that his football career was over.

He knew that after more than ten years in the game his cousin’s body couldn’t withstand too many more injuries. Perhaps the accident would give Brandt the time he needed to decide whether he should retire.

Smiling, he extended his hand. “Again, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Brandt is very fortunate to have you as his nurse.”

Ciara shook Jordan’s hand. “Thank you.”

“I told him I plan to come back this weekend. Will that pose a problem?”

“I don’t believe so. Just give me a call before you come. I don’t want him to go from having one or two visitors to so many that he’ll become overwhelmed.”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll call before I come,” Jordan promised.

She waited for Jordan to enter the elevator, the doors closing behind him before she made her way to the bedroom to check on her patient. Ciara knew she had to consciously think of Brandt Wainwright as her patient or she would find herself emotionally too involved.

She’d become a private nurse six months after she’d left the hospital, and most of her patients over the past year and a half had been elderly women, many of whom had opted to live at home rather than in a hospital.

Brandt was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. Her gaze moved slowly over his clean-shaven face, admiring the classically handsome features—the generous mouth, cleft chin and aquiline nose. Sofia was right. Brandt Wainwright was muy guapo.

Chapter 7

One step forward, two steps backward. That was how it’d felt to Ciara over the past three days. She sat in the sitting area in Brandt’s bedroom, flipping through a magazine. For the past hour there had only been the sound of pages turning to compete with the rain tapping against the windows. When she’d asked him if he’d wanted lunch, and his response was to close his eyes and feign sleep, Ciara waited to see how long it would take before he would finally answer her question.

Brandt’s mood had shifted again. He was back to the sullen, surly, disgruntled patient she’d encountered earlier in the week. He barked at her, refused to leave the bed to have his meals, rejected his pain medication and stopped shaving. Whenever Leona called, he’d refused to speak to her, and then issued an order that he didn’t want to talk to or see anyone. Ciara had defused the situation by removing the telephone from the bedroom.

Although he’d tried to conceal it, she knew he was experiencing more pain than he had before physical therapy. She’d positioned the railings on the bed to facilitate his getting in and out of it without her assistance whenever he needed to go to the bathroom.

Her cell phone rang and she picked it up before the second ring. “Ciara Dennison.”

“Ms. Dennison, this is Amanda at Dr. Behrens’s office, returning your call. We have a four o’clock cancellation. We’ll send a medical van to pick you and Mr. Wainwright up at three-thirty.”

“Thank you, Amanda. We’ll see you at four.”

Ciara hadn’t wanted to deceive Brandt, but she was at her wits’ end as to how to deal with his unresponsiveness. Instinct told her that he’d injured or reinjured his legs during therapy. Whether it was machismo or a martyr complex, he suffered in silence rather than ask for something to ease his pain.

Brandt opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, he speaks,” she drawled facetiously.

“Very funny, Ciara.”

“Isn’t it, Brandt? A thirtysomething grown man pouting like a spoiled child is hilarious.”

Brandt glared at Ciara. Why couldn’t she understand that he wanted to be left alone? As long as she sat quietly, reading or doing crossword puzzles, he didn’t have a problem with her hanging out in his room. It was when she wanted to talk that it bothered him. It was as if she just had to make conversation to prove that he didn’t need a shrink.

“I don’t feel like talking to my mother, because she asks me the same questions. ‘How are you feeling, darling?