Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,28
Are you better today than yesterday?’ My answer is always the same. It’s always yes.”
Ciara sat up straight, her eyes boring into a pair in shimmering blue. “If it’s yes, then why are you eating in bed? Why are you risking getting blood clots by not moving around?”
“I’m not going to get blood clots,” Brandt argued, “because I’m taking a blood thinner. Do you mind answering my question?”
“What’s that?”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to your orthopedist. His office called to tell me that Dr. Behrens has to rearrange his schedule for the next week and he would like to see you today.” What she hadn’t told Brandt was that she’d called the office and asked the doctor to see him.
She swung her legs over the chaise. “I’m going to change, and when I come back I’ll help you get dressed.”
Brandt sat up, staring at the woman who’d begun hovering around him as if he were preemie. Everything had begun to bother him: his mother’s questions and his nurse.
He just wanted to be left alone.
“Do I have time to eat lunch?”
The seconds ticked as they stared at each other. “Yes. Are you going to get out of bed?”
He narrowed his eyes at Ciara. “Do I have a choice?”
Resting her hands at her waist, Ciara gave him a look parents usually reserved for recalcitrant children. “No.”
Swallowing an expletive, Brandt reached for the wheelchair and smoothly transferred from the bed to the chair, muscles in his biceps flexing with the motion. “Damn, babe. Why do you have to be so tough?”
Ciara rolled her eyes. “It’s my responsibility to get you better so you’ll have full use of your legs. Lying in bed is counterproductive to that. And don’t call me babe.”
“Some of my women like it when I call them babe.”
“I’m not one of your women, Brandt Wainwright. Please try and keep that in mind.” She didn’t understand Brandt. He’d gone from being practically monosyllabic to talking about some of his women, and if she had to choose which she preferred it would be the former.
Brandt turned the chair toward the bathroom. “I’ll be there as soon as I wash my hands.” Old habits were hard to break. His former headmaster would examine the front and back of each student’s hands before they were permitted to enter the school’s cafeteria.
He knew he’d given Ciara a hard time only because the pain in his legs had become excruciating—nearly intolerable. He’d decided to forgo the pain medication in the hope that it would ease. Unfortunately, it hadn’t.
The medical transport van maneuvered along the curb in front of the building where Ciara and Brandt waited under the canopy for their arrival. The attendant positioned the wheelchair on a hydraulic lift, securing it in the rear of the vehicle. The attendant helped Ciara into the van, where she sat on a seat next to Brandt. Being cloistered in the penthouse for four days had spoiled her—the sound of traffic was deafening, quickly reminding her of the incessant noise of the city.
Brandt, wearing walking shorts, a faded sweatshirt and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, sat with arms folded over his chest. He thought he’d conjured Ciara up when she had come into his bedroom to help him put on the shorts. She’d traded her uniform for a pair of jeans, a cotton pullover and running shoes. Without the smock she appeared taller, slimmer. The denim hugging her hips was a testament that she was unabashedly feminine and sexy. Seeing Ciara like this wasn’t going to help him suppress fantasies about her wearing next to nothing.
His thoughts were interrupted when the van stopped in front of a townhouse that housed several doctors’ offices. Five minutes later Brandt was wheeled into a room on the second floor and placed on an examining table.
Ciara sat on a stool in a corner of the room, staring at Brandt as he clenched and unclenched his right hand. “How bad is it?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Brandt knew what Ciara was asking, and knew it was useless to lie. “It’s very bad.” She popped up like a jack-in-the box and walked to the door, his eyes following her. “Where are you going?”
Ciara stepped out into the hallway, motioning to a passing nurse. “Please inform Dr. Behrens before he removes Mr. Wainwright’s casts he should be given something for the pain.”
The woman with flyaway salt-and-pepper curls nodded. “I’ll tell Gene. He’s the physician assistant,” she said when Ciara gave her a