perplexed look.
Ciara waited in the hallway until Dr. Behrens and his assistant entered the examining room. Wallace Behrens, not yet forty, was a highly regarded orthopedic surgeon because of his preference for noninvasive surgical procedures with patients under fifty.
The doctor, redheaded, his brown eyes sparkling like new pennies in a face covered with freckles, shook her hand. “Ms. Dennison. It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s always a joy to read your case notes, because not only are they detailed, but also very accurate.”
“Thank you, Dr. Behrens.” She also shook the assistant’s hand, and returned to sit on the stool.
Gene swabbed Brandt’s hip with alcohol before using a hypodermic needle to give him a shot of painkiller. Brandt’s chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm by the time the whirr of the drill cutting through the plaster casts echoed throughout the room.
Without the casts, she was able to see the source of Brandt’s chronic pain. The wound above his left ankle was red and frightfully swollen. Dr. Behrens removed the staples, cleaned the area and covered it with sterile bandages.
The surgeon glanced up, meeting Ciara’s eyes. “You brought him in just in time to avoid a serious infection.”
She said a silent prayer that she hadn’t ignored her gut feeling that something wasn’t right, that Brandt should not have been in that much pain three weeks post-surgery.
Four hours later, Brandt was back in his bed and able to see his injured legs for the first time in weeks, the scars and fading bruises substantiating the seriousness of his injury.
He gave Ciara a lopsided smile when she pulled up the railings to help make it easier for him to get out of bed. “I…I think we should… We have to celebrate,” he said, slurring and stuttering.
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think so, sport. Remember, you’re still under the influence.”
“What about tomorrow?”
Leaning over the bed, Ciara stared at the dreamy expression on Brandt’s face. She knew he was fighting against the lingering effects of the sedative that had dulled the pain when the casts and staples were removed.
“We’ll see how you feel after therapy.”
Brandt pressed his forefinger to his mouth. “I need a little kiss.”
“Nurses aren’t permitted to kiss their patients.”
“Come on, Ciara. Loosen up. Do you always have to be so anal?”
Ciara felt as if Brandt had eavesdropped on her conversations with Victor. He’d accused her of being too reserved. Whenever they’d attended social gatherings together, he’d whisper in her ear to “loosen up.” What Victor had failed to realize was she was his date, and when they were approached by other people, it wasn’t Ciara Dennison they’d wanted to talk to—it was him. The brilliant doctor was much sought after by women looking for advice on cosmetic surgery. After a stint as a plastic surgery expert on a reality show, Victor had become famous. When he wasn’t performing life-altering surgeries to improve his patients’ quality of life, he was in great demand by those who were willing to pay millions to achieve perfection.
“I’m not anal, Brandt. I just play by the rules. I’m certain you’re more than familiar with those rules.”
Ciara recalled her conversation with Sofia. What she hadn’t admitted to her roommate was her attraction to Brandt. It went beyond patient-nurse. It’d become male-female. Sofia was right. She hadn’t slept with a man in more than two years. And whenever her body betrayed her, it was a blatant reminder that she was a woman capable of strong passion.
“But you already broke the rules when you kissed me on the terrace,” Brandt reminded her.
Lowering the rail on his right, she leaned closer. The warmth and natural scent from Brandt’s body swept over Ciara. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t as unaffected as she appeared. Each time she viewed his nude body she had to call on all of her professionalism to avoid trailing her fingertips over his body like a sculptor.
She’d told herself that she wasn’t into sports, and therefore wasn’t attracted to athletes whose egos outweighed their talent but not their paychecks. But Ciara realized that even if Brandt Wainwright had not become a football player, it still would not have diminished his appeal.
He’d been born into money—a lot of money—the penthouse and its furnishings were a testament to that. Sofia had mentioned she’d searched out Brandt Wainwright on the internet, and later that evening Ciara had also looked him up online. There were more than thirteen pages about him, with statistics from his college