Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,33
made him feel whenever they shared the same space. He’d found himself at odds with Ciara Dennison because of their role reversal. He’d been raised to take care of and protect women, but now it was Ciara who cared for and protected him. She’d gone after the therapist with the ferocity of a mother lion protecting her cub.
Was he upset because of the role reversal?
Yes.
Had he felt vulnerable when he hadn’t been able to hide his pain from her?
Yes.
Had he taunted and bullied her? Had he mentioned her frumpy-looking uniform because he hadn’t wanted to find himself attracted to her? Had he asked her to kiss him because he’d wanted to taste her sexy mouth again, and not just out of gratitude? The answers were yes, yes and yes.
The first night they’d shared the rooftop dinner he’d realized then Ciara Dennison was hiding her femininity. She’d permitted him glimpses of her natural beauty, however, when she’d exchanged the bun for a ponytail. After she’d exchanged her work clothes for a sweater and skinny jeans, Brandt hadn’t wanted to believe she had attempted to hide her long legs and curvy hips under yards of unflattering fabric.
Her sitting on his lap, his arms holding her protectively, felt so right. It was as if she belonged there with him.
Resting the back of her head on Brandt’s shoulder, Ciara wanted not to have any regrets, but guilt and shame lingered around the fringes of her mind. If she’d attempted to do what she’d done with Brandt in a hospital setting, not only would she have jeopardized her position, but also her license to practice nursing in the state of New York.
“You’re bad for me, Brandt Wainwright.”
He laughed. “I’m bad? You’re the one who humped me.”
“I wouldn’t have humped you if you hadn’t pulled me down to your lap.”
“Don’t try and wiggle out of it, babe. You were definitely the humper.”
Ciara snorted audibly. “That’s because the humpee had a hard-on.”
“It couldn’t be helped. You know you’re kinda sexy.”
She glared at Brandt over her shoulder. “I thought I was dowdy?”
“That was before I saw you without the bun and the smock. I couldn’t tell whether you were pregnant or you painted in your spare time.”
“Neither. Now, please let me get up so I can shower and change my clothes.”
Using one hand and keeping his free arm wrapped around Ciara’s waist, Brandt deftly maneuvered the wheelchair out of the dining room and down the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
“We can shower together. I’ll wash your back and you wash mine.”
Ciara grasped the arms of the wheelchair. “We are not going to shower together. And if you don’t slow down you won’t be the only one with broken bones.”
“I’m expert with this baby,” Brandt drawled. “Do you want to see me do a wheelie?”
“You try it and you’ll find yourself looking for another nurse,” she warned.
Brandt slowed the chair, stopping outside the door to her bedroom. There was something in Ciara’s voice that communicated she would follow through with her threat. He didn’t want to lose her now that he was beginning to peel off the layers to uncover the real Ciara Dennison. He lowered his arm. “I believe this is your stop.”
Ciara practically jumped off Brandt’s lap and raced into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. In a moment of madness she’d weakened and had found herself bumping and grinding with a man unable to walk on his own.
She made her way to the bathroom, stood in front the mirror, took off her glasses and stared at her reflection. The enormity of what had passed between her and Brandt Wainwright pressed down on her like a lead blanket.
Be careful, Ciara, warned the voice in her head. She hadn’t known what to expect with Victor until she was in too deep. But it would be different with Brandt, only because she was willing to become physically and not emotionally involved with him.
Ciara smiled at the driver when he opened the rear door to the Lincoln Town Car, extended his hand and assisted her from the vehicle. “Thank you.”
Brandt had made two telephone calls: to the store manager at Barneys and the other to a car service to reserve a car and driver for her. She hadn’t been able to count on both hands and feet the number of times she’d stood on a corner—in the rain or snow—waiting to flag down a passing taxi to either take her to work or back home. However, a single phone