Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,65

use protection, but too many guys he knew had become unwitting fathers that way.

Brandt had always planned to marry and father children, but never had the pull been strong as it was now. And he knew it had something to do with the woman who was his nurse and lover.

“Please give me the towel and razor,” he told Ciara when she sat down on the ledge of the tub, “then reapply the shaving cream and put your foot in my lap.”

Ciara did as Brandt directed, smiling when he eased the razor over her outstretched leg without cutting her. She’d left Brandt after breakfast to keep an appointment at a salon for her hair, and a mani-pedi. She was supposed to have had her legs waxed, but the waxer had called in sick.

“I reserved a car and driver for you for tonight,” said Brandt.

Ciara’s head popped up. “I told you I didn’t need a car service. The doorman will hail a cab for me when I leave, and I’ll have someone bring me back.”

Brandt’s hand stilled. “Someone, Ciara? You don’t even have a name. What if that someone decides to take a detour between here and the airport and something happens? How many women have ended up either missing or dead? Too many,” he said, answering his own question. “You will either go with my driver or I’m tagging along—in the chair.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

She met his resolute stare. “No.”

“What’s it going to be? Me or the car service?”

A beat passed. “Are you trying to check on my whereabouts?”

The question was out before Ciara could stop it. The first thing that had come to mind was Brandt making certain she wouldn’t take a detour, perhaps hang out with another man, before she returned to the penthouse. Clarissa had volunteered to come and spend the night with him, thus alleviating her concern about having to leave the party early.

“Don’t ever lump me into the same category as Victor Seabrook.” Brandt enunciating each word.

“I didn’t say you’re anything like Victor,” she replied.

“That’s not how it sounded to me, Ciara,” Brandt countered. “I reserved the car because I want to make certain you’ll be protected.” What he didn’t tell her was the man who would take her to the hotel and back was not only his personal driver, but also a professional bodyguard.

Ciara ran a hand over her forehead. She didn’t want to fight with Brandt, not when her body thrummed whenever she recalled his hardness inside her. All of her life she’d craved male protection, first from her father and later from the men she’d dated, but none of them had been forthcoming—until Brandt Wainwright.

“I’m sorry. I misinterpreted your concern. Thank you, Brandt,” she whispered.

Raising her foot, Brandt kissed each of her brightly painted toes. “You’re welcome.”

Chapter 16

The rear door of the Town Car opened and Ciara placed her hand in the outstretched palm of the pale, dark-haired, black-suited man who’d picked her up in front of the high-rise and driven her to the LaGuardia Marriott. She felt the strength in his arm as he helped her out of the car. He took a large, quilted bag from her hand, then led her by her elbow, escorting her to the hotel entrance.

He handed her the bag, reached into the pocket of his jacket and extended a business card. “I’ll see you to your room. But I want you to call me when you’re ready to leave and we’ll meet in the lobby,” he said with a distinctive Midwestern accent.

Ciara stared at the card. There was no name, only a number with a familiar area code. She nodded. “Okay.” To say her driver was scary was an understatement. He wasn’t tall, but what he lacked in height he made up in bulk—he was built like a tank. During the drive from Manhattan to Queens he hadn’t removed his sunglasses or his jacket. Only when he reached over to open the door for her did she see the automatic weapon in a holster under his left arm.

They walked through the lobby to the elevators, riding up in silence. Ciara walked the carpeted hallway, her bodyguard following. She stopped at the suite Sofia had reserved for the night, rapping lightly on the floor.

“¿Quién?” asked Sofia from behind the door.

“It’s Ciara.”

“Coming, chica!”

Sofia opened the door dressed in a pair of black bikini panties with a matching demi-bra. Like Ciara, her hair was still in rollers. “¡Coño!” she swore in Spanish when she saw the