Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,82
wagging about her identity, and one kiss to defame her character.
She heard the distinctive chime indicating the elevator had arrived at the penthouse level. She sat straighter when Jordan and Brandt and an older man who bore a striking resemblance to Jordan walked into the living room. Both wore dark blue pinstripe suits, white shirts, dark ties and wingtips. Brandt dropped down beside her, holding her hand, while she studied the other two men.
Waiting until his cousin and great-uncle sat on the love seat, Brandt squeezed Ciara’s hand. “Ciara, I’d like you to meet my uncle, Wyatt Wainwright. Wyatt, Ciara Dennison.”
Wyatt Wainwright rose, extended his hand and smiled at the young woman who had caused quite a stir because of her association with his nephew. “Miss Dennison.”
Ciara smiled at the elegant man with a head of shocking white hair and piercing blue eyes. He and Jordan shared the same lean face, jawline and patrician features. She recalled Aziza mentioning that her husband’s grandfather was an old-school gangster.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wainwright.”
Wyatt retook his seat, his eyes taking in everything about Ciara Dennison. He had been watching the football game when he saw Brandt kiss the young woman sitting next to him. He’d known the gesture was certain to elicit curiosity as to who she was. What he hadn’t known was that she’d been romantically linked to the celebrity plastic surgeon.
Wyatt found the nurse attractive, and there was something behind her eyes he recognized as determination. She was no shrinking violet. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you at the family fall get-together, Ciara. If I had, then I doubt whether I’d be here tonight.”
“Why are you here, Mr. Wainwright?”
Crossing one leg over the opposite knee, Wyatt stared at the toe of his polished wingtip. “I wanted to see for myself the woman who is responsible for dragging the Wainwright name into sleazy rags.”
“Grandfather!”
“Uncle!”
Brandt and Jordan had spoken in unison, but Wyatt waved at them as if they were annoying insects. “Stay out of this!” He redirected his attention to Ciara. “I also came because I want to hear the truth, Miss Dennison.”
Annoyance snaked its way up Ciara’s spine. If Wyatt thought he was going to intimidate her, then he was mistaken. Like she’d told Brandt, she didn’t scare easily. “How do you know what you read in the paper isn’t the truth?”
Black eyebrows lowered over the penetrating blue eyes. “One thing I’m not, Miss Dennison, is a fool. So don’t take me for one,” he chastised. “Jordan has agreed to represent you when we sue Poppy Rayburn and that rag she calls a paper, but we need to know about your past relationship with Victor Seabrook.”
Ciara felt as if she’d been ambushed by the Wainwrights, and she wondered why they were focusing on Victor. Had they uncovered something she didn’t know? She exchanged a sidelong glance with Brandt. He squeezed her hand again.
“You have to tell them, babe.”
Her voice was low, calm when she told them everything from her initial introduction to Victor, to when she ordered him to leave her apartment and when he showed up uninvited to the retirement party for her former supervisor.
The muscle in Wyatt’s jaw twitched. “You didn’t have him arrested for assaulting you?”
Ciara shook her head. “I just wanted to be rid of him. But if he’d continued to harass me then I would’ve had him charged with stalking.”
“His blowing up your cell was enough to have him charged with harassment,” Jordan said.
Wyatt snorted. “In my day we didn’t go to the police, but meted out our own form of street justice. If a man hit a woman, then he found himself with a broken arm. And if he beat her up, then it was both arms and legs.
“That’s because you were an OSG,” Brandt said under his breath.
Jordan shot his cousin a “no you didn’t say that” look before he redirected his attention to Ciara. “Who, other than Dr. Seabrook, would know where he’d purchased your clothes?”
“Other than the salespeople at the boutiques and department stores, I wouldn’t know. Victor had his favorites: Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue and Bloomingdale’s. He also shopped at Wolford, Montmarte and a few other shops at Columbus Circle. Anyone could get this information off the internet. There are more than forty pages on Victor if you search for his name.”
Jordan reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and took out a small leather-bound book. He flipped to a flagged page. “I