Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,77

but Brandt Wainwright, born into a real-estate dynasty, was a celebrity athlete and media superstar.

He’d waited two years to pay Ciara back for not appreciating what he’d done for her. He’d made her, provided her with what she needed to step into polite society with a minimum of effort. She’d met people who wouldn’t have given her a cursory glance if she hadn’t been on the arm of Dr. Victor Peter Seabrook.

Reaching for the cell phone on the bedside table, he punched “Contacts” and scrolled through the directory until he found the name he wanted. He smiled when he heard the husky female voice.

“Hey, you,” he said, repeating her unorthodox greeting. “I’ve got something for you that should sell out your next edition.”

“Shall I come over now?”

Victor frowned. “I’m in bed.”

“When has that ever stopped us from conducting business, Dr. Seabrook?”

“You’re right, Poppy.” He didn’t want Poppy Rayburn and she didn’t want him. But that didn’t mean they didn’t need each other. “Come on over.”

Tapping a button, he ended the call and swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for pajamas. Even though it wouldn’t make a difference to Poppy if he did come to the door without clothes, he didn’t want her distracted from what he planned to divulge to her.

Chapter 19

Ciara stood at the rail, staring at the choppy waters of the Atlantic as the sleek yacht sliced through the ocean with a minimum of rocking motion. She and Brandt had arrived at the pier at seven and been shown to a stateroom that had every convenience of a hotel. The crew of seven was as inconspicuous as they were efficient.

A steward had unpacked their luggage, putting everything away, and half an hour after sailing the on-board chef served them a buffet breakfast of herbed scrambled eggs, sausage patties, baked country ham, buttermilk biscuits, homemade jams, navel oranges, hot coffee and tea and fresh orange juice with champagne.

Closing her eyes, she wrapped her arms around her body. The autumn sun was hot, but it was the wind that chilled her exposed flesh. Ciara opened her eyes when she felt another source of heat. Brandt had replaced the crutches with two tripod canes; he admitted the canes helped him with balance and stability. She turned and smiled up at him. She’d gotten so used to seeing him seated that she was overwhelmed by his towering height and the breadth of his shoulders.

“How was your nap?”

Brandt stared at Ciara from under lowered lids. Barefoot and wearing a sweatshirt over a pair of shorts and with her ponytail whipping in the wind, he found her more tantalizing than when she wore the body-hugging dress and stilettos. She looked so incredibly beautiful, delicate and innocent that he found it hard to draw a normal breath.

“It would’ve been better if I had someone to share it with me.”

Looping her arm through his, Ciara went on tiptoe to brush her mouth over his. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

“I did, but you told me you wanted to stay on deck and enjoy the ocean.”

Ciara pressed closer, her breasts molding to the contours of his hard chest. “Ask me again, Brandt.”

Lowering his head, Brandt trailed kisses down the column of her scented neck. “Ciara Dennison, will you come to bed with me?”

Curving her arms under his shoulders, she rested her cheek over his heart while counting the strong, steady beats. “I’d thought you’d never ask.”

He let out an audible exhalation. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to pick you up and carry you downstairs.”

“Patience, sport. That time will come,” she whispered.

Ciara lowered her arms, wrapping one around his waist as she led him below deck.

Brandt knew he would eventually regain enough strength in his legs to lift more than his body weight. It was the realization that Ciara might not be around when he reached that milestone that had him anxious and frustrated.

His taking her away was to give her a break from what had become a mundane ritual of checking his vitals, examining his legs, preparing meals, conferring with the physical therapist and accompanying him for his scheduled visits to the doctor’s office.

His routine hadn’t varied much: he spent time in the solarium reading or pruning his plants, exercising, occasionally viewing movies from his extensive collection and sharing meals on the rooftop with Ciara, weather permitting. It was when they retired to bed that the floodgates opened and they talked—about anything and everything but themselves and what they wanted for their