Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,85
I are staying in the city this weekend, so that will give us time to talk about how we’re going to deal with The Informer.” He gestured to Brandt. “Don’t get up. We’ll see ourselves out.”
Brandt sat staring at outside long after his uncle and cousin left. The Wainwrights had closed ranks because they sought to protect the family name. He wanted to go to Ciara and reassure her that she had nothing to fear, that he would protect her, but the slanderous article had driven a wedge between them.
He had no doubt Jordan and Wyatt would do what they needed to do to clear the Wainwright name, and Brandt knew what he had to do to secure his future and Ciara’s.
Chapter 21
Ciara woke to find the spot next to her empty, but the impression on the pillow indicated Brandt had come to bed. After she’d left Brandt and his uncle and cousin in the living room, she’d talked to her mother, showered, swallowed two aspirin and gotten into bed. Within minutes of her head touching the pillow she had fallen asleep.
Sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stared at her feet. They were as dark as the rest of her body. She’d forgone wearing shoes when on deck. If she’d been more uninhibited, she would’ve sunbathed without her top, but hadn’t wanted to embarrass herself or a member of the ship’s crew.
Ciara left the bed, walking on bare feet to the adjoining bath, stopping when she saw Brandt sitting on a stool, shaving. “Good morning.”
He smiled at her in the mirror as she walked to an area of the bathroom where the commode and urinal were concealed behind a half wall of frosted glass. “Good morning.”
“You’re up early,” Ciara called out.
Brandt drew the razor over his jawline. “I have a press conference.”
There came the sound of toilet flushing, running water, the whirr of a toothbrush followed by gargling. He’d splashed cold water on his face and patted it dry when Ciara came up behind him.
“A press conference for what?”
He met her eyes in the mirror. “To announce my retirement.”
With wide eyes, Ciara stared at Brandt, unable to process what he’d just said. “Why?”
Shifting slightly on the stool, Brandt grasped her wrist, pulling her down to his lap. “Why not?”
“But you love football.”
He gave her a tender look his mother had given him whenever he had taken the time to make rather than buy a gift for her. “I love you, too.”
Ciara shook her head. “No, Brandt.”
“No what? You think I’m doing this for you?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I’m doing this for us. I expect to recover completely, but I also know that I’ll never be able to play football again. One tackle, I go down the wrong way, then I’m messed up again. Maybe the next time I won’t be so lucky to get a nurse who’ll knock me upside the head when I want to throw in the towel.”
Looping her arms around Brandt’s neck, Ciara rested her forehead against his. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met, Brandt Wainwright.”
He winked at her. “I thought I was pretty good.” His expression stilled, grew serious. “Our living together and sharing a vacation was a wake-up call that something was missing in my life.”
“A woman.”
“No, Ciara. Not any woman. You. I had to lie flat on my back, unable to get out of bed and perform the most basic functions by myself to realize I needed more than the cameras, the adoring fans and the Super Bowl ring. I put you in the line of fire when you went to that game with me. I made you a target even when you’d told me that you didn’t want to be in the spotlight. If I’d listened to you, baby, Poppy would’ve never written that article.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Brandt. If someone was out to get me, it would’ve happened sooner or later. I spoke to my mother. She told me ‘this too will pass.’ I think she was referring to what she’d gone through when she found out my father was a bigamist. She had her pity party, then she got it together because she had to take care of me. I hope your uncle and Jordan don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I really appreciate them coming to my defense.”
“That’s because they think of you as a Wainwright.”
“But I’m not a Wainwright, Brandt.”
“You would be if you married me.”
“Why?”
Grasping her shoulders, Brandt eased her back to where