who worked at the hospital where she’d begun her nursing career, but she was glad she’d come to her former supervisor’s retirement party. Katie O’Brien had given up supervising young graduate nurses to teach.
The glow from the flickering candles and low-wattage lightbulbs behind old hurricane shutters provided the only illumination inside the restaurant. The backyard garden with its fountains, wrought-iron fleurs-de-lis and shrouded, backlit statue of voodoo high priestess Marie LaVeau made Ciara feel as if she was truly in New Orleans instead of the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
“Aren’t you going to try the catfish po’ boy?”
Ciara felt her heart stop for a few seconds before it started up again, this time at a runaway pace that made her feel slightly lightheaded. It had been more than two years since she’d come face-to-face with the man with whom she’d thought she would spend the rest of her life.
Turning slowly, she glared at him. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said sarcastically. “I never would’ve thought Dr. Eye Candy would come down from his lofty perch to hang out with—what was your phrase? Lowly nurses.”
Ciara had been enthralled by the brilliant doctor ten years her senior. He radiated a charisma that made him appear taller than his slight five-foot-nine frame. Victor wasn’t classically handsome, but his custom-made suits and shirts enhanced his attractiveness.
Dr. Victor Seabrook stared at Ciara. Her hair was brushed off her face in a ponytail that hung down her spine. His eyes moved slowly from her perfect face to a body women paid him, as one of the best plastic surgeons in the country, in the high six figures to achieve. The black pencil skirt, white linen man-tailored blouse and black-and-white zebra-print slingback stilettos showed off her tall, slender body to its best advantage.
Initially, he’d found himself drawn to Ciara because she was a chameleon. At work, her loose-fitting scrubs, glasses and hair secured in a matronly bun at the nape of her neck gave her the appearance of a no-nonsense nurse. But away from the hospital, contact lenses replaced her glasses, her hair came down and form-fitting clothes replaced her baggy nursing attire.
“Why are you here, Victor? I’m certain you weren’t invited.”
Victor blinked. “I came because I knew you would be here. Please hear me out,” he pleaded when Ciara turned away. “I came to say I’m sorry, Ciara.”
“Two years, Victor. It has taken two years for you to tell me you’re sorry,” she said incredulously.
“You left the hospital, moved and you wouldn’t take my calls on your cell,” he replied.
“Well, you see me now. Apology accepted. We have nothing else to say to each other. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to get back to my date.”
Victor’s eyebrows and the expression on his face lifted. “You’re dating someone?”
She let out an unladylike snort. “Did you actually believe I wouldn’t find someone after we broke up?” Ciara leaned closer, her head eclipsing the plastic surgeon’s by several inches. “Get away from me before I tell my boyfriend that you’re stalking me.”
Victor held up both hands. “Okay, Ciara. I get the message—loud and very clear.” Turning on his heel, he walked back inside the restaurant. Ciara Dennison had done to him what no other woman would think of doing—walk out on him. It was as if history was repeating itself. Victor’s mother had walked out on him and his father, destroying the older man, who turned to drugs and alcohol. His father died of an overdose, and Victor became a ward of the state. Eventually he was adopted by his foster parents.
Ciara waited until her ex disappeared, hoping it would be the last time she ever had to see him. What she’d told Victor was only half-true. Although she’d invited her roommate’s brother to attend the party with her, NYPD Sergeant Esteban Martinez was not her boyfriend, but just a very good friend.
Pushing a button, Brandt switched from the radio to the playlist in his iPod. He’d left New York City before dawn in an attempt to avoid the morning rush, but had run out of luck when traffic came to a standstill between Baltimore and Washington, D.C. It had taken more than an hour before traffic began to move again.
When he’d stopped in Norfolk, Virginia, to eat a late breakfast and fill up his Escalade, the skies had opened up, with the rain coming down in torrents, flooding many of the local roads. Brandt had considered whether to spend the night in Norfolk or continue on to North Carolina. The decision was made for him when rays of sunlight broke through watery clouds.
The cell phone rang and he pushed a button on the Bluetooth. “Hello.”
“Hi, Brandt.”
He smiled. “Hey, Rissa. What’s up?”
“I did it. I gave Harper back his ring.”
Brandt lowered the volume on the music filling the SUV. “How did he take it?”
“He was upset, but there wasn’t much he could do with Sumner glaring at him. I’d told Mother, Daddy and Sumner what I’d planned to do, and Mother really shocked me when she said she was relieved.”
“You’re shi…you’re kidding me,” he said, before the profanity slipped out.
“No, I’m not. She admitted she found Harper a little too pushy, but hadn’t wanted to interfere.”
“It looks as if you underestimated Leona Wainwright.”
“I know. We’re going out for lunch and I’m going to order a burger with bacon, cheese and grilled onions. And, if I’m not too full I’ll down an order of steak fries.”
“Careful, little sister, or you’ll ruin your girlish figure.”
Clarissa’s lilting laugh came through the speaker. It had been a long time since Brandt had heard her laugh. “I lost whatever curves I used to have. But that’s all going to change. Right now it’s all about Clarissa Odette Wainwright.”
“That’s my girl.” The skies darkened again and within seconds rain splattered on the windshield. Brandt adjusted the speed of the windshield wipers.
“I want to apologize,” Clarissa said.
“What about?”
“Going off on you yesterday.”
“I’ve forgotten about it, so I want you to do the same.”
“Consider it done. I have to go, because you know how ticked Mother gets when she has to wait. Bye, and thanks, Brandt.”
“Any time, Rissa. Bye.” He ended the call, turned up the volume and settled back to concentrate on the rain-slicked road.
Brandt had begun spending more and more of his off-season time at his modest two-story, three-bedroom house in western North Carolina. He’d come to value the quiet of his retreat, where he took long walks along foot trails, learned to fly-fish from the locals and caught up on his reading. There were times when he’d believed spending so much time alone was turning his brain to mush. But whenever he returned to the endless noise and hustle and bustle of the city he appreciated the pristine wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains even more.
He’d
