smoothly and swiftly, making her ears pop from the rapid ascent. The car slowed, and then stopped. The doors opened to a panoramic view of the East River bridges linking Manhattan to other boroughs. A profusion of flowers in vases and urns crowded a round mahogany pedestal table between the entryway and great room. For some reason she expected no less from a multimillionaire celebrity athlete.
She was met by a tall, slender woman with hair several shades lighter than her gray eyes. Leona Wainwright was the epitome of casual chic: white silk blouse, black linen slacks and low-heeled Ferragamo shoes. The requisite diamond studs graced her earlobes and a wedding band adorned the ring finger of her left hand.
Leona’s eyebrows lifted when she stared at Ciara Dennison. The woman at the agency had said she was tough as nails, but there was nothing about the nurse in the artist’s smock that looked menacing. She was younger than Leona had expected and her flawless, dark brown complexion made her appear even younger. The large, clear brown eyes staring back at her behind a pair of glasses reminded her of a cat’s. Her hair was brushed off her face and secured in a tight bun. Nurse Dennison had come highly recommended, and Leona realized she was her last hope.
She extended her hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Leona Wainwright, Brandt’s mother.”
Setting a duffel bag on the floor, Ciara shook her hand, finding it soft and cool to the touch. “Ciara Dennison. And before you say anything, I’d like to meet with my patient—alone.”
Leona knew immediately that Ciara was very different from the other nurses. Both had been so awestruck by their patient’s celebrity that they hadn’t assumed a take-charge position. “Please come with me.”
Ciara followed Leona through the expansive entryway that led into a great room. A curving staircase off to the left led to another level. “Is he on this floor or upstairs?” she asked.
Slowing her pace, Leona glanced over her shoulder. “He is in a bedroom on this floor.” She didn’t tell the nurse that the second floor was usually off-limits to everyone. The only exception was when her son hosted parties in the rooftop solarium. She turned down a wide hallway and walked into one of three bedroom suites set aside for guests.
“I’ll wait out here for you.”
Ciara nodded and then walked into the room. Brandt Wainwright lay in a hospital bed positioned near the floor-to-ceiling windows, eyes closed, with a sheet covering his lower body, the rise and fall of his bare chest in an even rhythm revealing the steadiness of his breathing. The bedroom was furnished in a traditional style, in contrast to the post-war architecture of the apartment.
She approached the bed. The rapid pulse of the large vein in his neck indicated that he wasn’t sleeping. Her gaze lingered on his face. He hadn’t shaved and a full day’s growth covered his jaw and chin. Ciara wasn’t into sports, but only someone completely cut off from civilization wouldn’t recognize the NFL’s golden boy.
His hair was a mess, indicating it hadn’t been combed or brushed. It was also oily, which confirmed it needed to be shampooed. Reaching out, she placed a hand on his shoulder. His skin was cool to the touch. But before she could withdraw her hand, Ciara found her wrist trapped between Brandt’s fingers.
“Do you usually shake someone’s hand even before you’ve been introduced?” she said, meeting his angry gaze. His eyes were a startling shade of sky blue. “Get out!”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. After all, you are holding on to my wrist.”
Brandt released her hand. “I’ve let you go. Now get out!”
Ciara took a step backward, far enough to evade his long reach and folded her arms under her breasts. “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Wainwright. In case you haven’t been counting, I happen to be your third nurse and that means you’ve just about struck out.”
“Wrong sport,” Brandt drawled, flashing a sardonic grin.
She inclined her head. “I stand corrected. Maybe I should’ve said the clock just ran out, sport! Game over.”
He stared at the nurse in the tie-dyed smock that overwhelmed her slender frame. His gaze shifted downward to a pair of leather clogs. At least the dark blue scrubs fit. He wasn’t exactly sure of her age, but he guessed she was anywhere between twenty-five and thirty.
Brandt had decided on another approach. He knew growling like a wounded bear wasn’t going to intimidate this nurse. “Please don’t take it personally, but I don’t want or need someone taking care of me.” His tone was soft, almost soothing.
Ciara wasn’t fooled by his sudden change in tone. “Whenever I take care of a patient I can assure you that it’s never personal. You have a choice, Mr. Wainwright. Either you let me take care of you here or you can go to a rehab facility.”
He snorted. “That’s not going to happen.”
Her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her black plastic frames. “You think not? If I walk out of here and file my report with the agency my recommendation will be that you see a psychotherapist and go to an inpatient rehab facility. I’m also certain you don’t want to remain on injured reserve next season. And I’m sure you’ve been cautioned about blood clots. We’ll begin by showering and washing your hair. If you want, I can help you shave or you can continue to look like Grizzly Adams.”
Brandt sat up straighter. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a very unusual bedside manner?”
Ciara’s expression did not change although she wanted to laugh. “So you noticed. Do you like it when I talk tough?”
He lifted a broad shoulder. “That’s something I have yet to decide. One thing for certain is you did get my attention.”
“Now that I have your attention, Mr. Wainwright, what do you plan to do?”
“Do about what, Nurse Dennis?”
“It’s Dennison. And there’s no need to be so formal.”
“How shall I address you, miss?”
“Ciara will do.”
“Since we’re becoming so familiar with each other, then I insist you call me Brandt.”
Ciara felt as if she’d scaled one hurdle. Brandt was talking to her instead of yelling at her. “I think it’s best that you shower and wash your hair first.”
His hand went to his face, absentmindedly scratching his beard. He’d grown the stubble to conceal the bruises on his face from the impact of the air bag. He wasn’t certain whether they’d faded, but not having to shave was one less thing he had to concern himself with. Getting out of bed and into the shower was not only difficult, it had become all but impossible.
Brandt’s mood changed like quicksilver. “I can shave myself.”
“Good,” she countered. “I’ve been known to have a problem with the blade getting a little too close to the jugular.”
“Don’t tell me you’re auditioning as a stand-up comic.”
“Very funny, Brandt,” Ciara drawled sarcastically.
“You’re the one with the jokes. Let’s just call a
