Here I Am. Rochelle AlersЧитать онлайн книгу.
son. “Yes. The patient is the problem.”
“If that’s the case, then we’ll send someone who is an expert in caring for difficult patients. You’re in luck, because she happens to be available. Her name is Ciara Dennison.”
“When can I expect her?”
“Let me call her, and I’ll call you back.”
Leona flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “Thank you.”
“I told you I don’t want anyone in my home,” Brandt snarled between clenched teeth after his mother had put the receiver back in the cradle.
“What you want really doesn’t matter, Brandt. You’re laid up with two broken legs and you need someone to help you get around, give you your medication and make certain you eat. If you want to lie there feeling sorry for yourself, then I’m going home. After you stew in your own waste for a few hours I’m certain you’ll change your mind about letting someone into your home. Make up your mind!”
Her words trailed off when the telephone rang. Leona picked it up on the first ring. She smiled. “Thank you very much.”
Propping himself up into a sitting position, Brandt reached around to adjust the pillows supporting his shoulders. “When is she coming?”
“Her name is Ciara Dennison and she’ll be here between one and two.”
Ciara Dennison had the advantage when she’d accepted the assignment as a private nurse for Brandt Wainwright. She knew who he was, but he knew nothing of her nursing skills or unorthodox bedside manner. The agency occasionally called her to deal with difficult patients, and she’d earned a reputation as a no-nonsense nurse who provided excellent care.
When the news broke that pro quarterback Brandt Wainwright had been involved in a car accident in North Carolina, the presumption on most sports news shows was that he’d been driving under the influence. Once it was confirmed that there were no drugs or alcohol in his system, it quieted the skeptics and the gossip.
Ciara arrived at a luxury high-rise overlooking the East River, paid the fare, got out of the cab and walked toward the entrance of the apartment building. As the doorman opened the door to the lobby, she was met with a blast of cool air.
“I’m Ciara Dennison. Mrs. Wainwright is expecting me.”
The tall, slightly built man smiled. “I’ll let her know you’re here and escort you to the elevator.” He reached for the intercom receiver under the lobby desk and punched in several numbers. “Ms. Dennison is on her way up.” Ciara followed the doorman past a bank of elevators to one in an alcove. He inserted a card key in the PH slot. “It will take you directly to the penthouse.”
The doors closed before Ciara could thank him. The car rose 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