Here I Am by Rochelle Alers Page A

that she was unabashedly feminine and sexy. Seeing Ciara like this wasn’t going to help him suppress fantasies about her wearing next to nothing.
    His thoughts were interrupted when the van stopped in front of a townhouse that housed several doctors’ offices. Five minutes later Brandt was wheeled into a room on the second floor and placed on an examining table.
    Ciara sat on a stool in a corner of the room, staring at Brandt as he clenched and unclenched his right hand. “How bad is it?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
    Brandt knew what Ciara was asking, and knew it was useless to lie. “It’s very bad.” She popped up like a jack-in-the box and walked to the door, his eyes following her. “Where are you going?”
    Ciara stepped out into the hallway, motioning to a passing nurse. “Please inform Dr. Behrens before he removes Mr. Wainwright’s casts he should be given something for the pain.”
    The woman with flyaway salt-and-pepper curls nodded. “I’ll tell Gene. He’s the physician assistant,” she said when Ciara gave her a perplexed look.
    Ciara waited in the hallway until Dr. Behrens and his assistant entered the examining room. Wallace Behrens, not yet forty, was a highly regarded orthopedic surgeon because of his preference for noninvasive surgical procedures with patients under fifty.
    The doctor, redheaded, his brown eyes sparkling like new pennies in a face covered with freckles, shook her hand. “Ms. Dennison. It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s always a joy to read your case notes, because not only are they detailed, but also very accurate.”
    â€œThank you, Dr. Behrens.” She also shook the assistant’s hand, and returned to sit on the stool.
    Gene swabbed Brandt’s hip with alcohol before using a hypodermic needle to give him a shot of painkiller. Brandt’s chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm by the time the whirr of the drill cutting through the plaster casts echoed throughout the room.
    Without the casts, she was able to see the source of Brandt’s chronic pain. The wound above his left ankle was red and frightfully swollen. Dr. Behrens removed the staples, cleaned the area and covered it with sterile bandages.
    The surgeon glanced up, meeting Ciara’s eyes. “You brought him in just in time to avoid a serious infection.”
    She said a silent prayer that she hadn’t ignored her gut feeling that something wasn’t right, that Brandt should not have been in that much pain three weeks post-surgery.
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    Four hours later, Brandt was back in his bed and able to see his injured legs for the first time in weeks, thescars and fading bruises substantiating the seriousness of his injury.
    He gave Ciara a lopsided smile when she pulled up the railings to help make it easier for him to get out of bed. “I…I think we should… We have to celebrate,” he said, slurring and stuttering.
    She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think so, sport. Remember, you’re still under the influence.”
    â€œWhat about tomorrow?”
    Leaning over the bed, Ciara stared at the dreamy expression on Brandt’s face. She knew he was fighting against the lingering effects of the sedative that had dulled the pain when the casts and staples were removed.
    â€œWe’ll see how you feel after therapy.”
    Brandt pressed his forefinger to his mouth. “I need a little kiss.”
    â€œNurses aren’t permitted to kiss their patients.”
    â€œCome on, Ciara. Loosen up. Do you always have to be so anal?”
    Ciara felt as if Brandt had eavesdropped on her conversations with Victor. He’d accused her of being too reserved. Whenever they’d attended social gatherings together, he’d whisper in her ear to “loosen up.” What Victor had failed to realize was she was his date, and when they were approached by other people, it wasn’t Ciara Dennison