Here I Am. Rochelle Alers
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next, Clarissa? A double-zero?” He leaned closer. “What does Harper say about you losing weight?”
Clarissa stared into a pair of eyes much like her own. Brandt had always been her favorite brother. Garth and Sumner were always too caught up with what was going on in their lives to pay much attention to her. And in a family where the birth of a boy was celebrated like that of an heir to the throne, she had always tried hard to get attention.
“He says he likes me slim.”
“Slim or emaciated? You look anorexic, Clarissa. Are you losing weight because Harper asked you to, or is it your decision?”
Although she was thirty, her body now seemed prepubescent. When she lowered her gaze Brandt knew the reason why his sister looked so frightfully thin. He wondered if their mother had noticed the drastic change in Clarissa’s appearance. “Why are you letting someone else control your life?”
“I don’t want to marry him.”
The admission stunned Brandt. July was almost over, and in another four months Clarissa was expected to exchange vows with the man she’d planned to share her life.
“You don’t have to marry him, Rissa.”
Clarissa’s eyes filled with tears. It had been years since Brandt had called her by her childhood nickname. “But Mother expects us to marry.”
“This is not about Mother, and what she wants or expects. This is about you. If you don’t want to marry the guy, then you don’t have to. Whatever you decide, you can count on me having your back. And I’m certain Sumner and Garth will support you, too.”
“I don’t want any trouble from Sumner. He and Harper can’t stand being in the same room together.”
“Don’t worry about Sumner,” Brandt said, hoping to reassure his sister that their hot-tempered brother wouldn’t cause her soon-to-be ex-fiancé physical harm. Of all the Wainwrights, Sumner was the one who wouldn’t hesitate to use his fists in a confrontation.
“I’m going to talk to Mother and Daddy first. Then I’m going to give Harper back his ring.”
Brandt curbed the urge to smile. He’d never liked Harper Sinclair, because the man reminded him of a snake-oil salesman. He talked too much, grinned too much and spoke to Clarissa as if she were a child instead of his partner.
“I’m leaving for North Carolina tomorrow morning. Call me on my cell and let me know how everything turns out. If Harper decides to give you grief, then he’ll wish it was Sumner rather than me jacking him up.”
Clarissa laughed and a rush of color flooded her face. “No one believes me when I tell them my brothers are thugs.”
“Remember, we’re only three generations removed from the Wainwrights who fought their way out of the Lower East Side to become wealthy.”
“Please don’t remind me of the so-called good old days when Grandfather and his brothers were always one step ahead of the police.” Leaning closer, she rested her head on Brandt’s broad shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, Brandt. Saying I don’t want to marry Harper aloud is what I needed to end this sham of an engagement. I know Mother will be disappointed, but this is not about her happiness. It’s about mine.”
“Good girl.”
“Let me get back to Harper before he comes looking for me.”
“You’re going to be all right?”
“I’m good.”
Brandt released his sister’s hand, and watched as she walked out of the suite. He knew she was going to be all right. After all, she was a Wainwright.
Chapter 3
Ciara Dennison held a small plate filled with spicy shrimp in one hand as she tried balancing a glass of chilled lemonade in the other, slowly wending her way through the throng that had gathered in the ivy-ringed backyard garden called the Ninth Ward. The restaurant, a brand-new New Orleans–inspired restaurant, had become an East Village favorite for down-home cooking.
It wasn’t often that she got a chance to hang out with the people 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