Because of You

“That would apply if I were your client and you were my attorney.”

Jordan smiled. “You’re right about that. But try to think of this as an unofficial consultation. I’ve handled several harassment cases and, fortunately, won them, so maybe I can give you a few pointers to help you out.”

“If it’s all right with you I’d rather not discuss my business here,” Aziza said softly. It wasn’t that she was paranoid, but she couldn’t run the risk that someone would overhear their conversation. After all, there were a lot people in the penthouse, and there was a saying about the walls having ears.

Jordan led Aziza into a room that Brandt had set up as his library and home office. After he touched a dimmer switch on the wall, the space was flooded with light. His gaze lingered on the skin on her back when she walked into the library. Whatever she’d used on her body had left a sprinkling of shiny particles that shimmered like gold dust.

Al Fleming had mentioned his sister had been sexually harassed, and Jordan believed that any man who forced his attention on a woman was in the same category as deviant sexual predators.

But he could easily see why a man would come onto Aziza Fleming. The woman was sexy without even trying. Her face, slender, curvy body and shapely legs that seemed to go on forever were enough to elicit dreams that were unabashedly erotic in nature.

“We’ll talk, but not about your case. Please make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Thank you.”

Aziza felt a sense of relief. Jordan hadn’t tried to pressure her into divulging the details of her impending lawsuit. And although Jordan Wainwright looked nothing like the men to whom she usually found herself attracted, there was something about his understated sophistication that she was drawn to.

Setting the glass down on a side table, Aziza strolled around the room that was lined with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves on opposite walls. The instant she’d met Brandt Wainwright, she’d realized he was what she called the trifecta: face, body and brains. He’d graduated with degrees in business and economics, but it was professional football that had become his calling and passion. The former Stanford University star and Heisman Trophy runner-up had been drafted by the NFL and had signed to a three-year contract for an unheard-of amount for a rookie quarterback.

The library furnishings were not what one would expect of a professional athlete. There were no trophies or pictures with celebs, framed newspaper stories or magazine covers. It appeared lived in, a place where Brandt came to read and relax. Dark brown leather chairs and a love seat, a massive mahogany antique desk, a leather desk chair, neutral colored walls and a sisal rug seemed better suited for a businessman. Brandt had once said that if he hadn’t become a professional athlete, he would’ve gone to work in his family’s real estate firm.

Aziza crossed the room and stood at the window, staring down at the traffic and pedestrians who looked like miniature toys. It was a mild New York City New Year’s Eve with temperatures in the mid-forties, and that made for larger-than-usual crowds of partygoers.

Her gaze lingered on the dark surface of the East River before shifting to the rooftops of buildings with water towers and heating and cooling units. There had been a time when Aziza loved commuting into the city from her Westchester home. It was during the half-hour train ride and the ten-minute walk from Grand Central station to the Park Avenue office building on Thirty-Second Street that she’d mentally reviewed the cases she was working on or planned her day.

As a thirty-one-year-old, childless divorcée, her only responsibility and focus was her career. She’d lived and breathed the law, and her ex had accused her of loving her work more than she’d loved him. No matter what she’d said or did, it hadn’t been enough to change Lamar’s mind, and in the end she’d stopped trying.

His attempt to control her life, while quietly sabotaging her career, had left her with no choice but to break off the relationship. It hadn’t been easy. Not when they’d been together since grammar school, throughout high school, college and then law school. Once she’d left Lamar, Aziza felt as if she’d lost a limb—a diseased limb that had to be amputated, or the poison would kill her spirit.

Don’t let anyone kill your spirit, or take your joy. She’d grown up with her grandmother’s wisdom. And when she’d told her Nana that Lamar was killing her spirit, Emma Fleming’s advice had been to walk away and not look back, and that was what she’d done.

Aziza shook her head. She wished she could erase the memory of Lamar as easily as hitting the delete key. She didn’t know why, but she hadn’t thought of him in more than a year.

Why now? she mused.

Why now when she finally had a successful law practice?

Why now when she’d completed renovating her home to suit her personal taste and lifestyle?

“What are you doing hiding out here?”

Aziza turned to find the broad shoulders belonging to her brother Alexander Fleming filling out the doorway. “Hey, you,” she crooned, approaching him, arms out-stretched. “I saw you when I came in, but you were busy with a very pretty sister with braided hair.”

Alexander flashed a slow smile, his dimples dotting his lean face like thumbprints. He hugged Aziza, while pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t get any ideas, Zee. She’s Damien Harvey’s girlfriend.” He kissed her again, this time on the forehead. “Thanks for coming.”

“Did I have a choice? You’d threatened me with bodily harm.”

Alexander laughed. “The only harm would’ve been the way you’d look if I had to go into Neanderthal mode and carry you over my back to bring you here.” He winked at his sister. “I must say you clean up very nicely.”

She returned his wink. “Thank you.”

Standing back, Aziza studied her brother’s face. He had classic good looks with strong masculine features and large eyes that were an odd shade of gray—eyes he’d inherited from their paternal grandmother, Emma Fleming.

Resting her hands on the lapels of his black wool jacket, she angled her head. “Where’s your woman?”

Alexander’s expression changed as if he was trying to conceal his innermost feelings. “I’ve decided to start the year solo.”

“What about Cynthia? I thought the two of you were getting serious.”

Shoving his hands in his pants pockets, the MVP defensive end stared at the lights on the bridges spanning the river. “We split up. Unfortunately, Cynthia is drama personified. Things would’ve been okay if she didn’t have to run everything we said or did past her girlfriends.” His eyes met his sister’s. “What’s up with women spilling their guts about what goes on between them and their man?”

Aziza held up her hands. “Please, don’t lump me in that category. I only have two girlfriends, and we never discuss our men or lack thereof.”

“I know you told me you’re not interested in getting married again, but what about dating?”

“What about it, Al?” She’d answered his question with a question.

“One of the guys on the team told me that he’d like to take you out once the season is over, but I told him I can’t speak for my sister.”

“You approve?”

“He’s all right.”

Aziza pondered her brother’s response. If she was going to date someone, he had to be better than all right. “Don’t tell me he’s coming out of a bad relationship, because if he is then I’m not the one.”

Alexander exhaled an audible sigh. “Other than an occasional baby mama drama, he’s a good guy.”

“No, Al. Forget it. I’m not getting involved with some man with a psycho ex-girlfriend. Call me selfish, but if I’m not a baby mama, then I’m not going to put up with it. Why don’t you guys marry these women when you get them pregnant? It would prevent a lot of problems.”

“Back it up, Zee. I’m not a baby daddy.”

“I’m not talking about you, Al. How many guys on your team are paying out huge chunks of money for child support? Probably too many to count,” she said, answering her own questions. “Wouldn’t it be easier to get married and take care of their wives and children without all the drama?”

Alexander recognized the look in Aziza’s eyes. He’d seen it enough to know that she was ready to go off on a rant about how a lot of men couldn’t be trusted. He knew she’d soured on marriage because the man she’d believed she knew had turned into someone she didn’t really know, and her mistrust in men was exacerbated whenever female clients came to her with their custody or child support or sexual harassment problems. He’d been shocked when she’d agreed to become Brandt Wainwright’s legal counsel. Brandt was her only male client.

“What do you want me to tell him?” Alexander asked.

“Is he here tonight?”

Her brother nodded.

“If that’s the case then I’ll tell him myself.”

“No, Zee. I don’t need you to get in his face and lecture him about his responsibilities. I’ll tell him you’re currently seeing someone.”

“Whatever,” she drawled. “You know I’m not into stroking the egos of overgrown…” Her words trailed off when she detected movement behind her.

“I’m sorry. I’ll come back.” Jordan Wainwright had walked into the library holding a bottle of champagne and two flutes, as a waiter stood behind him with a tray balanced on one shoulder.

Alexander beckoned. “Come on in, Jordan. I was just leaving.” He turned back to Aziza, kissing her cheek. “Don’t forget to save me a dance.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

Alexander had told her there would be dancing in the penthouse atrium, and she’d promised to dance with him at least once before leaving. Ever since he’d been a contestant on Dancing with the Stars, Alexander had become a dancing dynamo. During the off-season, he’d taken up ballroom dancing. It had been hard to imagine her six-four, two-hundred-twenty-pound brother tiptoeing across a dance floor until the show had aired. Not only was he light on his feet, but also graceful.

He’d also gotten her to take dancing lessons while she was going through her divorce. Spending hours on the dance floor was the perfect antidote to her pity party, and like her brother, she’d discovered she was hooked. She still took lessons at a local dance studio several days a week. The dance workout was a substitute for jogging during the winter months and had helped tone her body.

Alexander approached Jordan. “Thanks for agreeing to help Zee out,” he said.

“I’ll do what I can,” Jordan replied in a low voice.

Aziza stood off to the side, watching as the waiter set up a table, covered it with a tablecloth and a platter filled with an assortment of crudités and hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. She hadn’t meant to go off on her brother, but she’d grown tired of the behavior exhibited by so many professional athletes. Most of the time they were let off with a slap on the wrist because they were star athletes.

“That’s a lot of food,” she said to Jordan when he took her hand and led her to the love seat.

Jordan sat down beside Aziza. “It just looks like a lot. Besides, I haven’t eaten all day, so I doubt if any of it will go to waste.”

She leaned to her right, and her bare shoulder brushed against his jacket. Aziza stared at Jordan, noticing for the first time the length of his lashes. It’s not fair, she thought. Women spent a lot of money for false eyelashes while Jordan Wainwright was born with lashes that were not only thick but long.

“How did you get special service?” she whispered as the waiter uncorked the champagne with barely an audible pop.

Tilting his head at an angle, Jordan gave her a wink. “It helps when you have the same last name as the man hosting tonight’s fête.”

Aziza couldn’t help but smile. “So, are you saying being a Wainwright has its privileges?”

“It does,” he admitted modestly. “But so does being a Fleming.”

She sobered quickly. “Al’s the celebrity in the family, not me.”

“I could say the same about Brandt.”

Aziza shook her head. “You can’t be that self-effacing, Jordan. Not after that stunt you pulled on TV.”

She couldn’t believe that Jordan, who’d represented a Harlem tenant’s committee, had announced at a news conference that the owner of several buildings with numerous housing violations was his grandfather. Headlines referred to him as the Sheriff of Harlem. When he’d become a partner at Chatham Legal Services, most of the local politicos turned out to welcome him to the neighborhood as one of their own.

Jordan stared at his highly polished shoes. “I did what I had to do for my clients.” His head came up and he gave Aziza a direct stare. “I’m certain you do the same for your clients.”

The seconds ticked as she met his penetrating stare. “Of course I do.”

A hint of a smile softened his firm mouth. “Good. That’s one thing we can agree on.”

Green-flecked irises moved slowly from Aziza’s delicate face to her bare shoulders. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to press his mouth to her skin to see if she tasted as good as she looked.

Jordan knew it wasn’t going to be easy to remain unaffected around Aziza Fleming. Her beautiful face, gorgeous body and intelligence would certainly test his professional integrity. What he had to do was think of her as his client. Not only couldn’t he cross the line, but he was determined not to cross the line.

“What does Aziza mean?” He had to say something—anything except stare at her as if she were something to be devoured.

Aziza lowered her gaze, her eyes fixed on Jordan’s strong neck. He’d worn a mock turtleneck under his jacket. He was the epitome of casual sophistication.

“It’s Swahili for precious.”

“The name is perfect.” His words sounded neutral in tone.

“Mr. Wainwright, do you want me to pour the champagne?”

The waiter’s question shattered Jordan’s fantasy. “Yes, please,” he said, as he continued to stare at Aziza’s lush lips.

He took a flute of pale bubbly wine from the waiter, handed it to Aziza, then took the remaining one, holding it aloft. He waited until the waiter left the library, closing the door behind him. Jordan touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to a successful working relationship.”

Aziza lowered her lashes, unaware of the seductiveness of the gesture. She felt as if she was being sucked into a vortex from which there was no escape. Jordan Wainwright looked nothing like the men to whom she found herself attracted. Yet there was something about him that was so masculine, so sensual that she found it almost impossible to control the butterflies in her stomach. Raising the flute, she took a sip of champagne. It was an excellent vintage.

“Would you mind if I serve you?” Jordan asked after he’d taken a sip from his flute.

She swallowed, nodding. “Yes, please.”

Reaching over, he picked up a cocktail napkin and then a toast point covered with Almas pearly white beluga caviar. Holding the napkin under her chin, Jordan watched as she took a bite. “How is it?”

With wide eyes Aziza savored the lingering taste on her tongue. “It’s incredible.” She opened her mouth and then closed it when Jordan popped the remaining piece into his mouth.

“It is delicious,” he agreed, chewing slowly.

“Hey! That was mine.”

Leaning closer, he pressed a kiss to her ear. “There’s plenty more where that came from.” Jordan went completely still when he heard cheers coupled with the distinctive sound of exploding fireworks. He’d become so engrossed with Aziza that he’d lost track of time. He angled his head and slanted his mouth over Aziza’s slightly parted lips. “Happy New Year.”

Chapter 3

Aziza felt the soft brush of Jordan’s mouth on hers. It was more a mingling of champagne and caviar-scented breaths than an actual kiss.

“Happy New Year, Jordan,” she whispered, praying he wouldn’t feel the runaway beating of her heart slamming against her ribs.

There was a tradition that said the person you find yourself with on New Year’s Eve when the clock strikes midnight will be the one you would spend the year with. She didn’t know Jordan Wainwright. And she hadn’t wanted to get to know him that well and didn’t want to know if or whether he was involved with a woman. And even if he wasn’t, she didn’t have time for a man—not when she’d just gotten her life back on track.

Sitting up straight, Jordan smiled, recognizing the expression of surprise freezing Aziza’s features. “Are you all right?”

She blinked. “I’m good. Really.”

Jordan drained his flute. “We should’ve been with the others counting down the seconds.”

“It’s okay. If I hadn’t been here I would’ve been home dressed in my most comfortable jammies watching the ball drop.”

Jordan’s expressive eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Alone?”

A smile crinkled the skin around Aziza’s eyes. “Is that a subtle way of asking me whether I’m involved with someone?”

“I’d like to believe I was being direct,” he countered.

“Well, counselor, the answer to your very direct question is no.” She shifted slightly on the love seat until they were facing each other. “What about you? If you weren’t here, where would you be?”

“Probably in the Caribbean with my brother and his girlfriend.”

It was Aziza’s turn to lift her eyebrows. “What about your girlfriend?”

“My, my, my, counselor. Aren’t you direct.”

“That’s the only way I know how to be, counselor,” Aziza countered with a grin.

“The answer is I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Why not, Jordan? You seem like a nice guy.”

Jordan was hard-pressed not to laugh at Aziza’s crestfallen expression. Did she really feel sorry for him? “Thank you. But it’s been said that nice guys usually finish last.”

There he was again, Aziza mused. She didn’t understand Jordan’s self-deprecation. “I don’t believe that. Nice guys may not choose wisely at times, but that doesn’t mean they always wind up on the losing end.”

“So you say there’s hope for me?”

Picking up her flute, she sipped her champagne, staring at Jordan over the rim. The illumination from the lamp on a side table slanted over his lean face, and in that moment she sucked in her breath. His eyes were now a rich mossy green.

“You don’t need hope, Jordan. You’re the total package.” A rush of color darkened his face with her compliment. “Are you blushing?”

Jordan glanced away. “Men don’t blush.” Reaching for the bottle, he refilled his glass. “What else would you like?” he asked, gesturing to the tray with prosciutto-wrapped breadsticks, stone wheat crackers, oysters, quail eggs, tiger shrimp, sushi, lobster and crabmeat and a variety of cheeses.

Aziza wanted to tell Jordan he was blushing but didn’t want to make him feel more embarrassed than she assumed he was. “It’s my turn to serve you.” She knew she shocked him when she picked up a pair of chopsticks and clamped the sushi and fed it to him. They alternated feeding each other the gourmet treats while drinking champagne to cleanse their palates.

The rich food and three glasses of champagne left Aziza full and languid. Kicking off her heels, she tucked her feet up under her body and closed her eyes. “I think I’m a little tipsy.”

Jordan stood up, removed his jacket, then sat again, cradling her stocking-covered feet between his hands. “You only had three glasses to my five.”

“Only three. Two is usually my limit,” she said without opening her eyes.

“Are you driving?”

“No. I have a driver.”

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Bronxville.” Aziza opened her eyes. Jordan’s jacket had concealed a rock-hard upper body. His neck wasn’t as large as her football player brother’s, or his teammates, but it was obvious he worked out regularly.

“Where do you live?” Her voice was soft, the timbre low, sultry.

“Manhattan.”

“Where in Manhattan?”

“The Upper East Side. My apartment building faces Central Park.”

“Why didn’t you just say that you live on Fifth Avenue?” she asked. A beat passed. “What are you hiding, Jordan?”

His fingers tightened on her instep. “Nothing. What makes you think I’m hiding something?”

“I don’t know. Call it a hunch, woman’s intuition.”

He massaged her instep before moving up to her ankles. “What else does your woman’s intuition tell you about me?”

Aziza tried to will her mind not to think rather than enjoy the sensual fog of premium French champagne and the sexy man rubbing her legs and feet. “I think you’re uncomfortable being a Wainwright. It’s probably why you decided to expose your grandfather as a slumlord and why you decided to work for a small Harlem law firm rather than your family’s real estate company or a prestigious Wall Street firm.”

Jordan’s expression remained impassive. He hadn’t known Aziza Fleming an hour, and she didn’t realize how close she’d come to the truth. “You’re wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m proud to be a Wainwright. The name gives me entrée to places open to a privileged few, while it also allows me to do things for other people with less.”

“Tell me about your family.”

Jordan shook his head. “I’ll leave that for another time.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you about the Wainwrights without revealing my mother’s side of the family. Have you ever heard the Cher classic hit ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves’?” Aziza nodded. “If she’d been singing about the Wainwrights and Johnstons, then it would’ve been miscreants, pimps and thieves.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was, Zee,” he said, shortening her name.

“Where did you go to college?” Aziza asked.

“Harvard, undergraduate and law. After law school I went to work for my father, but after a few years I was bored. I quit and worked as a litigator for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne.”

She whistled softly. “They’re one of the top firms in the city.”

Jordan nodded. “My salary topped out at high six figures, including bonuses, but the trade-off was working an average of sixty to seventy hours a week. That left very little time for socializing. Whenever I was able to take a vacation I was too tired to do anything more than sleep, get up and shower, eat and then sleep some more. I knew I couldn’t continue at that pace, so I walked into the office of one of the senior partners and handed in my resignation.

“My grandfather wanted me to come back to Wainwright Developers Group to head the legal department and set my own hours, but that would be like taking a step backward.”

“What did you finally decide to do?”

Jordan’s hands moved up and over her calves. “I moved out of my parents’ house, bought a condo and spent the next four months relaxing in a villa in Costa Rica while it was renovated and decorated.”

Aziza stared at the long fingers gently massaging her legs and feet, wondering if Jordan knew how much his light touch had aroused her. The area at the apex of her thighs pulsed with sensations she hadn’t felt in a while. She wanted to tell him to stop, but didn’t because the seemingly innocent stroking was so pleasurable that she wanted it to go on—forever.

“How could you go away and not monitor what was being done?”

“The architect and interior designer emailed me weekly updates.”

She smiled. “Clever.”

“The internet ranks right up there with the finest French champagne and Persian beluga caviar.”

Aziza wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t know about that because someone ate mine.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’m sorry I ate your caviar. I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?” she asked, pouting as she’d done when her older brothers wouldn’t let her tag along with them whenever they’d wanted to hang out with their friends.

“I’ll buy you a tin.”

She shook her head. “I don’t need a tin. One toast point or a tiny spoonful will do.”

Jordan released her legs and got up from the love seat. “I’ll go and see if there’s any left.”