Читать книгу Because of You - Rochelle Alers - Страница 10

Aziza Fleming pulled the cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders before settling back against the Town Car’s leather seat. It was New Year’s Eve and she was on her way to a party when she wanted nothing more than to be at home, in front of the television watching the ball drop, while toasting the new year with a glass of champagne.

Instead of stockings, a pair of designer stilettos, a dress that revealed more than it concealed, she would’ve preferred a pair of lounging pajamas and thick cotton socks. However, she’d caved when her brother threatened to come to Westchester and forcibly drag her out of the house to attend a party hosted by his pro ball teammate on New Year’s Eve at an Upper East Side penthouse.

Her brother Alexander Fleming claimed she worked too hard and was alone much too much. But what her football player brother failed to realize or understand was that she was content being alone. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t find a date—if she needed one. It was that she didn’t want to date anyone. She had a career she loved, owned a house in a community she liked and enjoyed decorating it, and most of all she’d learned to love herself.

At thirty-one she was five years older than Al, as most people called him, but he’d appointed himself her protector. Aziza constantly reminded him that she could take care of herself; however, as the only girl with two older brothers and one younger she had grown up very much the tomboy. She could fend for herself, whether it was with words or, on rare occasions, with fists. Her father had insisted she take martial arts training along with his rough-and-tumble sons.

She still fought, but now it was for her clients: women contemplating divorce, seeking custody of their children or pursuing delinquent child support or alimony payments. All of her clients were women, but there was one exception: Brandt Wainwright. The high-profile superstar NFL quarterback, who roomed with her brother whenever they played away games, had hired her to handle his legal affairs. If it had been anyone other than Brandt hosting the New Year’s Eve gathering, she would still be sitting in her family room staring at a wall-mounted flat-screen television—her Christmas present to herself—rather than in the back of a limo.

Aziza closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the supple leather seat. It was minutes after ten, and in less than two hours it would be a new year. She rarely made New Year’s resolutions, and this year was the same. The first and only time she had, it was to marry her high school sweetheart. The man she’d loved had turned into someone and something else within minutes of their exchanging vows.

Lamar Powers believed that wearing his ring and taking his name was a symbol of ownership. What he’d failed to realize was that growing up with three brothers, Aziza had been forced to assert herself. Unfortunately their fairy-tale romance had ended before it had a chance to begin. She’d tried to make a go of her marriage, but it ended after a year.

The smooth motion of the wheels suddenly stopped, and she opened her eyes. The drive from Bronxville to Manhattan had ended much more quickly than she’d anticipated. The driver had pulled up in front of a towering high-rise in the fifties between First and Second avenues. The glowing numbers on the vehicle’s dashboard showed the time. It was 11:16 p.m.

The rear door opened and she placed her hand on the driver’s outstretched palm, as he gently pulled her to her feet. Aziza flashed a warm smile. “Thank you.”

The driver’s dark eyes lingered briefly on the long shapely legs in sheer black hose and the stilettos that made her legs look even longer than they were under the fitted black wool gabardine dress with a generous front slit. “Just call me when you’re ready to leave.”

Aziza smiled. “I will.”

Alexander had arranged for the driver to pick her up and take her back home once she was ready. She’d told him that she hadn’t wanted to come into Manhattan, yet her protests had fallen on deaf ears. Once her brother set his mind to something, it would take a minor miracle for him to change it. Rather than engage in a verbal exchange with Alexander, she’d given in. Besides, what did she have to lose by leaving the house for a couple of hours? Partying with jocks wasn’t something she liked or looked forward to, yet she’d always enjoyed Brandt Wainwright’s company.

The elevator doors opened and Aziza walked into the penthouse with its panoramic views of the East River and bridges linking the island of Manhattan with the other boroughs. A slight smile parted her lips. Everyone was wearing the ubiquitous black. Dimmed recessed lights and dozens of candles provided a sensual backdrop to music coming from concealed speakers. She guessed there had to be at least sixty people milling around the expansive entryway and great room, but then a roar of laughter went up from another area beyond where she stood. Although Brandt had invited her to his home in the past, she’d always declined, deciding it was better not to mix business with pleasure. She walked into the space that took up two top floors of the opulent high-rise.

Removing her shawl, she folded it and draped the cashmere wrap over her left arm. She spied Alexander as he leaned down to hear what an attractive woman with a profusion of braided hair brushing her bare shoulders was saying to him. Whatever it was must have been funny, because he threw back his head and laughed loudly. Aziza smiled, although she couldn’t overhear what they were saying. Her brother, who was chocolate eye candy, and could lay claim to above-average intelligence and a quick wit, never failed to attract the opposite sex.

“How long have you been here?”

Turning, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled up at Brandt Wainwright. The quarterback had become the NFL’s latest heartthrob, appearing on the covers of most men’s and sports magazines. Nicknamed the “Viking,” because of his long ash-blond hair and piercing sky-blue eyes, Brandt garnered attention from legions of women wherever he went. He loved women and they loved him back. Dressed in street clothes, he appeared taller and larger than he did in uniform. Standing six-five and weighing in at two hundred fifty-five pounds, Brandt Wainwright was an imposing figure of rock-hard muscle. Even the black pullover and slacks failed to mask the power in his athletic physique.

“I just walked in.”

Brandt angled his head and kissed her cheek. “That’s good, because I threatened to fire anyone on staff if I didn’t see every guest with a glass or a plate of food.” Raising his hand, he beckoned a young woman balancing a tray with glasses filled with colorful concoctions. Taking a glass, he handed it to Aziza. “I know you like amaretto sours.”

She shifted the tiny silk evening purse to her left hand, their fingers brushing when she accepted the glass. “Thank you.” Aziza took a sip of the cocktail, smiling at her host over the rim of the glass. “It’s perfect.”

Reaching out, Brandt took her upper arm and steered her out of the living room and down a wide hallway to another wing of the penthouse. “Come with me. I want to introduce you to my cousin. I told him about you and your sexual harassment case.”

Aziza stopped. “How did you know about that?” Only Alexander knew about her plan to sue a former employer for sexual harassment.

“Al told me when I asked why you didn’t work for some firm in the city. But, don’t worry about my cousin. He’s one of the best litigators in the city,” he explained quickly. “And, there is no doubt he will be able to help you win your suit.”

“My case aside, if your cousin is an attorney, why did you ask me to represent you?” she asked.

She practically had to shout to be heard over the sound of voices raised in laughter when they entered a room that was as large as some multiplex movie theater. Reclining black leather chairs were lined up theater-style in front of a high-definition wall-mounted screen that was as least seventy inches. A powerful sound system blared music from one of the channels with images of partygoers gyrating to a popular dance tune filling the screen.

Brandt’s expression changed, becoming impassive. “I try not to involve family in my personal business. The attorney I had on retainer before I hired you, who happens to be a very distant cousin, had a habit of talking to the press. I had to remind him that he was my lawyer, not my publicist. But I suppose his obsession for fifteen minutes of fame cost him a client and my friendship. Even though I can’t change the fact that we’re related, I do have the option of not having to deal with him.” He rested a hand on the back of a man in a black mohair jacket, interrupting the conversation between his cousin and one of his teammates. “Excuse me, Donnie, but I need to talk to Jordan for a few minutes.”

It wasn’t until the tall, slender man with short-cropped black hair turned around that Aziza was able to connect the name Wainwright with the man who’d become something of a local celebrity around Harlem.

Smiling, she said, “I never thought I would have the pleasure of meeting the ‘Sheriff of Harlem.’”

A rush of color darkened Jordan Wainwright’s face. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the sobriquet after he’d won a landlord-tenant case that had garnered national attention.

Jordan hesitated for several seconds as the beautiful woman standing less than a foot away shifted her cocktail to her left hand before he extended his. She was so breathtakingly beautiful that he’d found himself at a loss for words. Recovering quickly, a smile parted his lips.

“Jordan Wainwright.”

Aziza grasped the long slender hand that tightened slightly around her fingers before Jordan eased the slight pressure. Her gaze was drawn to his firm mouth when he smiled. His teeth were white and perfectly aligned. She knew people who paid orthodontists thousands of dollars to have teeth like his.

His face was as perfect as his teeth. A lean jaw, strong chin, high cheekbones, sweeping, arching eyebrows and large jewel-like hazel eyes that seemingly didn’t look at her, but through her. She was mesmerized.

“Aziza Fleming.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “So, you’re Al Fleming’s sister.”

She nodded. “That I am.”

Brandt slapped Jordan’s back again. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Jordan, if Aziza needs anything, please make certain she gets it.”

Jordan nodded as he tucked the slender hand into the bend of his elbow. Not only did Aziza Fleming look good, but she also smelled delicious. If he were given three guesses as to what she did for a living, he would’ve struck out. He never would’ve thought she was an attorney.

She was tall, even without the stilettos. He was six-two in bare feet and Jordan estimated Aziza had to be at least five-eight or nine without the sexy heels. Her hair was dark, thick and brushed off her face and secured into a loose ponytail behind her left ear. He moved closer and went completely still. The asymmetrical neckline of her dress hadn’t prepared him for the wide bands crisscrossing her back to reveal an expanse of flawless brown skin from nape to waist. Aziza Fleming’s round, doll-like face with a hint of a dimpled chin, large round eyes that tilted at the corners and a full, lush mouth had him completely enthralled.

“I see that you have a drink, but have you eaten?” he asked her.

Aziza knew not to drink anything alcoholic without eating, or she would find herself slightly tipsy. “No, I haven’t. And I make it a habit never to drink on an empty stomach.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll make certain you get something to eat before we talk.”

She walked alongside Jordan as they made their way down another wide hallway. “What did Brandt tell you about me?”

“All he said was that you handled his legal affairs, but it was Al who mentioned that you had a pending lawsuit against a former employer for sexual harassment.”

Aziza groaned inwardly. “I wish he hadn’t said anything.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Jordan released her hand, placing his at the small of her back. She stiffened against his splayed fingers for several seconds before relaxing. “Why didn’t you want him to say anything? Whatever you tell me will be confidential.”

Aziza gave Jordan a sidelong glance, silently admiring his patrician features. It had been a long time, much too long, since she’d found herself attracted to a man. There was something about his striking looks that radiated sensuality, recklessness and danger. He had proven that when he’d stood in front of television cameras to enumerate the building violations in his family-owned properties.

“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.”