Читать книгу Because of You - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 10

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.”

Aziza watched him leave, silently admiring the way his trousers fit his waist and hips. It was obvious Jordan didn’t buy his clothes off the rack. She unfolded her legs, slipping her feet into her shoes, and stood up. Walking across the room, she opened the door and plowed into her brother.

“I was just coming to get you. You did promise to dance with me,” Alexander said when she gave him a blank stare.

She held back when he grasped her hand. “I need to wait for Jordan to get back.”

“Jordan will know where to find you.”

Aziza knew physically she was no match for Al, so she followed his lead where revelers had crowded into the atrium that was designed to resemble an indoor rainforest. A DJ was busying spinning tunes, while couples were on their feet dancing to an infectious Black Eyed Peas song.

“Now, isn’t this better than sitting home alone?” Alexander said in her ear as he swung her around and around in an intricate dance step.

“It’s all right,” she admitted.

“Liar!”

“Okay. I’m having a good time.”

The truth was Aziza was really enjoying herself, and she knew Jordan was responsible for keeping her entertained. She’d felt comfortable talking to him, and he exhibited none of the brashness she’d seen during the televised news conference. Perhaps that was what he’d wanted the audience to see. After all, she’d performed more times than she could count in the courtroom. Some judges didn’t care for theatrics, so Aziza knew to keep it to a minimum.

Alexander tightened his grip on his sister’s waist. “Does Jordan Wainwright have anything to do with you having a good time?”

Aziza missed a step, then caught herself. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Do you realize the two of you have been behind a closed door for more than an hour?”

“Hel-lo, Al. Weren’t you the one who wanted me to talk to Jordan?” Eyes narrowing, Aziza stopped midstep. “I hope you’re not thinking I would…” Her words trailed off.

Alexander pulled Aziza closer. “Don’t turn around, but Jordan’s standing there staring at you like a lovesick adolescent. I told you not to turn around!” he said when his sister ignored his warning.

Jordan held up a piece of toast with caviar, put it into his mouth, chewing it as if in slow motion, then made a big show of wiping his hands. “No, he didn’t,” she whispered.

“What the hell is going on, Zee?”

“He ate my caviar.” Aziza managed to free her right hand, made a fist and pretended to blacken both his eyes.

This was an Aziza Alexander hadn’t seen in a very long time. She’d always been a practical joker and had the most carefree and spontaneous laugh of any woman he’d known. She was as tough as she could be feminine, and he’d believed growing up with three brothers had prepared her to navigate the male-dominated law profession. What she hadn’t been prepared for was being sexually harassed, or her husband not having her back. The result was she’d lost her husband and her job with the law firm that had recruited her even before she’d passed the bar.

That spark and zeal for life she’d always exhibited hadn’t burned as brightly as it had before she’d married Lamar, but tonight it was back. And he felt sorry for Jordan Wainwright, because there was one thing Alexander knew about his sister, and that was she was a scrapper—in and out of the courtroom. If the high-profile attorney wanted to play with fire, then he’d better be prepared to be singed.

He smiled. “Maybe I should rephrase my question.”

“And what’s that?”

“Do you like Jordan?”

Aziza’s brow furrowed. “Like him how? The way a woman likes a man?” Alexander nodded. “No, Al. It’s nothing like that. He’s nice and he makes me laugh.” And he’s very easy on the eyes, she added silently.

“Would you ever consider dating him?”

“I doubt it,” she said quickly.

“Why?” Alexander questioned.

“He’s a lawyer, and you know that we don’t mix.”

“Just because Lamar was a horse’s ass doesn’t mean you have to lump all attorneys in that category.”

“Don’t forget about the one who sexually harassed me, then got his buddies to cover his ass. So, right about now I’m not feeling the male species.”

The song ended, and Alexander led Aziza over to a corner of the atrium where they were partially concealed by the leaves of a banana tree. “You can’t blame all men for a few idiots. Remember what you told me about women when Nikki cheated on me, then posted it on her Facebook.”

Aziza lifted a glass of water off the tray of a passing waiter and took a deep swallow. “Maybe we’re the Flemings who’re destined to be unlucky in love. Nana and Grandpa were together more than fifty years before he passed away. Mom and Dad will celebrate their fortieth anniversary this year and Danny and Omar have passed the seven-year-itch mark. It’s just you and I who seem to keep blowing it.”

Pausing, she took another sip of water. “You’re only twenty-six, so you have plenty of time to date before deciding to settle down. Fortunately, you don’t have to concern yourself with a biological clock.” She had another four years before she was considered high risk.

Alexander stared at his sister, wondering if she was aware of what a gift she would be to a man. She was pretty, smart and would enhance his image—but only if he wasn’t intimidated by her intelligence. It’d happened with his ex-brother-in-law, and no doubt it would happen again with other men with whom Aziza found herself involved.

“Here comes your admirer,” he whispered when he spied the teammate, who was interested in Aziza.

Aziza’s senses were on full alert when she saw him approach. He was at least six-foot-eight and as wide as a French-door refrigerator. His bright red hair and beard reminded her of the disgraced ex-baseball great Mark McGwire, but the resemblance ended with hair color. The behemoth heading toward her was a full head taller and outweighed her by at least two hundred pounds.

He dipped his head and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

Aziza went completely still, wondering what Alexander had told him about her. She wasn’t aware that she was staring, her mouth gaping. “It’s…it’s nice meeting you, too,” she gasped breathlessly when she’d recovered her voice. She offered her hand. His smile was so wide she could see his molars. “I’m Aziza.”

A large hamlike hand rubbed his thigh before he extended his. “Trevor Butler.”

She shook his hand. “It’s nice meeting you, Trevor.” Aziza knew it was time to end something before it even began. “Al mentioned that you wanted to take me out, but what he didn’t know is that I’m seeing someone.”

Trevor’s face seemed to crumple like an accordion. “Is he here?”

Aziza felt a wave of panic when she realized she had to back up her lie. If she was involved with someone, then it would make sense that they would spend New Year’s Eve together.

“Yes, he is.” She took several steps from behind the large plant, her eyes scanning the crowd for Jordan. She spotted him standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. Raising her hand, she beckoned for him to come, sighing inwardly when he wove his way through swaying couples to close the distance between them.

Looping her arm over the fabric of his sweater, she leaned in close to Jordan. “Baby, I don’t know if you know your cousin’s teammate, but this is Trevor Butler.” The two men exchanged handshakes.

Jordan, who’d quickly picked up on Aziza calling him baby, followed her cue when he saw lust in the linebacker’s eyes. It was obvious he’d been coming onto her, and a quick glance at Alexander Fleming validated his suspicions. Wrapping his arm around Aziza’s waist, he pulled her close.

“I didn’t get the chance to talk to you at the last party,” he admitted to Trevor, “but I want to congratulate you, because without your defense, you guys never would’ve made it to the Super Bowl.”

Trevor’s expression brightened. “Thanks, man.” He nodded to Aziza. “Your lady is gorgeous.”

“I think so, too,” Jordan countered without a bit of modesty. His fingers tightened on Aziza’s waist. “Come, baby. You did promise me one dance before we leave.” The tempo of the music had changed from upbeat to a slower rhythm.

“Don’t you dare say anything,” Aziza cautioned quietly when Jordan pulled her close to his body.

He pressed his mouth to her ear. “You owe me, baby.”

“No, I don’t. You didn’t have to play along if you didn’t want to.”

“I can always go back and tell Trevor that we just broke up.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Jordan smiled. “I dare, because I just saved your gorgeous behind from a man who was literally devouring you with his eyes.”

“I don’t know why my brother didn’t tell him that I don’t date.”

“Have you ever dated?”

Aziza gave Jordan an incredulous stare. “Of course I’ve dated.” She and Lamar had dated each other.

He stared back under lowered lids. “Why is it that you don’t date now?”

“I have a problem with trust.”

“You don’t trust men?”

She nodded.

“Does it have anything to do with your suit?”

A beat passed before Aziza said, “It goes deeper than that.”

Jordan’s expressive eyebrows lifted a fraction. “A bad relationship?”

Aziza’s eyelids fluttered. “How about a bad marriage?”

Her revelation that she’d been married rendered Jordan silent, and for the first time in a very long time he was at a loss for words. He, who’d earned his living debating and negotiating, was suddenly speechless.

“I’m sorry, Zee.”

“I’m not, Jordan. I’m just glad I got out of it before it was too late.”

“You’re going to have to trust me if you want my help with your case.”

“A professional relationship is very different from a personal one. What we’ll have is the former.”

“I promise not to cross the line,” Jordan said, when it was the opposite of what he wanted to do.

He liked Aziza because she was easy to talk to, straightforward, feisty and funny—a winning combination. She hadn’t freaked out or gone ballistic when he’d kissed her, and although she’d used him to parry Trevor Butler’s romantic notions, she’d managed to let the man down while not destroying his pride. Aziza had admitted she didn’t trust men, but it was obvious she didn’t hate them either.

He’d met women who’d complained about dating men who were misogynists, but he could say the same thing about women who were man-haters.

“Your promises aren’t worth the breath it takes to make them. What about my caviar? You weren’t very nice when you made a big show of eating it in my face.”

Jordan buried his face in her fragrant hair. “I told you that I’ll buy you a tin.”

“And I told you I don’t need a tin of caviar, Jordan. I don’t eat it that often or give dinner parties where I can serve it to my guests.”

“I’ll eat it.”

Aziza missed a step but Jordan tightening his hold around her waist kept her from losing her balance. “You’re going to eat my caviar?”

“Yep. You can it serve whenever we get together to go over your case. We’re going to have to meet at your office, because if you come to mine then you’ll become a client of Chatham and Wainwright.”

“I work out of my home.”

Jordan’s smile was dazzling. “Then I’ll come to your home. Unless…”

“Unless what?” she asked when he didn’t finish his statement.

“Unless you’d prefer to come to mine.”

“It’s all right, Jordan. We can meet at my place, because I need to give you tapes.”

Jordan stopped, his hand gripping her upper arm as he led Aziza out of the atrium. Skirting a couple locked in a passionate embrace, he pulled her into an alcove between the living room and formal dining room.

“You have tapes?”

A sensual smile parted Aziza’s lips, bringing his gaze to linger there. “Yes.” The word was barely off her tongue when she found herself lifted off her feet and Jordan’s mouth on hers.

“Get a room, cousin,” Brandt drawled, grinning from ear to ear as he strolled by with a buxom brunette clinging to his arm.

If the floor had opened up under her, Aziza would’ve easily crawled in and disappeared. If it had been anyone but Brandt, her client, she wouldn’t have been so embarrassed. And it wasn’t as if she could play it off that she and Jordan were exchanging the obligatory New Year’s kiss.

Brandt winked at her before she cast her eyes downward. “Don’t worry, counselor. When it comes to Wainwrights, Jordan happens to be the best in the bunch.”

“That’s nice,” Aziza mumbled under her breath. “Please put me down,” she ordered Jordan between clenched teeth. Her feet touched the floor and she turned and walked in the direction of the library to retrieve her wrap and purse, Jordan following.

He caught up with her. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” she flung over her shoulder.

She wasn’t as upset with Jordan as she was with herself. Her image had to be impeccable if she was going to go public with a lawsuit charging a prominent attorney with sexually harassing his female employee; if anyone saw her locking lips with Jordan Wainwright at a party hosted by Super Bowl MVP quarterback Brandt Wainwright, then her display of affection could be called into question. Most cell phones came with cameras.

“I hope you’re not going home because Brandt saw us kissing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jordan. It’s time that I head home.” Aziza entered the library, retrieving her shawl and purse, while Jordan picked up his jacket. She opened her purse, took out her cell phone and called the driver.

“I’ll ride with you downstairs.”

“I’ll be all right.”

Jordan reached for her elbow. “I said I’ll ride downstairs with you.”

Their eyes met and held for a full minute in what had become a stare-down. Aziza knew she couldn’t afford to alienate Jordan because she needed his legal help. Not only was he a more experienced attorney, but he also had the name.

She needed Jordan when he didn’t need her. “Okay. You can ride with me down to the lobby.”

Jordan bowed low as if she were royalty. “Thank you.”

Aziza rolled her eyes at him. “I still owe you a knuckle sandwich for eating my caviar.”

“I thought we settled that. When do you want to meet?” he said, deftly changing the subject. “Whatever’s convenient.”

They arrived at the elevator. He punched the button and the doors opened. “What are you doing Sunday afternoon?”

“Watching the play-offs.”

“What if I come over after the game?”

Aziza shook her head. “That’ll be too late. If you can get to my place by one, you can work in my office while I fix Sunday dinner.”

The doors opened and Jordan let Aziza precede before he walked in behind her. “You cook?” he teased, pushing the button for the lobby.

“I try. What I can promise is that you won’t get ptomaine poisoning.”

“If that’s the case, then I’ll come early. Don’t you think you should give me your address and phone number?”

Smoothing her shawl, Aziza wrapped it around her upper body with a dramatic flourish. Smiling, she peered over her shoulder. “Ask your cousin.”

If Jordan was serious about helping her build her case, then he would follow through and contact her. If not, then she would have the memory of spending two hours with a man who’d unknowingly reminded her that she was a woman—a woman who’d denied her femininity for much too long.

“Tease,” Jordan whispered close to her ear as the car reached the lobby.

He followed Aziza through the lobby, nodding to the doorman on duty, and out to the street where a Town Car idled at the curb. The driver got out and came around to open the passenger door, but Jordan preempted him and helped Aziza as she slid onto the leather seat.

Leaning in, he stared at her face in the soft glow of the high-intensity lamp behind the rear seats. “I’ll see you Sunday around one.”

Aziza smiled, her gaze moving slowly over the lean face with the dramatic hazel eyes. “Happy New Year, Jordan.” Placing two fingers to her mouth, she touched her fingertips to his slightly parted lips. They stared at each other, the silence swelling to deafening proportions. “Close the door, Jordan.”

Blinking as if coming out of a trance, Jordan stepped back and closed the door with a solid thud. He stood at the curb a long time, long after the taillights from the limo disappeared into the blackness of the night.

Then he returned to the building, when the doorman opened the door for him. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers, he waited for the elevator, his mind awash with the time he’d spent with Aziza Fleming. He was able to recall her every expression, the sound of her sexy voice, the color of her face that was an exact match to the exposed skin on her bare back.

However, what he didn’t want to remember was how she’d tasted, because the sexy lawyer was forbidden fruit.

He could look, but not taste.

Looking was safe.

Tasting was too much of a risk, and he didn’t want to do anything that would risk or jeopardize their very fragile professional relationship.