Because of You (14 page)

“Do you mind if I make a suggestion?” she asked.

He gave her a direct stare. “Of course.”

Aziza met his eyes. The stubble on his lean jaw made him look dangerous, less urbane. “What if I prepare brunch while you transcribe the tape? That way we can accomplish two tasks at the same time.”

His lids lowered. “Are you sure you don't mind cooking?”

“Of course I don't mind.”

“I didn't invite you here to work.”

“If I'd stayed home, I still would have had to prepare something to eat,” she argued quietly.

“Okay,” Jordan said after a pregnant pause.

“Don't worry, Jordan. I'm not going to burn down your kitchen.”

He made a face. “Very funny, Zee.”

Jordan knew she was right about saving time. It wouldn't take that long for him to transcribe her responses because he'd already input his questions into the computer. All that remained was his typing in her responses—most of which he could repeat verbatim. He extended his arms, and he wasn't disappointed when Aziza moved into his embrace. “I don't want you to worry about Kenny. We're going to take him down. Down where he'll pay for what he did to you and probably countless other women.”

Aziza nodded. She wasn't as concerned about herself as she was with other women who either were forced to endure his harassment because they felt they didn't have any recourse, or those who were too frightened to speak up. Exposing Kenneth Moore would give those frightened and silent ones a voice—a voice that said they were sick and tired of the harassment and that they weren't going to take it anymore.

“How long will it take you to transcribe the tape?” she asked.

“Probably a couple of hours. Why?”

She smiled up at him. “I need to know in case I decide to make something a little more complicated than bacon and eggs.”

 

Aziza loved cooking in a kitchen twice the size of hers. She discovered an abundance of fresh fruit and veggies in the refrigerator but not much meat or fish in the freezer. The pantry provided a treasure trove of gourmet jams, preserves, pure flavor extracts and several varieties of flour: cake, wheat, bread and bleached. Reaching for a straw basket among a collection on a shelf, she filled it with ingredients she needed to put together an elegant brunch.

It was exactly two hours later when she'd set the table with china, silver and crystal glassware and covered dishes when Jordan walked into the kitchen. She smiled at him. “Perfect timing.”

He shook his head. “No, you didn't.” He laughed, pointing to the flowering plant. Aziza had taken a potted orchid from the bathroom, placing it on the table as a centerpiece.

“Yes, I did. Don't you think it looks nice?”

“Is this your way of telling me that I should have fresh flowers in the house?”

“Loud and clear,” she retorted. “Come and sit before everything gets cold.”

Pulling out a chair at the table, Jordan seated Aziza, then came around and sat opposite her. A wide grin split his face when she removed a covered dish to reveal eggs Benedict. She handed him a basket filled with croissants dusted with confectioners' sugar and slivered almonds.
A glass bowl was filled with diced cantaloupe, apples, orange sections, green grapes and strawberries. Crystal goblets were filled with fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“You did all this in two hours?”

“It would've taken even less if I didn't have to wait for the yeast to rise.”

“Give me your plate, sweetheart, and I'll serve you.”

Aziza handed him her plate, and he carefully ladled an English muffin topped with crisp bacon and a lightly poached egg smothered in a rich, buttery hollandaise sauce onto it.

“You know we can't eat this too often,” Aziza warned. “Talk about cholesterol overload.”

“Once a week is all right.”

“How about once a month, Jordan?”

“Uh-huh, baby. There's no way I'm going to wait thirty days to eat like this again.”

Aziza took a sip of orange juice, savoring the feel of pulp on her tongue. “Okay. Twice a month.”

Jordan raised his goblet in a salute. “Twice a month it is.”

“If you want more coffee, then you'll have to make it. I don't know what you do to make the coffee taste so good, but I'm not even going to attempt to challenge you in that department.”

“It's the beans and water.”

“What about them?”

“I grind the beans and use distilled water.”

“They can't be just ordinary coffee beans, Jordan.”

“It's Jamaica Blue Mountain. I get it at a gourmet shop on Madison Avenue in the 80s. I purchase enough to last about a couple of months. Even when stored in airtight canisters they tend to lose some of their flavor over time. I buy my caviar at the same shop.”

“Speaking of caviar, you're going to have to help me eat it once I open the tin.”

Jordan bit into the croissant, shocked to find it filled with almond paste. “Damn! This is good.”

“It's nice to see someone appreciate food.”

He swallowed a mouthful of the delicious pastry. “I've always had a good appetite. That's why I have to work out or I'd end up with a nice little paunch.”

Aziza sucked her teeth. “Yeah, right. You probably have less than three percent body fat, so stop playing, Jordan Wainwright.”

“Come on, babe. You know I spend most of my day sitting behind a desk.”

“Desk or no desk, you probably would never have a weight problem.”

“How do you stay so thin?” Jordan asked Aziza.

“I'm
hardly
thin.” She was five-nine and weighed one-forty, but she wasn't about to reveal her weight to Jordan. “What I do is go to a dance studio several days a week.”

“What type of dancing?”

“Al got me hooked on ballroom dancing after his stint on
Dancing with the Stars.
”

“You're kidding, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not, Jordan. A couple hours of the samba, mambo and cha-cha equal a strenuous workout.”

“It looks as if you like the Latin dances.”

“I love them because they work the entire body. I keep promising myself that I'm going to Rio for Carnivale and samba until I drop from sheer exhaustion.”

“A couple of years ago I went to Trinidad for Carnivale.”

“How was it?” she asked.

“Awesome. Do you want to go with me?”

“When, Jordan?”

“This year. Ash Wednesday isn't until the last week
in February, so if you want to come with me, then don't schedule anything the weekend before.”

“When is your partner's wedding?”

“The second weekend in February.”

“That's a lot of partying in the Caribbean in February,” she said teasingly.

“It's usually the coldest and snowiest month in the Northeast, so it's the perfect time to leave for warmer climes. What say you, counselor? Will you come with me?”

Aziza smiled, although her mind was a jumble of confusion and contradiction. A week ago she hadn't met Jordan Wainwright and now he was making plans for her to accompany him to Puerto Rico and Trinidad. Was he moving too fast, or was she too slow? The lawyer had unknowingly overwhelmed her with his unabashed masculine charm that left her fighting for control of emotions gone awry.

Her inexperience with men had left her totally unprepared for someone like Jordan Wainwright. She was certain she could hold her own with him when it came to the law, but unfortunately, she was still an ingénue in matters of the heart.

“I'll let you know after I've checked my calendar.” It was the same thing she'd told him when he'd asked her to accompany him to Puerto Rico.

“Do you get seasick?”

“Not usually.” She gave him a quizzical look. “Why, Jordan?”

“I've made arrangements for some of us to sail down to Puerto Rico for the wedding.”

“It sounds like fun.”

Jordan winked at her. “I did promise that we're going to have fun.”

Aziza nodded as she ate her eggs. To say Jordan Wainwright was full of surprises was putting it mildly. Sailing to Puerto Rico and celebrating
Carnivale
in Trinidad. What else, she mused, could she look forward to sharing with him?

“W
hat's the matter, baby?” Aziza drawled, chalking the tip of her cue. “Why the tight jaw?”

She knew what had Jordan out of sorts without asking the question. She'd beat him in Pac-Man, foosball and Donkey Kong, and the final challenge was a game of billiards. She'd beat him handily, while not pretending to give him an edge.

With a deathlike grip on his cue, Jordan glared at the woman who'd trounced him soundly in every game. It wasn't as if she hadn't warned him, but he hadn't wanted to believe she was
that
good. What bothered him was not her beating him, but how coolly she'd reacted after each victory. It was if there was ice water in her veins.

What shocked Jordan at times was how detached and unaffected she appeared when talking about her ex-husband and boss. As if she'd turned a switch to tune out the ugliness. Even when he'd taped their first session, her
answers were direct and delivered in a monotone. If he'd been a juror, he would've thought her rehearsed.

However, he was about to salvage what was left of his ego. He'd been taught to shoot pool by someone who'd learned from his father: Wyatt Wainwright. His great-grandfather had schooled Wyatt in the game in the same manner a teacher her students. By the time Wyatt was twelve he'd been earning enough money to pay the rent on his parents' cold water Lower East Side flat.

Christiane complained bitterly that her father-in-law exposed his grandson to lowlife riffraff whenever he'd taken Jordan with him to pool halls, but the older man had tried to reassure her no harm would come to the boy as long he was with him. Wyatt had carried a registered firearm on his person at all times, and his driver, who doubled as his bodyguard, was also armed.

You're going down, baby—hard.
Jordan forced a smile that stopped before it reached his eyes. “Instead of two out of three, let's play a single game.” He took a step, bringing him closer to the table.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure you don't want a second chance?”

He slowly shook his head. “No, Zee. You're going to need a second chance. What if we make a little wager?”

Aziza went completely still. Jordan had changed the rules. She'd wanted to wager, and he hadn't. Why now had he changed his mind? “What do you want?”

“You've heard of strip poker?” She nodded. “Well, I propose a game of strip pool. For every ball you miss, I'll remove an article of
your
clothing. The same rule applies to me.”

“What about socks and shoes?”

“Shoes and socks are included.”

She went back to chalking her cue. “When I'm finished
you're going to be butt naked. And to show you that I'm a good sport, I'm going to let you break first.”

Jordan moved into position, resting the cue between the fingers of his left hand. Bending slightly from the knees, he recalled everything his grandfather had taught him. He went still, then in an action too quick for the eye to follow, the white ball made contact, scattering colorful balls over green felt, all finding a home in the pockets.

Placing the cue stick on the table, he raised his arms in victory. “How you like
that?
” he taunted, enunciating each word. Winking, he beckoned her. “Come, darling. Let's see what you're hiding under that shirt.”

Aziza backed away from the table. “You're a ringer!”

“No, Zee. You're wrong. What I am is a winner. Now it's time to pay the piper.”

She set her cue next to Jordan's, then turned and sprinted out of the room, he in pursuit. She'd gotten as far as the door when he swung her up, her feet leaving the floor so quickly she almost lost her breath.

“No fair, Jordan!”

He cradled her to his chest. “Yes, fair, Zee. I won, and now it's time for you to adhere to the rules.”

Aziza put her arms around his neck in an attempt to keep her balance. His eyes bored into hers, seemingly reading her thoughts. She wasn't afraid to take her clothes off for Jordan. What was frightening was her inability to remain indifferent around him.

“Okay. But let me go.” One minute she was in Jordan's arms and the next she stood in front of him, her hands going to the top button on the tailored shirt she wore over a pair of jeans. A slight gasp escaped her when Jordan stopped her, his fingers tightening around hers.

“It's all right, Zee,” he said softly, “you don't have to undress for me.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” There was no mistaking her confusion and annoyance.

“I was testing you to see how far you would go.”

She gave him a wild-eyed stare, her chest rising and falling heavily. “Test me, Jordan? Who the hell do you think you are to test me? Is it because of the tapes? Did you hear something that made you believe that I'd perhaps said or done something to Kenny Moore that would make him turn on me like a predator stalking prey?”

Jordan shook his head. “No. You've got it all wrong.”

“No!” she flung at him. “
You've
got it all wrong. I thought I'd never be able to trust another man again. And I was beginning to trust you. But then you come out of nowhere with the bait and switch. You laid the ground rules for the game and when I follow through you tell me it's test.”

Reaching out, Jordan pulled Aziza to his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head. She was trembling. “Are you angry with me, baby?”

“I'm more than angry,” she mumbled against his chest. “I'm livid.”

He smiled. “Good.”

“Good? What the hell are you talking about, Jordan?”

“I want you enraged because it is that passion and thirst for revenge that will help me bring Moore to justice. You've told me you want to make him pay for nearly ruining your career, but they are just words, Zee. When we talk about charging Moore with sexual harassment, you sound as if we're talking about the weather. You showed me more emotion when you talked about your clients.”

“It's not only because of my career, Jordan.”

“Then what is it?”

“What he did to me—what I'd allowed him to do to me—made me feel dirty. At first I kept asking myself
what did I do or say that would make him turn on me. Then I began to second-guess myself when I thought about what Lamar said about the clothes I wore. Were they too provocative? Perhaps I couldn't see what others saw.

“I lowered my hemline, made certain all the buttons on my blouses were buttoned and even wore long sleeves in the warmer weather so as not to show too much skin. I did all of that and the SOB still came after me. So, if you want to know if I'm ready to take him down, then the answer is yes. I'm tired of playing the victim. I let Kenny Moore victimize me. I let Lamar victimize me. And I became a three-time victim when the D.A. threw out the tapes as inadmissible evidence, then asked if I'd bought my law degree because I should've known better than to waste his time with bogus nonsense.”

Jordan went completely still. “You keep mentioning the tapes, but what about the condom?”

Pushing against Jordan's chest, Aziza met his eyes. They were more gray than green. “What about it?”

“Had you told him about the condom?”

“No. I'd decided it was my trump card just in case he decided to go forward and charge Kenny. We know DNA doesn't lie.”

“You, my darling, just gave me what we need to bury the pig.”

Aziza's heart was beating so fast it made her feel lightheaded. Her first reaction when she'd seen the condom had been to throw it away in disgust. But, like the results from a rape kit, it could be used as admissible evidence. “I can't believe it.”

He brushed a kiss over her parted lips. “Believe it. I have a few connections at the Manhattan D.A.'s office—someone I know who would love to prosecute a case like
this. And she happens not to be a member of the old boys' club.”

Aziza looped her arms around Jordan's neck, pulling his head down. Twin emotions of joy and relief raced through her as she kissed him with a passion she hadn't known existed. The silent expression communicated trust, appreciation and repressed passion that had long been denied.

Jordan deepened the kiss, his tongue finding its way into her mouth. He knew they were treading into dangerous waters, but not only was it too late, he no longer cared. He wanted Aziza Fleming in his life and in his bed. But he didn't want her to come to him out of gratitude, but because she wanted and needed him as much he needed and wanted her.

“Make love to me.”

He heard her entreaty, believing he'd imagined it. It was what he wanted to hear her say more than anything else. “Tell me again.”

Aziza pressed closer, her breasts flattening against his chest. “Don't make me beg you.”

Jordan's hands were busy, searching under her shirt. He covered one lace-covered breast, feeling the rapid pumping of her heart through the delicate fabric. “Tell me, Aziza,” he repeated.

“Please, make love to me.”

Needing no further prompting, he swung her up in his arms. Taking long, determined strides, he carried her out of the room, down the hallway and up the staircase to his bedroom. He was about to break every rule he'd made for himself, yet was willing to accept the consequences.

Jordan placed her on the twisted sheets where he'd spent a restless night tossing and turning, fantasizing about making love to a woman who'd become an invisible itch he
hadn't been able to scratch. He followed her body down, supporting his greater weight on his arms.

Burying his face along the column of her neck, he breathed a kiss there. “Will you allow me to make love with you because you want me? Not because you need me.”

Aziza closed her eyes. She was so overcome with emotion that she felt like sobbing. The man holding her to his heart was offering her a second chance to live her life without doubt and mistrust. It no longer mattered how long she'd known Jordan. She'd known Lamar for more than twenty years, yet she hadn't really known him. What mattered was that the man in whose bed she lay had reached out to help without asking for anything in return.

“Yes, you may.”

Jordan smiled. “You probably don't have any condoms in your handbag, so we're going to have to use mine.”

She pounded his back with a fist. “That's not funny.”

He raised his head, his expression sobering. “What isn't funny is an unplanned pregnancy.”

“That can't happen.”

“It won't, Zee, if I use protection.”

“Thank you very much,” she whispered.

Jordan kissed her again. “You're very welcome.”

Aziza's eyelids fluttered closed, and she was more than content to lie with Jordan without moving or talking. She breathed in his body's natural scent mingling with his cologne. Everything about Jordan Wainwright seeped into her, making them one without him being inside her.

Foreplay was something with which she was totally unfamiliar. The peace she usually felt following an orgasm was what she was now experiencing. She lay, completely clothed, in bed with a man languishing in a fulfillment she
hadn't thought possible, and at the moment she realized making love wasn't two naked bodies slamming into each other. It wasn't about moans, groans, sweat and the ribald utterances that would leave her feeling dirty and cheap.

Her breathing slowed and deepened until she found herself drifting off to sleep. Jordan must have moved, because she woke up with a start. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing's the matter,” he said in her ear. “I'm going to get up and take off my clothes.”

Now Aziza was fully awake. Jordan had moved off the bed. He kicked off his shoes, removed his socks and then his hand went to the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. She managed to smother a gasp when she saw what had been concealed by tailored suits and custom-made shirts. Well-defined pectorals, rock-hard abs and a flat belly were a testament to a diligent workout regimen. Jordan Wainwright's body equaled his face when it came to perfection. Her gaze lingered on his when he reached down to remove his jeans and underwear. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until the side of the mattress dipped slightly when he sat down beside her. She sat up, her hands going to the buttons on her shirt.

Jordan leaned closer, his hand covering hers. “Please, let me.” Not dropping his gaze, he undid the buttons on her shirt, pushing it off her shoulders. But he was forced to look down when she exhaled an audible breath. A swath of heat shot through his groin when he stared at the soft swell of brown flesh rising and falling under white lace as she breathed out through her parted lips.

Aziza was right. She wasn't thin. She was womanly, curvy and as lush as ripened fruit. He slid the straps to her bra off her shoulders, then, reaching around her back, unhooked the lace garment.

“Oh, sweet—” He bit down on his tongue, stopping the blasphemous word that would've been certain to make his mother gasp in horror before she lit a candle for his wayward soul.

He knew of some women who'd paid thousands to a plastic surgeon to achieve the breasts Aziza had been blessed with. They were full, firm and perched high above her rib cage. He cradled them as if they were fragile glass, then his mouth replaced his hands, tasting and placing kisses around the nipples until the areola hardened like tiny pebbles.

Jordan had wanted to get into bed and lie with Aziza until she was completely comfortable with him, mindful that she'd had only one prior lover and ever mindful that she'd been sexually harassed. And he did not want her to come to him out of a sense of gratitude; he wanted her to want him because they complemented each other as male and female and shared a love and passion for law. Both had walked away from high-paying positions and well-heeled clients to represent the indigent and underserved.

The most glaring difference was that at thirty-one, Aziza Fleming knew who she was and where she'd come from.