Because of You (5 page)

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.”

A
ziza 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.