Because of You (12 page)

“Was he indicted?”

“He took a plea and was given two years probation and a thousand hours of anger management.”

“Did she get what she wanted in the divorce?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziza drawled, grinning. “There was no pre-nup, so she cleaned the sucker out. She was granted sole custody with supervised visitation.”

“Good for her. She's lucky she had you to represent her.”

Aziza sobered quickly. “I was dealing with Kenny coming onto me and my own divorce, so transference was in full effect. Every man who'd done a woman wrong had become Lamar Powers and Kenneth Moore. If a man looked at me or ignored the scowl on my face and attempted to talk to me got the straight no-chaser
business
from me.” Her eyelids fluttered wildly. “But when I think about some of the things I said to those guys, I wish I could find them and apologize.”

The approach of the waiter and a sommelier carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of wine preempted their conversation. The appetizers arrived and they toasted each other with an excellent vintage of the pale rosé. Over the next ninety minutes, they dined on delicately prepared appetizers and delicious entrées, and they talked about everything but themselves.

Aziza didn't miss the stares from other women as they walked past their table. Several were bold enough to stop completely until garnering Jordan's attention before moving on. They only validated what she'd known. Her dining partner and date for the night was so hot he sizzled!

 

Jordan shook Aziza gently in an attempt to wake her. They were finally back in Manhattan and in front of his building.

She'd fallen asleep when they'd encountered bumper-to-bumper bridge traffic. A ride that should've taken
about twenty minutes, barring delays, had stretched into more than an hour. He'd enjoyed the warmth of her body draped over his and the sensual scent of her perfume. He'd alternated between watching the slow-moving traffic with staring at the woman asleep in his arms. To say Aziza Fleming was an enigma was an understatement. She was soft and feminine, but there was also an edge to her that said, “Don't mess with me.”

What had shocked him when he'd listened to the tapes was there were only four incidents where Kenneth Middleton Moore, Jr., had crossed the line, blatantly sexually harassing Aziza. All of the other encounters were open to interpretation. Four incidents in hundreds of hours of taping.

Kenneth's initial undertaking to get Aziza into his bed had been subtle, beginning with compliments on her work and appearance. Then a year later and within two weeks, his behavior had changed, escalating into an all-out campaign to pressure her to give into his demands.

Aziza woke, disoriented, looking around her. “Are we there yet?”

He ruffled her curls. “Yes, we are.”

Stretching and covering her mouth with a hand to smother a yawn, she closed her eyes. “I'm sorry about falling asleep on you.”

Smiling, Jordan stepped out of the car when the driver came around and opened the door. Turning, he assisted Aziza out while the driver retrieved her luggage from the trunk. His arm went around her waist, following Sergio as he carried the bags to the side street entrance. The driver handed off the bags, then turned and walked back to his vehicle.

Aziza walked into the Fifth Avenue maisonette, her eyes widening in amazement at the size of the duplex
Jordan called home. Rather than enter through the lobby, he'd used the entrance on 98th Street, leading into a small kitchen and maid's room and bath.

“I've turned the maid's room into a home office,” Jordan said, standing off to the side when Aziza peered in.

“No law books?” she teased.

He shook his head. “We have a law library at the office.” Reaching for her hand, he pulled her gently down a narrow hallway and into an area with a pantry and a laundry room with a washer and dryer.

“Do you do your own laundry?”

“I don't know how to turn the damn things on.”

Aziza rolled her eyes at him. “Then why do you have them?”

“The lady who cleans my apartment also does laundry.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“As the French say,
c'est la vie.
”

Jordan placed her overnight and garment bag on the floor. He turned back to face her. “Do you have a problem with something?”

With wide eyes, Aziza stared up at him. “There's no need to get defensive, Jordan,” she said quietly.
“Chacun à son goût.”

A smile spread over Jordan's face like a ray of sunshine. “So, the beautiful woman speaks fluent French. You are just full of surprises.”

“And it's apparent you understand the language.”

“Yes. My mother taught me.”

“Who taught her?”

“Her mother.”

“What did I say?” she asked.

“Everyone to his taste,” he translated. Supporting his back against the wall, Jordan closed his eyes. “I grew up with live-in housekeepers, a butler, chef and chauffeur, all who were available 24/7.” He opened his eyes. “I never had to concern myself with having clean clothes or what to eat because someone was always there to take care of my basic needs.”

Aziza leaned closer, bracing her hands on his chest, feeling the warmth from his body through the custom cotton shirt. “What did you do when you went away to college?”

He smiled down at her. “I rented an apartment off campus and hired someone to come in to clean and do laundry. I contracted with a caterer who prepared what I wanted and delivered it in containers I could freeze for several weeks.”

Rising on tiptoe, she pressed a kiss to his throat. “You know you're spoiled.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are,” she crooned, her mouth inches from his. “You always get want you want, which means I'm very fortunate to have you helping me with my lawsuit.”

Jordan held his breath until he felt a band tightening across his chest. Was that all he was to Aziza? Someone to help her build a solid case where she could sue Kenneth Moore? What she didn't know was that he wanted to be more—much more.

“You're wrong, Zee. I don't always get what I want.”
I want you,
he added silently.

Aziza leaned closer, her breasts pressed to his chest, her arms going around his trim waist. “Okay,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should rephrase that. You get almost everything you want.”

Jordan smiled. He lowered his head, burying his face
in her curls. “True.” Pressing his palms to the wall, he splayed his fingers. “You can't push up on me like this.”

“I'm just hugging you. Can't I get a hug from my friend?” His hands came off the wall, as if in slow motion, and he rested his hands on her back over her coat.

Jordan knew if they continued to stand there with Aziza's full breasts pressed to his chest, if he continued to hold her, then he didn't think he would be able to control the growing heaviness in his groin. She was fully clothed, yet he'd become so aroused he feared she would feel his erection.

“Baby, please, you're going to have to get off me before something happens.”

It was too late. Something did happen when Aziza felt the solid bulge against her thigh. Dropping her arms, she took a backward step, her gaze locked with Jordan's. His breathing had quickened, the skin over his cheekbones tightening. Without warning, her body reacted to his arousal; breasts warm, heavy, panties wet, the flesh between her legs pulsing uncontrollably.

“What's the matter? I can't hug you?”

For the tiniest fraction of time, they froze, sharing the space and the sexual magnetism that made it impossible for them to move or speak. The chaste kisses, casual hugs, the inane repartee had served as cover for what had been an instantaneous attraction.

Not that he'd condone Kenneth Moore's behavior, but Jordan understood why he'd come onto Aziza. She was completely unaware of her sexiness. She had a habit of lowering her lids and peering up through her lashes. The demure gesture was natural and innocent, and given her limited sexual experience, it was a lethal combination. And what she'd called hugging wasn't that at all. Not with her breasts crushed against his chest—instead of easing
his erection, it grew harder. Sexual tension gave way to anger.

“Don't get it twisted, Aziza. I may have played a frat boy game when I did shots the other night. But let me warn you I'm hardly a boy when it comes to sex. The next time you rub up on me, I'm definitely not going to apologize when I put you on your back and go inside you.” He leaned over and picked up her luggage. “Now I'll show you to
your
room.”

W
hen Jordan saw the gamut of emotions cross Aziza's face—shock, horror and anger—he wished he hadn't said what he'd said to her, but the acerbic words were out and impossible to retract. Her eyes narrowed, reminding him of a cat as it went into attack mode.

“I've asked you to help me put away a sexual predator, and you have the audacity to come off sounding like one when you talk about putting me on my back.” She took a step, going on tiptoe and thrusting her face within inches of his. “Don't
you
get it twisted, Jordan. If I lie on my back for you, it will because
I
want to feel you inside me, not the other way around. Now, I'm ready to see my bedroom.”

Jordan felt properly chastised. For a reason he couldn't fathom, he'd expected Aziza to order him to call a driver to take her home. But it was apparent her drive to bring down the man who'd harassed her to the point of almost destroying her career was stronger and more passionate than her reaction to his off-color sexual remark.

“I'm sorry, Zee.”

She waved a hand. “You've said what you felt, and I've had my say. So let's not beat a dead horse.”

Aziza followed Jordan, staring at his broad shoulders under the exquisitely tailored suit jacket as he led the way into the main living area of the duplex; she wanted to tell him if he'd been anyone other than Jordan Wainwright she would've walked out and had the doorman hail a taxi to drive her back to Bronxville. But she hadn't because her passion to make her former boss pay for his sins and his crime had reached a fever pitch. After she'd handed in her resignation, she'd felt sheer and utter relief that she hadn't had to gird herself before walking into the building where the firm was located. It was during the ten-block walk from Grand Central Station to Thirty-Second Street that she'd given herself a pep talk, that she hadn't been imagining that the married man with teenage boys was coming onto her, that she'd misinterpreted Lamar's claim that she was looking for attention because of the way she dressed.

Each time she'd interviewed for another position and received a rejection, it had upped her frustration meter. It was only when she'd made the decision to open a private practice, working from home, that she'd relegated the macabre episode to the deepest recesses of her mind. But then without warning, it had surfaced again when viewing a television news segment about sexual harassment in the workplace. A victim of sexual harassment had pleaded with others who were experiencing what she'd gone through to take action to stop the predators. Not doing anything was tantamount to empowerment.

It'd taken Aziza a week of sleepless nights before she'd worked up the nerve to tell Alexander. He had been enraged, threatening to take the man's head off, but she'd
had to remind her brother that murdering Kenneth Moore would be interpreted as capital murder and that he would probably spend the rest of his life in prison.

Talking to Alexander had made her aware of her acceptance of the D.A.'s opinion that her attempt to gather evidence on Moore was entrapment and had empowered him to go after another woman. That was when she'd decided—not again. She'd tried taping and calling other women who worked at the firm but with no success. Jordan was her last and only hope for justice.

Jordan breathed out an inaudible sigh as he climbed the circular staircase leading to the second-floor bedrooms. It was apparent Aziza had declared a truce—a very fragile truce. She'd drawn a line in the sand, and he had to be very careful not to cross it again. She was right when she'd told him he said what he felt. He wanted to make love to her. He was willing to forego his inane month time frame before becoming involved in a sexual liaison. Even when he'd stuck to dating a woman for a month before sleeping with her, it wasn't a guarantee they would have a long and lasting relationship.

He and Kirsten had dated for two years, yet nothing had come of it except they'd enjoyed each other's company. Jordan didn't know what it was, but now he wanted a woman for more than company. Seeing Kyle with Ava, Duncan with Tamara, and Ivan with his wife, Nayo, made him feel like an outsider now that Natasha had returned to school
and
probably her husband. She'd contacted him once, and that was to send him a thank-you note for underwriting the cost of tuition to complete her education. To Jordan it was only money, but for Natasha it meant fulfilling her dream to become a chef.

Offering his legal expertise to help Aziza stop a predator would mean a personal victory for her. And
for him it would mean exposing a criminal who'd used his powerful connections to circumvent the law and to prove to Aziza that not all men were like her ex-boss and husband.

What he didn't want to acknowledge was that interacting with the beautiful lawyer had him fantasizing about making love to her. And he wanted to prove to her that he could be trusted to care for and protect her.

He walked into one of two facing bedrooms at the end of the long hallway. A runner had muffled their footsteps. “This will be your bedroom. You'll have your own bathroom, so we don't have to run into each other.”

Waiting until Jordan turned a ceiling fixture radiating light onto white-on-white furnishings, Aziza entered a space that reminded her of layouts in
Architectural Digest.
Unknowingly, a slight gasp escaped her parted lips. “How beautiful!” she said, recovering her voice.

The room was decorated in shades of white, ranging from milk-white to eggshell and oyster. The linen head-board on the king-size bed matched the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed and the fabric on a corner sofa. Oyster-hued silk drapes hung from tall windows that overlooked Central Park. Framed photographs of tropical birds were positioned above the bed and fireplace. Lamps with milk glass bases and matching silk shades were set on bleached pine bedside tables.

Jordan pointed to a closed door at the opposite end of the room. “Behind that door is a walk-in closet where you can hang up your clothes.”

“How large is this place?” she asked, smiling.

Attractive lines deepened around Jordan's eyes when he returned her smile. It was obvious her former annoyance with him had vanished. “It's a little over five thousand square feet. There are two more bedrooms on the first
floor, but I prefer sleeping up here because of the views of the park.” He picked up her luggage and placed on the carpeted floor next to the door. “I'll leave you to get settled in. If you'd like coffee or tea before you turn in, then just let me know.”

“Is the coffee instant?” she teased.

He gave her an incredulous look. “Even if I couldn't boil water or make toast without burning it, I could always brew a decent cup of coffee.” Grinning and winking at her, he said, “What do you want? Latte, cappuccino, espresso or a frappé?”

“It's like that, Jordan?”

“Hell, yeah, it's like that, Zee Fleming.”

She flashed a sexy moue. “Let me change into something more comfortable and I'll let you know how good your coffee is.”

“Which one do you want?” Jordan asked.

“The weather's not warm enough for a frappé, so I'm going to go for the cappuccino.”

He glanced at his watch. “I'll give you half an hour. Is that enough time?”

Aziza nodded. “Yes.” She planned to take a quick shower and slip into sweats.

Jordan winked at her again. “I'll see you downstairs in half an hour.”

Waiting until Jordan left the bedroom and closed the door behind him, Aziza opened her luggage and took out a quilted case with her grooming supplies, then headed for the bathroom. Asian-inspired, minimalist and decorated on the principles of feng shui, the cool colors and pale-toned materials created a haven for balance and total relaxation. A profusion of pink and white orchids flourished in glazed pots decorated with Asian characters and overflowed from hanging baskets, reminding her of
the loggia in a villa when she'd vacationed in the Virgin Islands.

Jordan had invited her to go to Puerto Rico as his guest at his law partner's wedding. Going to the tropics in February was more than tempting. If she checked her planner and discovered she didn't have anything scheduled, then Jordan Wainwright could look forward to a very willing companion.

She dabbed an oil-free solution onto a cloth and, using circular motions, removed the makeup from her eyes and face. Her skin felt clean and tingly as she went through the motions of brushing her teeth.

Undressing and leaving her clothes on a bench in an area that also functioned as a dressing room, she walked up one step to the shower area. Sliding ash doors fitted with light-filtering frosted glass screened a low tub and shower stall.

Tucking her hair under a bouffant cap, Aziza turned on the water in the stall, adjusted the temperature, then stepped in under the warm spray.

 

Aziza's sock-covered feet were silent as she descended the staircase, walked along a wide hallway and stopped to peer into formal living and dining rooms. The furnishings in Jordan's maisonette reflected everything that was Manhattan: energy, glamour, edginess and chic. The architect had painted the walls in neutral colors, but remaining baseboards and cornices were a classical white. The parquetry was stained dark to contrast with the light carpeting throughout the entire duplex. She smiled. The pale carpets were definitely not child-friendly.

She found the gourmet kitchen, a chef's dream with state-of-the art Miele appliances: double ovens, cooktop range and grill, built-in refrigerator/freezer and wine
storage. The distinctive smell of coffee filled the kitchen. An espresso machine made whirring sounds as Jordan aerated cream until it was light and frothy. He'd spared no expense when he'd renovated and decorated his home.

Jordan had also changed. A pair of low-rise jeans, a white T-shirt and socks had replaced his suit and imported footwear. Her gaze lingered on his muscular arms. His bulging biceps were a testament to his claim he worked out regularly.

“That really smells good.”

Jordan spun around, smiling when he saw Aziza standing in the entrance to the kitchen. His gaze traveled slowly from the narrow headband holding curls off her face, down to a gray pinstriped long-sleeved tee and gray sweatpants. “Please come in and sit down.” He pulled out a tall stool at the cooking island, seating her. “What are you wearing? You smell delicious.”

Aziza smiled. “Chance. It's from Chanel.”

“My mother named my sister Chanel because it's her favorite perfume. She also named one of my brothers Rhett because she'd fallen in love with Rhett Butler after reading
Gone with the Wind.
” Reaching for a shaker filled with ground cinnamon, Jordan sprinkled it lightly over the layer of hot cream he'd ladled into mugs filled with coffee.

“Does she like her name?”

Placing a tall mug in front of Aziza, Jordan sat beside her. “She claims she hates it because a group of girls at her school refer to her as Number Five. When she introduces herself to anyone, she tells them to call her Charlie.”

“But that's also the name of a fragrance.”

“Go figure. I'm totally confused when it comes to today's teenagers. It's as if they're superglued to their cells and computers. If it's not texting, it's tweeting, blogging,
Facebook or MySpace. Chanel was averaging more than three thousand text messages a month. When her grades started slipping, my mother had a mini-breakdown after her accountant told her Chanel had exceed her mandated seven-hundred-fifty-a-month limit. It was my sister's turn to have a breakdown when she lost phone privileges for two months.

“My sister tried to get me involved in the fray because I've always taken up for her, but that was one time I stood behind our parents. We'd discovered a classmate was sending her threatening messages and she was responding in kind. My father, who is as benign as they come, extended the loss of her phone privileges to six months. No cell, no texting, no bullying.”

Aziza took a sip from the cup, savoring the warmth sliding down her throat and spreading throughout her chest. “Cyber-bullying has become so insidious among teenagers. My older brothers have five preteens between them and they tell me how lucky I am I don't have children.”

Jordan stopped drinking as he gave Aziza a sidelong glance. “You don't want children.” The statement was a question.

She took another sip. “Excellent coffee.”

“Why are you skirting the question?”

Shifting slightly on the stool, Aziza turned and looked directly at Jordan. He was right. She was skirting the issue only because it reminded her of how she'd spent more than half her life pinning her hopes and dreams on a man who'd harbored resentment so deep that it'd become impossible for him to repress it any longer. And when given the opportunity, his passive-aggressive behavior had whittled away the love she'd had for him until loathing was all that was left on her part.

Lamar had talked about starting a family right after they'd married, but Aziza had wanted to wait until they'd been married for at least three years. It would've given them time to adjust to married life and to jump-start their careers. That was when Lamar had claimed she'd loved her career more than him. She'd denied it, unaware that he'd spoken the truth. Less than six months into their marriage, she'd fallen out of love with him.

“I don't know,” she said truthfully. “There was a time when I was certain I wanted to become a mother, but that dream ended with my marriage.”

“What about now?”

“What about now, Jordan?”

“Do you still want children?”

Aziza leaned closer, her shoulder pressing against his muscled one. “Why do I get the impression that you're cross-examining me?”

Jordan kissed the end of her nose. “Tonight I'm asking questions. The cross-examination will come tomorrow. We're going to set up our own mock court where I'll become opposing counsel and it will be my job to discredit you. I want to identify everything that can't be proven before we redirect what you've recorded.”