Because of You (6 page)

“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.

B
racing his back against the tiles in the shower stall, Jordan closed his eyes as lukewarm water beat down on his head. He had a headache, his mouth felt as if it'd been filled with cotton and his stomach was doing flip-flops. It wasn't how he'd wanted to start the new year.

After watching the car with Aziza drive away, he'd returned to the penthouse and had tried to get into the mood of the festive holiday, failing miserably. He'd switched from drinking champagne to downing shots. It had all ended when some woman tried putting her tongue into his mouth. He'd gagged and forcibly pushed her away. He did remember finding his way to the bathroom in one of Brandt's guest bedrooms where he'd brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth before falling across the bed, fully clothed. The sun was high in the sky, the penthouse silent as a tomb when he'd ridden the elevator to the lobby where the doorman had hailed a taxi to take him uptown.

Groaning, he opened his eyes and pushed the button on the dispenser filled with shampoo. He went through the motions of washing his hair, then his body with a shower gel that complemented his specially blended cologne. It took two cups of strong black coffee and a slice of dry toast for him to settle his queasy stomach.

He felt like a caged cat, pacing the length of his home office until he called the garage where he stored his car and requested that it be parked in front. The temperature had dropped more than twenty degrees in twenty-four hours, and with the steel-gray sky and the forecast of rain mixed with sleet, he slipped into a ski jacket over a rugby shirt and jeans. Instead of running shoes, he'd selected a pair of rugged Doc Martens.

Jordan wasn't certain what had triggered his state of agitation but knew it wouldn't be assuaged if he remained indoors. Instead of leaving his apartment through the high-rise lobby where the doorman monitored everyone coming and going, he left through the side door that led directly from the apartment to a side street.

He hadn't realized until after he'd purchased the maisonette how much he'd come to value his privacy. Although he had an apartment suite in the Wainwright mansion, Jordan had never invited a woman to spend the night there. If they did sleep together it was either at her place or in a hotel. Never one to kiss and tell, he also did not advertise or flaunt his affairs, which was why it had surprised him when he'd kissed Aziza where anyone could see them. He knew he'd shocked his parents when he'd revealed that he'd been seeing Natasha Parker, but whom he'd dated or slept with was not their business.

He walked out to find Fifth Avenue a bustle of activity with post-holiday shoppers and out-of-towners crowding buses that ran along Central Park. Pedestrians with
cameras stopped to photograph one another, using the park as the backdrop. Jordan turned down a side street to the east side rather than attempt to navigate the crowds strolling Museum Mile. The first day of the year had fallen on a Friday, which left Saturday and Sunday for everyone to recover from their revelry before beginning a new week.

It wasn't until he was seated behind the wheel of the black-on-black two-seater BMW roadster that he abandoned his initial intent to drive down I-95 to hang out in D.C. until Sunday, and he decided to go to his office in the brownstone in Harlem's Mount Morris Historic District.

 

Donald Ennis waited for Raymond Humphries to return to the phone. He'd heard Minerva Jackson's voice in the background, so he assumed Raymond was at her place. He would've thought the real estate mogul would've been at home with his wife instead of with his secretary, who obviously was his mistress.

Donald had spent the past two weeks shadowing Jordan Wainwright. There was nothing the young lawyer had done that had set off alarm bells, but that was only his opinion, and Raymond Humphries did not want or pay him for his opinion. He'd agreed to contact Humphries every other Friday. If something out of the ordinary happened, then he was to contact him immediately.

“Sorry about that, Ennis. I had to tell Minerva something. What do you have for me?”

“Not much. Wainwright went to his grandfather's place Christmas Eve and hung out there for a couple of days. When he did leave it was with his sister and another kid about his sister's age. They walked to the Met, stayed
about three hours and then walked to 72nd and Third Avenue. He only interacted with the girls.”

“He had to do more than hang out with a couple of teenage girls for the past week.”

“You didn't let me finish,” Donald snapped.

“Watch your tone, Ennis.”

The P.I. counted slowly to ten in an attempt to bring his temper under control. When he'd first done investigative work for Raymond Humphries, he'd had to remind the man that he wasn't one of his employees who relied on him for a paycheck. Donald Michael Ennis was a highly regarded intelligence operative whose career had ended when he'd been diagnosed and had failed to seek treatment for Ménière's syndrome. The recurring dizziness, tinnitus and slight loss of hearing in his left ear had led to early retirement. He'd allowed six months of feeling sorry for himself before deciding to set up a private investigation agency. He'd hired a streetwise friend and a cousin, both of whom had one foot in the criminal world.

“You pay me, Humphries. Not own me.”

“Point taken,” Raymond drawled.

“My man told me Wainwright returned to his place New Year's Eve, then left again later that night. He went into a building where Brandt Wainwright owns a penthouse. He was seen again sometime after one when he was talking to a woman before she got into a limo.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“Not yet. But I have the limo's license plate number. As soon as we track down the driver, we'll know who she is and where she was going.”

“Where's Wainwright now?”

Donald shifted on the park bench across the street from Jordan Wainwright's apartment building, stretching out his legs and staring at the scuff marks on his boots. He
pressed the cell phone closer to his ear for warmth. He'd spent the better part of an hour sitting on the bench after his friends reported that Jordan Wainwright had returned home earlier that afternoon. It wasn't easy casing out a building facing the park because of ongoing police patrols. He didn't want to be questioned about watching residents who paid seven figures for their condos and co-ops. Doormen were very protective of their tenants, but there were always a few who were willing to provide a
little information
on the comings and goings, if the price was right.

“My man just sent me a text that he's heading uptown. If he goes anywhere other than his office, then I'll get back to you with his whereabouts.”

“Who the hell works on New Year's?”

“Doctors, cops, bus drivers—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Raymond intoned, cutting him off. “Just keep watching him. Let me know if you need more
resources.
”

“I'm good for now,” Donald replied.

He ended the call, pushing the cell phone into the pocket of his down-filled jacket. Blowing on his hands, he rubbed them together to generate heat. He'd forgotten his gloves—again. Standing and pushing his stiff fingers into the pockets of the baggy wide wale corduroy, he waited for the traffic light to change before crossing the street to wait for the bus to take him back uptown.

 

Jordan drove along Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard, then turned on 121st Street. If he hadn't called the garage to have his car ready, he would've either walked or taken a taxi to the office. Walking from 98th and Fifth to 121st Street was a workout.

Three boyhood friends who'd pooled their resources
to purchase the three-story brownstone had set up their practices on each floor. Kyle Chatham, his former mentor and senior law partner, occupied the second floor. Financial planner Duncan Gilmore's offices spanned the first floor, and psychotherapist Dr. Ivan Campbell counseled patients on the third floor of the nineteenth-century landmark structure that had been renovated for business use.

Miraculously, he found a parking space, maneuvering up to the tree-lined curb. He got out, locked the door and bounded up the staircase to the front door. Brass plates affixed to the side of the building indicated the location of each business.

Jordan unlocked the front door and punched in the code to disarm the security system. He reset it and walked past the elevator in the entryway and into the reception area furnished with comfortable leather seating, a wall-mounted flat-screen television and potted plants. Whenever the office was open during the winter months, a fire roared in the huge fireplace.

The soles of his shoes made soft squishing sounds on the marble floor when he made his way to the staircase. It wasn't until he'd exited the last stair that he was aware he wasn't the only one in the building. The sound of music floated down the hallway from the conference room.

Walking past his office, he stopped at the open door. Kyle Chatham sat at the conference table amid stacks of law books and legal pads. A pullover sweater, jeans and boots replaced his tailored suits.

“Happy New Year, Chat.”

Kyle's head popped up, his eyes growing wider when he saw Jordan standing in the doorway. “Happy New Year to you, too. What the hell are you doing here?” It wasn't
often that he saw Jordan unshaven. “You look a little green around the gills.”

“Champagne and shots are a lethal combination.”

“What's up with the frat boy antics?”

Jordan shook his head. “Don't ask.”

“But I am asking, partner. I don't remember ever seeing you overindulge.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jordan angled his head. His partner and former mentor was quintessentially tall, dark and handsome. Women were drawn to his angular face with chiseled cheekbones, deep-set, slanting, catlike, warm brown eyes and close-cropped black hair with a sprinkling of gray. He and his fiancée, Ava Warrick, were to be married in Puerto Rico the next month.

“Brandt and some of his boys started challenging one another, so I had to get my cousin's back.”

“That's when you should've bailed, Jordan. You know you can't hang with those guys. They're twice your size and have hollow legs.”

“I discovered that when I woke up this morning.”

“Why, then, are you here instead of sleeping it off?” Kyle asked.

“I came to look up some decisions on workplace harassment for a friend.” His cousin had given him Aziza's address and phone number. He planned to call her later that evening and confirm a time for his arrival. “Why are you here instead of home with your beautiful fiancée?”

Kyle massaged his forehead with his fingers as he stared at his junior partner. He and Jordan had worked together at Trilling, Carlyle and Browne where he'd become the younger man's mentor.

“I wanted to go over some details on this attempted rape case that has been literally kicking my behind. I should've passed on this one, but I couldn't leave this kid's
fate in the hands of a public defender who will probably get him to take a plea where he will spend the next eight to ten years of his life behind bars.”

Slipping out of his jacket, Jordan entered the room and draped it over the back of a chair and sat down. “You took on the case because the kid is innocent.”

Kyle ran a hand over his face. “But it all comes down to ‘he said, she said.'”

Kyle leaned forward. “If he puts her on the stand and she breaks down, then our client's fate is sealed and he's going to go away for a long time. His mother didn't sacrifice working two jobs to send her son to college to have him become a felon.”

Jordan continued to peruse the file. When Kyle had set up K.E. Chatham Legal Services, he'd established a routine of Monday-morning staff meetings where open cases were reviewed and updated. But since he'd made partner, Jordan and Kyle alternated chairing the meetings.

“This case is not about rape, Chat.”

Slumping back in his chair, Kyle stared across the table at his partner. “You tell me what it's about.”

Nothing on Kyle Chatham moved, not his eyes, not his chest when he held his breath. He'd questioned himself when Jordan had come to him asking to join his firm. What he couldn't fathom was why a Harvard-educated lawyer from one of New York City's wealthiest families had resigned positions with his family real estate empire and a Park Avenue law firm to work in Harlem. Their clients weren't remotely close to the well-heeled corporations they'd represented in the past.

“Talk to me, Wainwright.”

Jordan smiled for the first time since he'd woken up earlier that morning with a pounding headache. “They're together as long as they're students, but after graduation
she expected to become Mrs. Robinson Fields. The script is flipped when he tells her that he's moving on and dating someone else.”

Pushing back his chair, Jordan stood. “On that note I think I'd better leave.”

“How long are you going to hang out here?”

Jordan shrugged broad shoulders. “I don't know. Why?”

“Just asking.”

“If I don't see you before you leave, then I'll see you Monday morning.”

He hadn't lied to Kyle. He didn't know how long he would be at the office when it came to researching cases. When he'd worked for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne, he had been second chair with two harassment cases, while workplace harassment at Wainwright Developers hadn't been an issue. Wyatt Wainwright may have ruled his company with an iron fist, but he'd always generously compensated his employees for their hard work.

Jordan walked into his office, touching the wall switch and flooding the space with light. Tossing his jacket on a leather chair, he rounded his desk and sat down. His personal secretary had stacked files on a side table for the Monday-morning staff meeting.

Picking up a remote device, he pressed a button and music flowed from the speakers of a stereo unit concealed behind the doors in the mahogany armoire that matched the desk and tables. The melodious strains of a violin filled the office.