Because of You (8 page)

Aziza returned her attention to the kettle. “The water cooled while we've been talking.”

Jordan leaned a hip against the granite countertop, watching Aziza as she took a cup and matching saucer from a cupboard. Working quickly, efficiently, she placed two teabags in a hand-painted teapot and filled it with hot water.

“Are you going to have a cup with me?” he asked.

“No. I usually have a cup before going to bed at night. Chamomile. It helps me to sleep.”

Tilting her chin, Aziza studied her houseguest's face. A hint of laughter played at the corners of his strong, sexy mouth. And despite her silent protests to the contrary or her denial of not wanting or needing a man, she wanted to feel the pressure of Jordan's mouth on hers—again. She glanced downward, the demure gesture enchanting and mesmerizing.

Walking to the refrigerator, she took out a container with fresh lemon slices, feeling the heat from his gaze following her every move. “Would you like sugar or honey?”

“Honey, please.” They shared a smile.

“Why,” Jordan asked, “when you make a cup of tea, it becomes a ritual! You remind me of a geisha at a tea ceremony. I'm willing to wager you set the table even when dining alone.”

Using a tiny silver fork, Aziza placed several lemon slices on a small dish. “Didn't you get enough of wagering earlier today when downing shots?”

“No, because wagering with you will be a lot more pleasant than with three-hundred-pound dudes with beards.”

She laughed, the sound bubbling up from her throat. “You're out of luck, Jordan, because I've never been a gambler. Your tea should be steeped by now. You can take it here or on the porch.”

“Will you join me on the porch?”

Aziza nodded, a sensual smile softening her mouth. “Of course. After you finish your tea, I'll show you where I meet with my clients.”

 

Jordan stood in the area outside the space where Aziza had set up her home office. Her revelation that all of her clients, with the exception of Brandt, were female was reflected in the furnishings. It wasn't a waiting room, but a parlor with creamy upholstery, pale walls and plush beige carpeting. Bleached pine tables cradled a collection of crystal candlesticks with corresponding tapers and pillars. The room was an oasis of green and flowering plants in terra-cotta and hand-painted pots. A large copper pot was stacked with wood for the working fireplace. Magazines, paperback novels and a wall-mounted television were available to her clients to enhance the room's friendly receptive atmosphere.

The furnishings in Aziza's office were a dramatic departure from those in the waiting area. Heavy mahogany furniture, leather chairs, parquet flooring, a wall of floor-to-ceiling shelves with stacks of law books and journals and an L-shaped executive desk with state-of-the art office equipment were indicators of a fully functioning law practice. One wall held diplomas, degrees and citations from local and state organizations.

“Do you have a law clerk or assistant?” he asked her.

Pushing her hands into the pocket of her jeans, pulling the fabric taunt over her belly and hips, Aziza turned to look at Jordan. She'd tried gauging his reaction to seeing
her office, but nothing in his expression revealed what he was feeling. When she'd purchased the house she'd had a contractor make major renovations: expand the attached garage to accommodate two cars, expand the front porch while putting up the addition for her office.

“No. I have four clients on retainer and I work with two real estate companies when they need a lawyer for contracts and closings.” She smiled. “And before you ask—yes, I like working for myself.”

“I was going to ask you if you miss working in the city.”

“No.” She sat down on a corner of the desk. “I grew up in New Rochelle, and for me taking the train into the city was like some people going to a foreign country. My girlfriends and I would plan our excursions meticulously in advance, so we knew exactly where we wanted to eat, where to shop and what sights to see. My parents wanted me to go to college out of the state because they felt it would make me more independent. They saw something I'd refused to see. Lamar and I were becoming inseparable, and my dad felt I was too young to be that serious about one boy.

“In the end Daddy was right. I went to Fordham and a year later Lamar transferred from Pace University to Fordham because he claimed he missed seeing me. We graduated and went on to Fordham Law together. I was hired by a top firm, while he became a public defender. That's when our problems began, but I was too in love with him to notice the snide remarks about how women get ahead by lying on their backs. Despite all of the signs that our marriage was doomed, I still married him. My only regret is that I wasted so many years with someone whose sole intent was destroying me emotionally.”

Taking two long strides, Jordan stood in front of Aziza,
his arms going around her shoulders. He smiled when she rested her head on his shoulder. “But you did get out before he destroyed you.” He patted her back in a comforting gesture. “Don't beat up on yourself, Zee. You're hardly alone when it comes to making bad choices in the love department.”

She looked up at him. “Are you talking about yourself?”

Jordan nodded. “I had what I consider a serious relationship. We split once we realized we were wrong for each other.”

“How old are you, Jordan?”

“Thirty-three.”

“You're thirty-three, single and I assume unencumbered.” He nodded again. “Have you ever proposed marriage to a woman?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because I haven't met the woman with whom I'd want to share my life.”

“Does she exist?”

“I'm sure she does.”

“I felt the same way before I became Mrs. Lamar Powers. I knew I wanted to marry Lamar when our fifth-grade teacher seated us next to each other. He was the perfect boyfriend and fiancé but a lousy husband. Just make certain before you choose that special woman to become Mrs. Jordan Wainwright you look for the signs that she won't go psycho on you.”

“I'll keep that in mind whenever I decide it's time for me to settle down and start a family.”

Tilting her chin, Aziza saw something in Jordan's eyes that warmed her and made her feel anxious at the same time. She felt comfortable with him, almost too
comfortable, given her past experience with a man whom she'd loved selflessly and unconditionally. He came closer, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

“What are you doing, Jordan Wainwright?” she whispered when their mouths were only inches apart.

Jordan stared at Aziza's lush lips, feeling her moist breath on his mouth. “I'm going to kiss you, Aziza Fleming.”

She needed him to kiss her because it reminded her that she was a woman with strong urges she'd denied for far too long. Lamar may have soured her on marriage, but thankfully she hadn't become a man-hater.

“Why?”

His eyebrows shot up. “I can't believe you're asking me why. Isn't it obvious?”

“Not to me,” she countered breathlessly.

“I like you, Zee.”

“I like you, too, but—”

He stopped her words with a soft, possessive kiss that siphoned the breath from her lungs, leaving her struggling to breathe. “You've just been overruled,” he whispered against her parted lips.

Aziza's arms came up, looping around Jordan's strong neck, holding him fast as he attempted to move closer. His hands cupped her hips, he easing her between his outstretched legs, she sitting half on and half off the desk.

Somehow she found the strength to free her mouth, her chest rising and falling with her labored breathing. “Jordan!”

His splayed fingers massaged her back. “It's okay, Zee. I won't do anything you don't want me to do.”

She closed her eyes. “I didn't want you to kiss me.”

He smiled, staring at the dreamy expression on her
beautiful face, an expression that reminded him of those on the faces of the women in the paintings of Renaissance art masters hanging in the Met.

A deep frown marred his handsome features. “If that's the case, then why did you let me kiss you?”

“I needed you to kiss me.”

Jordan stared as if seeing her for the very first time. “You needed me? Why?”

“As you know, I don't date, and it has been a very long time since a man has kissed me, so why not you?”

“So,” he drawled, “you see me as some kind of specimen you can put in a petri dish to see what comes of it.”

“I didn't say that, Jordan.”

“You didn't have to, Aziza. As an attorney you know you can say or ask the same question ten different ways, but the result will always be the same.”

Her temper flared. “Don't get testy with me, Jordan, because you can't handle the truth. I like you. If I didn't, then you never would've kissed me even if you'd begged. I'm currently trying to build a case to sue a man for touching me when I'd told him not to. A man who felt so comfortable that he said things in my presence no man would have the audacity to say. A pig that used to order expensive lingerie and have it delivered to my office with a note that he would like me to model it for him. I'd asked him to stop, but he wouldn't. Then I did the unthinkable.”

Jordan saw pain and grief—stark and wild—in the dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. “What was that?” His voice was low, comforting.

“I prayed something would happen to him. That he would get hit by a car or bus when crossing the street. That's when I knew I was losing it. The final straw was when I walked into my office to find him waiting for me.
He handed me a small box with very pretty wrapping paper and a bow, saying it was a peace offering. I almost passed out when I opened the box.”

“What was it?”

Aziza bit her lip until it throbbed like a pulse. “It was a condom.”

“Why a condom?”

She swallowed in an attempt to relieve the constriction in her throat. “He told me he'd masturbated earlier that morning and before he'd ejaculated into it he'd fantasized that he was inside me.”

Smothering a savage curse, Jordan caught her shoulders, his fingers tightening on her tender flesh. “You are a lawyer, Aziza.” He punctuated each word. “You're trained to defend the innocent, yet you allowed yourself to be victimized by a sick son of a bitch.”

Aziza pushed against his chest in an attempt to free herself, but it was like trying to move a boulder. “You think I just stood around and did nothing?”

Hs eyes narrowed. “What
did
you do?”

“I went to an electronics store and bought the tiniest tape recorder I could conceal on my body. I carried it with me whenever I went into the office. When I felt I had enough evidence, I handed in my resignation and a week later sued him and his firm for sexual harassment.”

“What happened?”

“The D.A. refused to hear the case because he felt the tapes were used as entrapment. He claims if I'd come to his office beforehand they would've authorized me wearing what would come down to a wire. A clerk in the D.A.'s office told me off the record that my boss and the D.A. went to law school together and belong to the same country club. He also has several uncles who are judges. I would've let it go, but he retaliated by refusing to give
me a reference whenever I applied to another firm. That's why I decided to open my own practice.”

Jordan shook his head. “It's no wonder you can't win. You're challenging the old boys' club. But there is more than one way to roast a pig without putting him on a spit.”

Aziza looked confused. “You're talking in riddles.”

“In some cultures people roast pigs on spits and in others they dig a pit, fill it with leaves and hot coals, then bury the pig and cover it until it's done. This is what you're going to do with your pig, Aziza. I'm going to help you bury him. By the way, does he have a name?”

“Kenneth Middleton Moore, Jr. You know him, don't you?” she asked when Jordan stiffened as if pierced by a sharp object.

“I knew his father. He was my professor. He passed away the year I graduated, and junior took over his firm. I'm willing to bet he had no idea that his boy was acting a fool. You're probably not the first woman Kenny has harassed and you won't be the last. Do you still have the tapes and the condom?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“They're in a safe deposit box in my bank. But I do have an extra copy of the tapes here in the office.”

Jordan kissed her forehead. “That's my girl. I'm not going to map out a strategy until after I hear what's on those tapes.”

“Do you think we can get him, Jordan?”

“We're going to get him, Zee. We're just going to have to find the loopholes we need to bring him down.”

Wrapping her arms around his waist, Aziza closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer of thanks that Jordan Wainwright had agreed to help her stop Kenneth Moore
before he victimized another woman. “I'll get the tapes for you.” Jordan took a step backward and she unlocked the drawer in the desk, handing him an envelope with two minute cassettes. “Do you think your stomach will tolerate food now?”

“I thought you'd never asked. I'm starved,” Jordan admitted.

Leaning into him, she kissed his stubbly chin. “Let's eat.”

S
haring dinner with Jordan felt like a date to Aziza. She'd set the table in the kitchen's dining alcove, tuned the satellite radio to a station featuring music from the 80s and 90s, and the scented votives lining the countertops created a peaceful effect when she'd turned off the lights, leaving on the hanging fixture over the table.

She hadn't lied when she'd admitted to Jordan that she liked him. In fact, she liked everything about him from his cropped raven hair, lean face, strong chin and sexy mouth to his tall, muscular lean body. Whether categorized as
fine, hot
or just plain old
sexy,
it was impossible for any normal woman to ignore him.

Was he a little arrogant?

Yes.

Brash?

Undeniably.

Confident?

Unequivocally yes.

However, as a Wainwright he had the right to be arrogant, brash
and
confident. He was a member of one of New York's most powerful and wealthy families. Even if he wasn't a Wainwright, those were necessary personality traits for a successful litigator. He hadn't given her a hint as to how he would go after Kenneth Moore, but Aziza knew he was her last resort. She'd tried contacting women who still worked at the firm to find out if they were being harassed, but they hadn't returned her phone calls.

Dinner had turned out well. The first course was a mixed citrus salad with red onions and escarole, of which Jordan had two servings. She'd added a glaze to the chicken just before removing it from the roasting pan to let it rest so the juices could flow through it. Tiny roasted red potatoes had picked up the piquant spices infused in the chicken, and wilted spinach with olive oil and garlic complemented the main dish. Keeping in mind that Jordan was still recovering from too much holiday libation, she'd blended ruby-red grapefruit punch with a piña colada mix, the pale pink fruity concoction making her yearn for the tropics.

She smiled when Jordan took a second helping of everything. It was apparent he had a very healthy appetite. “Do you work out?”

Jordan swallowed a piece of chicken so tender it melted in his mouth. “All the time. There's a health club in my apartment building and one in the brownstone for employees.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“Take a guess.”

“One ninety-five.”

He made a buzzing sound. “Wrong. Guess again.”

“Higher or lower?”

“I'm not telling,” he teased.

Pushing back her chair, Aziza stood up. “Stand up.”

Jordan complied, standing and grinning. He knew what she was up to. “You can look, but not touch.”

Aziza pushed out her lip, pouting. “That's not fair. Whenever I go to the store to buy a melon I have to touch it to ascertain its weight.”

“Ascertain,” he whispered, mocking her. “Okay, baby. You can examine the goods.”

Moving closer, she ran her fingertips over his shoulders and down his chest, Jordan sucking in his breath. “Two-ten.”

“You're good, counselor.”

She bowed low. “Thank you, counselor.”

The light, teasing mood continued as they cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and put away leftovers. The votives were sputtering and burning out when Jordan, having retrieved his overnight bag from the trunk of his car, followed Aziza up the staircase to the second floor.

“This is your bedroom,” she said, pushing open a door and touching a wall switch. “It has an en suite bath. Everything you need is in a cupboard in the bathroom—towels, soap, toothbrush and paste. If you need me to wash anything, leave it on the floor outside the door.”

Jordan's mouth was smiling, but not his eyes. He'd spent more time with Alexander Fleming's sister than he'd planned, and the weather had cooperated to permit him more time with her. He didn't know what it was about her, but he'd felt an immediate and almost total attraction to Aziza. This was something that hadn't occurred with any other women he'd met or been involved with.

“Thank you, but I have everything I need.”

Aziza stared at the middle of his broad chest. “I know
we haven't talked about it, but I need to know how much you're going to bill me for your services.”

Jordan clenched his teeth to keep from spewing curses he was certain would shock Aziza; acerbic, vitriolic curses he'd learned and that were very much a part of his grandfather's colorful vocabulary. “Did I say I was going to bill you?”

“No but—”

“But nothing,” he interrupted. “Your brother happens to be not only my cousin's teammate but also his best friend. And when friends ask for a favor they shouldn't have to pay for it.”

“I'm not your friend, Jordan.”

“If I'm not your friend, then what am I? I can't be your lover because I make it a practice not to sleep with a woman until I've dated her for at least a month. And you don't date.”

Pinpoints of heat dotted Aziza's face. “You're right.”

Jordan leaned closer. “I'm right about what, Zee?” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

“You're my friend.”

“Good. Now that we've settled that I'll let you know how you can repay me.”

She balled her hands into fists in frustration. “But…but I thought you said friends don't pay friends for—”

“Hold up, baby. Don't go off on me until you hear what I'm proposing.”

Crossing her arms under her breasts, Aziza glared at Jordan. His flip-flopping as to their relationship was becoming more confusing with each passing second. “What?”

“I'll accept a hug, a kiss and an occasional dinner and brunch meeting to discuss your case.”

Her jaw dropped. “That's it?”

“That's it?” he repeated. “If you want more, then we can always throw a little sex in the mix, because I know it's been longer for you than it has been for me.”

Aziza's mouth opened and closed several times, then she said, “Good night, Jordan.”

Throwing back his head, Jordan laughed, the rich warm sound filling the hallway. He realized Aziza wasn't expecting his comeback. He hadn't lied to her when he'd said he did not sleep with a woman until they'd dated a month. That time frame allowed him to ascertain whether he wanted to take their relationship to another level or end it amicably. Sleeping with a woman translated not only into a physical commitment but also an emotional one—something he did not take lightly.

“Good night, Zee.”

Turning on her heels, Aziza walked to her bedroom and closed the door. She sat on the padded bench at the foot of the bed, closing her eyes. She'd told Jordan things she'd held close to her heart. When Alexander had initially asked why she'd resigned her position, her response to him had been she didn't get along with her boss.

However, when she realized Kenneth Moore had set out to sabotage her career, she'd told Alexander of her intent to sue her former boss and his firm. Her brother had said he was willing to wait for her to go the legal route to seek justice, but if justice proved not to be impartial or blind, then he was going to rain holy hell down on Kenneth Moore.

Aziza had also made Alexander promise not to tell their parents or their brothers about her legal dilemma. After her beloved Nana passed away her parents had sold their house in New Rochelle and moved to a gated retirement community in central Florida. Her older brothers had attended college in California and Arizona respectively,
electing after graduating to put down roots in the western states. To embroil the Flemings in something which should've never occurred was certain disaster.

She opened her eyes, her delicate jaw tightening when she recalled Jordan chastising her for permitting the harassment to continue. What he would uncover, once he listened to the tapes, was the time frame.

Her dark mood lifted like quicksilver, the beginnings of a smile tilting the corners of her mouth when she recalled his method of payment: a kiss, hug, dinner and brunch. What he wanted was more than doable.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. It was ten o'clock. She would take a leisurely bath, brew a cup of tea, then crawl into bed and read until falling asleep. That had become her nightly ritual for the past two years.

 

Ribbons of sunlight slipped through the partially closed drapes in Aziza's bedroom. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she walked on bare feet over to the window. Wet heavy snow lay on shrubs and grassy surfaces, but it was melting quickly on sidewalks and the macadam. It was an indication the mercury was above freezing, and she would be able to meet with her client. Thinking of her client reminded her of the man sleeping in her guestroom. Normally she would've lingered in bed, but not this morning.

Making her way to the en suite bath, she completed her morning ablution in half the time it normally would've taken her. Dressed in a pair of sweats and running shoes, she walked out of her bedroom. She hadn't taken more than a dozen steps when she saw it. There was sheet of paper on the floor outside the room where Jordan had spent the night. Leaning over, she picked it up, reading the bold scrawl:
Thank you for your hospitality. Had to
leave early. Need to go into the office. Will call you after I listen to the tapes. Your friend, JWW.

For some reason Aziza felt let down. She'd wanted to see him before he left. Folding the single sheet of paper in half, then in half again, she left it on the side table in the hallway. Skipping down the staircase, she made her way across the living room, opened the front door and stepped out onto the front porch. The sounds of snow blowers and shoveling created a cacophony that shattered what would normally be Saturday-morning silence. Her neighbor was calling to her teenage son to come and shovel out her car so she could go to the store.

“Good morning, Aziza.”

She waved to the schoolteacher, Julie, who complained constantly about her son. Julie had to threaten her son before he would help out around the house. Many of the chores her husband used to do before he was deployed were now the responsibility of the teenage boy.

“Good morning, Julie.

Pulling a sweater tighter around her body and walking to the end of her porch, Julie Rennick shook her head in exasperation. “That boy isn't worth the money it takes to feed him or shoe him. All he wants to do is sit in front of a computer and play video games.” A rush of color suffused her normally pale face. “It's all going to come to a crashing halt when his father comes home.”

Aziza knew her neighbor was in a constant state of apprehension because her career officer husband was on his second tour of duty in the Middle East. Julie and Francis Rennick had been the first people to welcome her to the neighborhood within days of her moving in.

“Have you had your coffee?” she asked Julie.

Julie shook her head. “Not yet. I've been trying to get my lazy son out of bed.”

“I'm going to put up a pot and make breakfast. I'd appreciate some company.”

Aziza knew Julie was lonely and at her wits end when it came to her son, so to give her a respite, Aziza invited the woman to join her on an occasional shopping spree and out to the movies. They'd gone to see
Twilight
and
New Moon
together, gasping and sighing along with the other adolescent girls crowding the theater when Edward or Jacob appeared on the screen. They had been thirty-something women who'd reverted to screaming, hysterical teenagers.

Julie smiled. “I'll be over as soon as I change out of my slippers. Lucky for you your friend shoveled your drive and walkway.”

Aziza froze. “My friend?”

“Don't tell me you didn't know the delicious-looking man.”

Suddenly it dawned on her that it hadn't been the landscape company who maintained her lawn during the spring and summer and removed snow during the winter months, but Jordan who'd shoveled out her driveway, sidewalk and the path leading to the house. Of course he'd had to shovel the driveway if he'd wanted to drive his car out, but he didn't have to do the street.

“Yes, I know him,” Aziza admitted. “Come on over when you're ready. I'll leave the door unlocked.” Stepping off the porch, she closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

She was surprised she hadn't heard Jordan shoveling because her bedroom looked out over the front of the house. She would thank him when she spoke to him again.

 

Aziza handed her client's mother a box of tissues, waiting for the single mother to compose herself. She'd
changed out of the sweats into a pair of black wool slacks, a white tailored blouse and low-heel black patent leather pumps. With her hair fashioned into a sleek chignon and a light cover of makeup, she had morphed into her attorney mode. And despite working from home, she always felt the need to appear professional.

“Do you really think they're going to put him in jail this time?” Benita White sniffled.

“I'm not certain, Ms. White. This is your son's second offense, so the judge may decide to go hard on him. But if you tell me that he has a substance abuse problem, then I'm going to ask that he be mandated to go into treatment.”

Red-rimmed eyes widened. “I don't understand.”

“Are you aware you son has a drug problem if he smokes marijuana every day?”

She sniffled again. “It's only a little weed. I smoked weed. His father smoked weed and we never went to jail.”

Aziza stared at a spot over Benita White's shoulder rather than glaring at a mother who was in complete denial when it came to her precious baby boy.

“Ms. White, I'm not going to sugarcoat it. Your seventeen-year-old son is going to serve time if you don't acknowledge that he has a problem and he needs to go into treatment.
Weed
is illegal, and getting behind the wheel of a car after smoking weed is a lethal combination. What if he got into an accident and killed someone? Would you say to the family of the victims that it was only weed?