Because of You (17 page)

Sh turned on her computer and, while waiting for it to boot up, she scribbled on a To Do pad: pay bills online, email “girls” about Super Bowl party, order food for party.

Her brother's team had one more game before making
it to the big game. She also had to go through her closet to find something to wear to the museum fundraiser. Instead of going through her closet, she would go shopping. It'd been a while since Aziza had felt the thrill of trying on dresses and shoes.

“No shoes,” she whispered. Shoes to her were like crack to an addict. One pair became two, then three. But then, Aziza mused, she had to have clothes for the destination wedding, and the timing was perfect. It was January, and boutique and department store racks were filled with cruise wear. A satisfied smile parted her lips when she added shopping to her To Do list.

 

Donald Ennis muted the television, put the chilled bottle of beer to his mouth, took a deep swallow and belched loudly. The studio apartment was so hot he'd had to open several windows. He didn't intend to complain to the super because there were times when the building was so cold he'd had to get fully dressed before going to bed.

Reaching under the waistband of his boxers, he scratched between his thighs. His girlfriend hated when he did it, but because she was visiting her sister in Philly he could scratch and belch to his heart's content. He'd left a message with Minerva Jackson to have Raymond return his call, but so far he'd heard nothing from the man for more than twelve hours. He hoped the old man hadn't kicked off before giving him his apartment.

Donald wanted to tell Raymond that Robert Andrews had a snowball's chance in hell of defeating Billy Edwards. Even if Humphries spent every dollar he had for his son-in-law's campaign, and even if Billy passed away the day before election day, Robert Andrews still wouldn't win. Billy was like Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., and Charlie
Rangel. They didn't have to campaign and would still be reelected.

He took another long swallow, belched and scratched again, repeating the ritual until the bottle was empty. Slumping lower on the worn recliner, Donald closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The cell phone on the table chimed the distinctive ring for Raymond Humphries. Donald opened his eyes and picked up the tiny instrument.

“Humphries.”

“Hey, Slick. I know why she left Moore, Bloch and Taylor.”

“Didn't I tell you… Why!?”

Donald smiled. The old man was learning not to bark at him. “It looks as if she had a fallin' out with her boss.”

“So she quit?”

“No, Humphries. She and Kenneth Moore split.”

“Cut the double-talk, Ennis.”

“Miss Fleming was having an affair with her boss.”

“You mean she was sleeping with him while she was married?”

Donald shook his head. “I believe that's what an affair means.”

“Who told you this?”

“None of your damn business. Do you really think I'm going to reveal my sources? And there's something else you should know. It appears you're right about Jordan and his grandfather scamming everyone. The two of them had dinner at Hasaki the other night. In fact, they looked rather chummy.”

“What about the girl?”

“If you're asking if she's still seeing grandbaby boy, then the answer is yes. Right now she's spending more time at his place than her own.”

“I think it's time Ms. Fleming took on another client. I want you to lie low and out of sight until I contact you again.”

Donald's eyebrows lifted. “Are you telling me to pull my people off this case?”

“Only for now. Come by the office Friday. Ms. Jackson will have a lease for you to sign and the keys to your new apartment.”

“Lease? I don't want to rent, Humphries. I want to own the apartment.”

“You're not going to own any of my properties until I run the Wainwrights out of Harlem.”

Donald knew Raymond had him by the proverbial short hairs, but he would go along with him until he got what he wanted. Still, he had to make one last plea. “I'm not going to work for you
and
pay you rent, too.”

“I'll waive the first three months' rent. After that, you're on your own.”

He smiled. “Okay, Humphries. You've got yourself a deal.”

 

Aziza lifted the skirt of the flowing midnight-blue gown with one hand as she navigated the sidewalk along Fifth Avenue. When Jordan had told her they were attending a museum fundraiser, she hadn't thought she would walk to the event. He'd also neglected to tell her that it was the Museum of the City of New York's annual Winter Ball and the museum on Fifth Avenue between 103rd and 104th was only five blocks from his building.

Jordan covered the gloved hand tucked into the bend of his arm over his tuxedo jacket. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she replied. Aziza wasn't as bothered by the crisp nighttime temperatures as she was about turning her ankle in the four-inch dark blue Christian Louboutin's
leather and Swarovski crystal pumps. “If I'd known we were going to walk I would've worn flats and carried my heels.”

“Don't worry, baby. I won't let you fall.”

Jordan hadn't wanted to believe Aziza could improve on perfection. He'd thought her beautiful the night he saw her in his cousin's penthouse, but tonight she'd morphed into red carpet Hollywood glamour. Her hair was styled with tousled curls moving as if they'd taken on a life of their own. The bodice of the strapless gown matched the sexy heels, the toes which peeked out from under yards and yards of silk chiffon with each step. The black silk coat sweeping around the hem of her gown, lined with cashmere, provided some protection from the winter weather. However, unlike Hollywood actresses laden with multimillion-dollar jewelry, Aziza had chosen only a pair of London blue sapphire and diamond earrings.

“How many fundraisers do you attend in a year?” Aziza asked Jordan.

Jordan paused. “Probably a half dozen. Why?”

“And you expect me to go with you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you realize how many outfits I have to have? I can't be seen in the same dress twice in one season.”

Jordan laughed, his breath visible in the night air. “Don't worry. I'll pay for your clothes.”

“I don't want or need you to pay for my clothes.”

“I know what you spend for your shoes and handbags because of my mother.”

“What about her, Jordan?”

“You like the same designers, and I've never seen you in the same pair of shoes twice.”

“I hope you don't have a problem with me spending
my
money for what I like.”

“No. After all, it is
your
money. But if I'm inviting you to go out with me, then I feel it's only fair I subsidize your wardrobe. By the way, I should tell you that you'll meet my parents tonight.”

Aziza knew she would've fallen if Jordan hadn't held her up. He'd waited until they were only feet from the museum, where men and women in formal dress were getting out of cars, taxis and limos, to reveal this shocking news.

“Now you tell me.”

“Don't worry. They'll love you.”

 

You're wrong, Jordan. They don't love me. In fact, they don't even like me. Especially your mother.
Edward Wainwright was polite, but appeared indifferent. He seemed more interested in talking to a group of men who'd gathered near one of the many portable bars.

Aziza leaned closer to Jordan, staring at Christiane Wainwright across the table. Tall, slender and fashionably dressed in emerald green silk that was an exact match for her eyes, Christiane had barely acknowledged her when Jordan made the introductions. There were traces of silver in her coiffed blond hair.

“Jordan, will you please bring me a glass of wine?”

He rested a hand on her bare shoulder, then pushed back his chair. “I'll be right back. Mother, can I get you anything?”

The smile that curved Christiane's mouth did not reach her frosty green eyes. “No, thank you, darling.”

Aziza stared at Jordan's ramrod-straight back until he disappeared from her line of vision. He was resplendent in formal dress. Then she turned to look at her lover's mother. “I'm sorry I'm not what you'd expected, but—”

Christiane gasped. “You understand French?”

Aziza nodded. She'd overheard Christiane tell another woman that she was disappointed in her son's taste in women. “I understand, speak and read it fluently.”

Christiane looked down her thin nose at the young woman who was as stunning as she was direct. “You are not what I'd expected my son to date. However, he is an adult and I can't tell him whom he should see.”

“See or like, Mrs. Wainwright? Your son and I aren't only dating, but we happen to be quite fond of each other.”

The instant the admission was out of her mouth, Aziza realized what she felt for Jordan went beyond a mere liking. She'd known him all of two weeks and her feelings for him grew more intense with each encounter. And it wasn't about sex but mutual respect. He respected her as a woman and her opinion when they'd discussed his defending a young man charged with attempted rape.

“Are you saying that you and Jordan are serious?”

Aziza smiled. “It all depends on how you interpret serious.”

“Do you plan on marrying my son?”

“I think that's a question you'd have to ask Jordan. Isn't it customary for the man to do the proposing?”

There was no way Aziza was going to tell Jordan's mother that she doubted whether she would ever remarry. She liked Jordan—a lot—but not enough to contemplate marrying him.

Christiane smiled. “Yes, it is. But one can never tell nowadays. Women have changed so much since I was a young girl. Most seem so lacking in morals.”

“Have things changed that much since you were a young woman, Mrs. Wainwright? I estimate you and my mother are of the same generation and she came of age during the sexual revolution. And she would be the first to admit that
she'd slept with my father before they were married. So, I don't see how times have changed that much. In fact, I believe women are much more discriminating today given the number of prevalent sexual diseases.”

“To say you're a very outspoken young woman is an understatement.”

“I grew up with three brothers, so I had to be outspoken in order to assert myself. Then when I chose a male-dominated career, I knew that if I didn't speak up I would never succeed.”

Christiane lifted pale eyebrows. “You're a doctor?”

“No. I'm a lawyer.”

Jordan returned, preempting further conversation. He set a glass of chilled white wine in front of Aziza and then sat down beside her. He noticed the strained look on his mother's face, aware that he'd shocked her when he'd introduced Aziza as his date for the evening. He didn't want to tell his mother that her shock would be compounded if she knew Noah was also dating a woman of color.

“Aziza told me she's an attorney.”

“Yes, she is,” he confirmed. “Did she tell you she's Brandt's attorney?”

Christiane rested a pale hand against her equally pale throat. A large diamond shimmered on her slender finger. “No, she didn't. My dear, you seem to have done very well for yourself. You've managed quite a coup to have snagged two Wainwright men. Jordan, darling, you must invite Aziza to share Sunday dinner with the family in the very near future.”

“Why don't you invite her, Mother?”

Christiane knew if she didn't accept her son's girlfriend, then she could risk losing her son, and that was something she couldn't fathom. “Aziza, I would like you to join us
whenever you're available, so Jordan can introduce you to the rest of the family.”

Aziza forced a smile she didn't feel. Not only was Christiane Wainwright pretentious, but she was also the epitome of snobbery. How had she raised a son who was the complete opposite?

“I will let Jordan know when I am available.”

The need to make idle chitchat with Christiane ended when three other couples joined their table. The women were laden with so many precious jewels Aziza marveled at how they were able to lift their arms or move their heads. Most of them had drunk too much and now talked too much. The inane chatter was annoying. Edward Wainwright returned to the table when waitstaff had begun serving the first course.

Jordan was his father's son. He'd inherited Edward's height and patrician features, but not his blond hair or blue eyes. Watching Edward interact with his wife revealed one thing: she was the stronger of the two.

“You look bored, darling.”

Aziza smiled, but didn't respond to Jordan whispering in her ear. What she wanted to tell Jordan was that she preferred hanging out with his friends. Maybe she was bored or jaded, but she couldn't imagine attending another four or five fundraisers with him.

She realized they were necessary to support and sustain the viability of particular organizations, but she found them to be nothing more than fashion shows where people came to preen and be seen. Photographers who tried to be inconspicuous were nothing more than paparazzi whenever they recognized a celebrity. Many of the photos would probably appear on the pages of
Vanity Fair
and
W.

“You'd rather hang out with Kyle, DG and Ivan, wouldn't you?”

Turning her head, she smiled at him, the smoky shadow on her lids making her eyes darker and more mysterious. “How did you know?”

Jordan pressed his mouth to her curls. “You haven't laughed once since we arrived. And it's such a shame because you're the most stunning woman here.”

“You're biased, Jordan Wainwright.”

“Shamelessly,” he confirmed. “There's going to be dancing after dinner. So I'd like you to save me at least one dance.”