Because of You (4 page)

“We'll talk, but not about your case. Please make yourself comfortable and I'll bring you something to eat.”

“Thank you.”

Aziza felt a sense of relief. Jordan hadn't tried to pressure her into divulging the details of her impending lawsuit. And although Jordan Wainwright looked nothing like the men to whom she usually found herself attracted, there was something about his understated sophistication that she was drawn to.

Setting the glass down on a side table, Aziza strolled around the room that was lined with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves on opposite walls. The instant she'd met Brandt Wainwright, she'd realized he was what she called the trifecta: face, body and brains. He'd graduated with degrees in business and economics, but it was professional football that had become his calling and passion. The former Stanford University star and Heisman Trophy runner-up had been drafted by the NFL and had signed to a three-year contract for an unheard-of amount for a rookie quarterback.

The library furnishings were not what one would expect of a professional athlete. There were no trophies or pictures with celebs, framed newspaper stories or magazine covers. It appeared lived in, a place where Brandt came to read and relax. Dark brown leather chairs and a love seat, a massive mahogany antique desk, a leather desk chair, neutral colored walls and a sisal rug seemed better suited for a businessman. Brandt had once said that if he hadn't become a professional athlete, he would've gone to work in his family's real estate firm.

Aziza crossed the room and stood at the window, staring down at the traffic and pedestrians who looked like miniature toys. It was a mild New York City New Year's Eve with temperatures in the mid-forties, and that made for larger-than-usual crowds of partygoers.

Her gaze lingered on the dark surface of the East River before shifting to the rooftops of buildings with water towers and heating and cooling units. There had been a time when Aziza loved commuting into the city from her Westchester home. It was during the half-hour train ride and the ten-minute walk from Grand Central station to the Park Avenue office building on Thirty-Second Street
that she'd mentally reviewed the cases she was working on or planned her day.

As a thirty-one-year-old, childless divorcée, her only responsibility and focus was her career. She'd lived and breathed the law, and her ex had accused her of loving her work more than she'd loved him. No matter what she'd said or did, it hadn't been enough to change Lamar's mind, and in the end she'd stopped trying.

His attempt to control her life, while quietly sabotaging her career, had left her with no choice but to break off the relationship. It hadn't been easy. Not when they'd been together since grammar school, throughout high school, college and then law school. Once she'd left Lamar, Aziza felt as if she'd lost a limb—a diseased limb that had to be amputated, or the poison would kill her spirit.

Don't let anyone kill your spirit, or take your joy.
She'd grown up with her grandmother's wisdom. And when she'd told her Nana that Lamar was killing her spirit, Emma Fleming's advice had been to walk away and not look back, and that was what she'd done.

Aziza shook her head. She wished she could erase the memory of Lamar as easily as hitting the delete key. She didn't know why, but she hadn't thought of him in more than a year.

Why now?
she mused.

Why now when she finally had a successful law practice?

Why now when she'd completed renovating her home to suit her personal taste and lifestyle?

“What are you doing hiding out here?”

Aziza turned to find the broad shoulders belonging to her brother Alexander Fleming filling out the doorway. “Hey, you,” she crooned, approaching him, arms out-
stretched. “I saw you when I came in, but you were busy with a very pretty sister with braided hair.”

Alexander flashed a slow smile, his dimples dotting his lean face like thumbprints. He hugged Aziza, while pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Don't get any ideas, Zee. She's Damien Harvey's girlfriend.” He kissed her again, this time on the forehead. “Thanks for coming.”

“Did I have a choice? You'd threatened me with bodily harm.”

Alexander laughed. “The only harm would've been the way you'd look if I had to go into Neanderthal mode and carry you over my back to bring you here.” He winked at his sister. “I must say you clean up very nicely.”

She returned his wink. “Thank you.”

Standing back, Aziza studied her brother's face. He had classic good looks with strong masculine features and large eyes that were an odd shade of gray—eyes he'd inherited from their paternal grandmother, Emma Fleming.

Resting her hands on the lapels of his black wool jacket, she angled her head. “Where's
your
woman?”

Alexander's expression changed as if he was trying to conceal his innermost feelings. “I've decided to start the year solo.”

“What about Cynthia? I thought the two of you were getting serious.”

Shoving his hands in his pants pockets, the MVP defensive end stared at the lights on the bridges spanning the river. “We split up. Unfortunately, Cynthia is drama personified. Things would've been okay if she didn't have to run everything we said or did past her girlfriends.” His eyes met his sister's. “What's up with women spilling their guts about what goes on between them and their man?”

Aziza held up her hands. “Please, don't lump me in
that category. I only have two girlfriends, and we never discuss our men or lack thereof.”

“I know you told me you're not interested in getting married again, but what about dating?”

“What about it, Al?” She'd answered his question with a question.

“One of the guys on the team told me that he'd like to take you out once the season is over, but I told him I can't speak for my sister.”

“You approve?”

“He's all right.”

Aziza pondered her brother's response. If she was going to date someone, he had to be better than
all right.
“Don't tell me he's coming out of a bad relationship, because if he is then I'm not the one.”

Alexander exhaled an audible sigh. “Other than an occasional baby mama drama, he's a good guy.”

“No, Al. Forget it. I'm not getting involved with some man with a psycho ex-girlfriend. Call me selfish, but if I'm not a baby mama, then I'm not going to put up with it. Why don't you guys marry these women when you get them pregnant? It would prevent a lot of problems.”

“Back it up, Zee. I'm not a baby daddy.”

“I'm not talking about you, Al. How many guys on your team are paying out huge chunks of money for child support? Probably too many to count,” she said, answering her own questions. “Wouldn't it be easier to get married and take care of their wives and children without all the drama?”

Alexander recognized the look in Aziza's eyes. He'd seen it enough to know that she was ready to go off on a rant about how a lot of men couldn't be trusted. He knew she'd soured on marriage because the man she'd believed she knew had turned into someone she didn't really know,
and her mistrust in men was exacerbated whenever female clients came to her with their custody or child support or sexual harassment problems. He'd been shocked when she'd agreed to become Brandt Wainwright's legal counsel. Brandt was her only male client.

“What do you want me to tell him?” Alexander asked.

“Is he here tonight?”

Her brother nodded.

“If that's the case then I'll tell him myself.”

“No, Zee. I don't need you to get in his face and lecture him about his responsibilities. I'll tell him you're currently seeing someone.”

“Whatever,” she drawled. “You know I'm not into stroking the egos of overgrown…” Her words trailed off when she detected movement behind her.

“I'm sorry. I'll come back.” Jordan Wainwright had walked into the library holding a bottle of champagne and two flutes, as a waiter stood behind him with a tray balanced on one shoulder.

Alexander beckoned. “Come on in, Jordan. I was just leaving.” He turned back to Aziza, kissing her cheek. “Don't forget to save me a dance.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

Alexander had told her there would be dancing in the penthouse atrium, and she'd promised to dance with him at least once before leaving. Ever since he'd been a contestant on
Dancing with the Stars,
Alexander had become a dancing dynamo. During the off-season, he'd taken up ballroom dancing. It had been hard to imagine her six-four, two-hundred-twenty-pound brother tiptoeing across a dance floor until the show had aired. Not only was he light on his feet, but also graceful.

He'd also gotten her to take dancing lessons while she
was going through her divorce. Spending hours on the dance floor was the perfect antidote to her pity party, and like her brother, she'd discovered she was hooked. She still took lessons at a local dance studio several days a week. The dance workout was a substitute for jogging during the winter months and had helped tone her body.

Alexander approached Jordan. “Thanks for agreeing to help Zee out,” he said.

“I'll do what I can,” Jordan replied in a low voice.

Aziza stood off to the side, watching as the waiter set up a table, covered it with a tablecloth and a platter filled with an assortment of crudités and hot and cold hors d'oeuvres. She hadn't meant to go off on her brother, but she'd grown tired of the behavior exhibited by so many professional athletes. Most of the time they were let off with a slap on the wrist because they were star athletes.

“That's a lot of food,” she said to Jordan when he took her hand and led her to the love seat.

Jordan sat down beside Aziza. “It just looks like a lot. Besides, I haven't eaten all day, so I doubt if any of it will go to waste.”

She leaned to her right, and her bare shoulder brushed against his jacket. Aziza stared at Jordan, noticing for the first time the length of his lashes.
It's not fair,
she thought. Women spent a lot of money for false eyelashes while Jordan Wainwright was born with lashes that were not only thick but long.

“How did you get special service?” she whispered as the waiter uncorked the champagne with barely an audible pop.

Tilting his head at an angle, Jordan gave her a wink. “It helps when you have the same last name as the man hosting tonight's fête.”

Aziza couldn't help but smile. “So, are you saying being a Wainwright has its privileges?”

“It does,” he admitted modestly. “But so does being a Fleming.”

She sobered quickly. “Al's the celebrity in the family, not me.”

“I could say the same about Brandt.”

Aziza shook her head. “You can't be that self-effacing, Jordan. Not after that stunt you pulled on TV.”

She couldn't believe that Jordan, who'd represented a Harlem tenant's committee, had announced at a news conference that the owner of several buildings with numerous housing violations was his grandfather. Headlines referred to him as the Sheriff of Harlem. When he'd become a partner at Chatham Legal Services, most of the local politicos turned out to welcome him to the neighborhood as one of their own.

Jordan stared at his highly polished shoes. “I did what I had to do for my clients.” His head came up and he gave Aziza a direct stare. “I'm certain you do the same for your clients.”

The seconds ticked as she met his penetrating stare. “Of course I do.”

A hint of a smile softened his firm mouth. “Good. That's one thing we can agree on.”

Green-flecked irises moved slowly from Aziza's delicate face to her bare shoulders. He didn't know why, but he wanted to press his mouth to her skin to see if she tasted as good as she looked.

Jordan knew it wasn't going to be easy to remain unaffected around Aziza Fleming. Her beautiful face, gorgeous body and intelligence would certainly test his professional integrity. What he had to do was think of her
as his client. Not only couldn't he cross the line, but he was determined
not
to cross the line.

“What does Aziza mean?” He had to say something—anything except stare at her as if she were something to be devoured.

Aziza lowered her gaze, her eyes fixed on Jordan's strong neck. He'd worn a mock turtleneck under his jacket. He was the epitome of casual sophistication.

“It's Swahili for
precious.
”

“The name is perfect.” His words sounded neutral in tone.

“Mr. Wainwright, do you want me to pour the champagne?”

The waiter's question shattered Jordan's fantasy. “Yes, please,” he said, as he continued to stare at Aziza's lush lips.

He took a flute of pale bubbly wine from the waiter, handed it to Aziza, then took the remaining one, holding it aloft. He waited until the waiter left the library, closing the door behind him. Jordan touched his glass to hers. “Here's to a successful working relationship.”

Aziza lowered her lashes, unaware of the seductiveness of the gesture. She felt as if she was being sucked into a vortex from which there was no escape. Jordan Wainwright looked nothing like the men to whom she found herself attracted. Yet there was something about him that was so masculine, so sensual that she found it almost impossible to control the butterflies in her stomach. Raising the flute, she took a sip of champagne. It was an excellent vintage.

“Would you mind if I serve you?” Jordan asked after he'd taken a sip from his flute.

She swallowed, nodding. “Yes, please.”

Reaching over, he picked up a cocktail napkin and
then a toast point covered with Almas pearly white beluga caviar. Holding the napkin under her chin, Jordan watched as she took a bite. “How is it?”