Because of You (7 page)

Jordan switched on his computer, and while waiting for it to boot, his cell phone rang. He answered it without looking at the display. “This is Jordan.”

“Jordan, Aziza.”

His heartbeat kicked into a higher gear when her sultry
voice came through the earpiece. He knew the only way she could've gotten his cell number was if Brandt had given it to her. “What's up, Zee?”

“I hate to ask you to do this to you, but is it possible for us to meet today?”

He hesitated for a few seconds. “Sure. Um…”

“I just got a call from a client that her teenage son was arrested for a DUI. They're not going to release him until he's arraigned on Monday, so I want to meet with her Saturday to let her know what to expect.”

“No problem, Aziza. I'm on my way.”

Jordan ended the call. He reversed his actions when he turned off the stereo, computer, retrieved his jacket and turned out the lights. Half an hour after walking into the offices of Chatham and Wainwright, he was back in his car, leaving Manhattan for Westchester County.

A
ziza chided herself for asking Jordan to drive to Bronxville when she read the crawl along the bottom of the television screen. A winter weather alert was in effect for the tristate area. The day before, temperatures had been in the upper 40s, and within twenty-four hours it was now in the mid-twenties with a forecast of sleet and, in some of the northern counties, snow.

It had been an hour since she'd called him, and during that time rain had changed over to sleet, and now it was snowing—heavily. Maybe, she thought, he'd changed his mind about driving up once he'd seen the weather forecast. She picked the receiver off the cradle in the kitchen and hit redial. It rang three times before his sonorous voice filled her ear.

“This is Jordan.”

She smiled. “And this is Aziza. I'm calling to tell you that if you haven't left the city, then don't. It's snowing like crazy up here.”

A deep chuckle caressed her ear. “It's too late. I'm pulling into your driveway as we speak.”

Her stomach did a flip-flop. “Don't turn off your car. I'm going to raise the garage door so you can park inside.” She hung up, walked over to the door that led to an attached garage and pressed a button. The automatic door slid up and a racy sports car maneuvered next to her late-model Nissan SUV.

Aziza wasn't aware of how fast her heart was beating until she saw Jordan Wainwright emerge from his car. She'd spent all day trying to remember what he'd actually looked like. It was one thing to observe a person one-on-one, and another when they were around the other people. Even sitting with him in Brandt's library had proven to be a distraction, because at any time someone could've walked in. What she hadn't forgotten were his eyes. They were dazzling.

“Where's your coat?” she asked, stepping back when he walked into the kitchen.

Jordan smiled. “It's in the car.” Leaning over, he kissed her cheek. “How are you?” His eyes swept over her. Aziza Fleming was a chameleon.

The night before she had been a sexy siren in a revealing dress and stilettos, and today she'd morphed into the girl next door in a pair of fitted jeans that showcased the womanly curves of her body, long-sleeve tee and black suede ballet-flats shoes. A few wisps had escaped from her dark hair that she'd pinned up off her neck.

Aziza inhaled his warmth and the lingering fragrance of a man's cologne that was as bold and dramatic as the man standing in her kitchen. Jordan Wainwright appeared taller and larger than he had the night before. His tailored attire had artfully concealed a toned body that was incongruous with someone who spent hours sitting behind a desk. He
hadn't shaved, and the stubble on his lean jaw enhanced rather than detracted from his patrician face. In fact, she liked seeing him in jeans and a shirt, because it made him look less formal.

“I'm good. I'm sorry you had to drive up here in the snow.”

He waved a hand. “I learned to drive in snow after living in New England for seven years.” Raising his chin, he sniffed the air like a large cat. “Something smells good.”

Slipping her hand in his, Aziza steered Jordan over to a table in a corner of the large eat-in kitchen. “It's roast chicken. I decided to cook today because I'll be tied up tomorrow. I'm forgetting my manners. Would you like something to drink?”

Jordan was going to tell her coffee, but he'd already exceeded his normal two cups trying to counter the effects of the tequila shots he'd downed at the party.

“I'll have tea with lemon.”

Aziza peered closely at him. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Sure,” he said much too quickly. “Why would you ask that?”

“You look a little queasy.”

Jordan swallowed. Kyle had mentioned he looked a “little green around the gills.” Did he really look that hungover? “I'm afraid I did overindulge last night,” he admitted.

“You seemed okay when I left.”

He closed his eyes. “It was
after
you left that I got into a competition where the guys were doing shots.”

“That's frat boy craziness,” she spat out.

“You sound like my law partner.”

“Then he must be a very wise man,” Aziza countered.

“I'll tell him you said that when I see him again.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Come with me.” Jordan stood up, and again she took his hand. “You can relax on the back porch while I make your tea.”

“You have a nice house.” The white and stainless-steel kitchen in the large well-maintained Dutch Colonial was modern and functional.

Aziza gave him a sidelong glance, smiling. “Thank you.”

Jordan shortened his stride to accommodate her shorter legs. “How long have you lived here?”

“It will be three years in June.”

“Did you live here with your husband?”

“No,” she snapped in a harsher tone than she'd intended. “We'd shared a condo in New Rochelle.” Her tone was softer, conciliatory.

Jordan felt the return of the throbbing in his temples. His headache was coming back. It was as if he hadn't learned anything in twenty years. Raiding the liquor cabinet at fourteen should've taught him a life lesson, but in a moment of recklessness he'd allowed himself to be pulled into a silly adolescent game of downing shots of liquor.

And Kyle was right when he'd mentioned football players weighing more than he did, and therefore able to consume a lot more alcohol than he could before exceeding the limit for intoxication.

“This is very nice,” Jordan drawled when he entered the enclosed back porch made entirely of glass. A fire burning brightly behind a decorative screen and lighted candles along the mantelpiece created an atmosphere of total relaxation. Potted plants and ferns in decorative
planters, dimmed recessed lights, chairs with matching footstools, a love seat and a sofa with overstuffed cushions were positioned to take advantage of the wall-mounted, flat-screen television. Soft jazz flowed from speakers of a home theater system.

He released her hand, walking over to stare out the wall of glass. The patio was covered with snow, and with the waning daylight, it wasn't possible to see what lay beyond the patio. “How close is your nearest neighbor?”

Aziza came over to stand beside Jordan. “The house behind mine is about two hundred feet away. Whenever I want complete privacy I pull the shades. Watch,” she said, picking up a remote device. Within seconds sheer shades were lowered over the wall of glass. “I can see out, but they can't see in.”

Jordan smiled at her. “Clever.”

She returned his smile. “Relax, Jordan, and I'll bring you your tea.”

“Do you mind if I turn on your TV?”

“Of course not. Please make yourself at home.”

“You may come to regret that offer.”

“I doubt that,” Aziza countered.

Jordan offering to help her in building a case to sue her former employer was nothing short of a minor miracle. She would be the first to admit Jordan Wainwright breaking with his grandfather was definitely unorthodox. There weren't too many lawyers willing to do what he had done, but the action revealed something about him that would have taken her time to discern: he was his own man.

She returned to the kitchen, filling an electric kettle with water and switching it on. The savory aroma of herb-encrusted roast chicken wafted throughout the kitchen when she opened the door to the eye-level oven to test the bird for doneness. She'd put it in before calling Jordan,
cooking it at a lower temperature than usual, because she wasn't certain whether she would reach him, or he would agree to come.

Aziza had grown up believing Sunday dinner wasn't dinner if chicken wasn't on the menu. It could've been fried, fricasseed, baked, stewed or broiled. It had to be chicken. And if there were leftovers, then there was chicken salad and/or soup. Her mother would tease her, saying she was going to grow a beak, sprout wings and start clucking if she didn't stop eating so much chicken. It hadn't happened, and old habits were hard to break.

She switched on the counter television to the Weather Channel. A map of the tristate area showed areas of projected snowfall accumulation. It was predicted Westchester and Orange Counties would get up to a foot of snow.

“Damn!”

“What are you damning about?”

She turned to find Jordan standing in the middle of the kitchen in his sock-covered feet. “I should've never asked you to drive up here.”

“Why? Did you change your mind about my helping you?” he asked, coming closer.

“No. I still need you to help me.”

“What's the problem then?”

“The weather.”

Closing the distance between them, Jordan stood less than a foot from Aziza. Without warning, as if changing before his eyes, she appeared incredibly delicate, vulnerable, and he wondered if the man who'd sexually harassed her had ruined her for any man who'd express an interest in her.

“What about the weather, Aziza?”

“You may…you may not be able to drive back home
tonight.” Why, Aziza asked herself, was she stammering like a tongue-tied girl when running headlong into a boy she liked? She turned back to stare at the flickering images on the television screen. “Meteorologists are predicting a foot or more of snow before it tapers off tomorrow morning.”

Taking a step, Jordan stood behind Aziza, his breath sweeping over the nape of her neck. “I have two options.”

“What are they?” Her voice was low, breathless, as if she'd run a grueling race.

“I can drink my tea, leave and check into a nearby hotel or motel until the roads clear.”

“Or?”

He smiled. “I can drink my tea, have dinner with you, we discuss your case, then I bed down in one of your guest bedrooms until the roads clear. Which door do I pick, Miss Fleming? Number one? Or number two?”

An expression of amusement found its way across Aziza's face as she pondered Jordan's query. “You are really slick, aren't you?”

“Isn't the term
slick
passé?”

“What would you prefer I call you?”

Lowering his head, Jordan pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. “You can call me whatever you want. Just answer the question, Zee. Door number one, or door number two?”

The seconds ticked off, the lighted button on the handle of the electric kettle dimmed and the bubbles in the heated water disappeared before Aziza answered, “Door number two.”

Jordan's gaze lingered on the skin on the back of Aziza's neck, then moved lower to her back and to where
the denim fabric hugged her rounded hips. “I'm going to get my bag.”

Bag!
“What bag!” The two words exploded off her tongue.

Resting his hands on her shoulders, Jordan shifted Aziza to face him, his gaze going to her sexy chin. “I always carry a change of clothes in the trunk of my car.”

“Why?”

“It's a Wainwright tradition that goes back to my grandfather and his brothers. They never went anywhere without a bag with several changes of clean underwear and grooming supplies. If you were to look in the cargo area of Brandt's truck you'd find the requisite Wainwright man bag.” Realization dawned when Aziza exhaled a breath. “I hope you didn't think I came here to get into your panties. Did you?” he asked when she averted her eyes. “What kind of pigs have you been dealing with?”

The pain and rage Aziza had suppressed for far too long surfaced, overflowing like molten lava. “A pig I'd loved all my life, but after he'd put a ring on my finger he also wanted to put one in my nose. Then there was the other pig who hired me before I graduated law school, paid off my student loans, offered me a salary that far exceeded my experience, then sprang the trap when he expected me to lie down and spread my legs to show my gratitude.”

Jordan met her eyes. “Did you tell your husband about him?”

She emitted an unladylike snort. “I did.”

“What did he do?”

“It's not what he did, but what he'd said to me.
If you didn't dress like a whore, then he wouldn't treat you like a whore.
I was too shocked to think of a comeback, so I went into the bedroom, packed my clothes, throwing
suitcases in my car. Whatever I couldn't take, I left. A week later I served him with divorce papers.”

Jordan tried processing what he'd just heard. Husbands were supposed to protect their wives from predators, not make them targets. No wonder she wasn't sorry she'd ended her marriage.

His respect for Aziza had gone up several rungs. She was a scrapper, unwilling to play the victim for her husband
and
employer. “What did your brother say when you told him about your ex?”

“I have three brothers and I never told any of them about what went on between me and Lamar. If they'd known they would've invited him to a blanket party.”

He looked confused. “What's a blanket party?”

Aziza laughed when she saw Jordan's blank expression. “A blanket party is when you throw a blanket over someone's head, then beat the hell out of him.”

Throwing back his head, Jordan laughed loudly. “I see,” he drawled once he recovered from his laughing jag.

“No, you won't see,” she teased, “because you'll be so lumped up you'll be lucky if you can see to make an escape.”

He sobered. “I have a sister, and if some dude decides to lose his mind and hurt her, then he'd better make funeral arrangements.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

“Is she dating?”

“No. She's not allowed to have a boyfriend until she's a senior. She tells everyone she's on lockdown, because most of the girls at her school are dating.”

“Tell her to take her time. Men are like trains. There's always one leaving the station.”

Jordan smiled, attractive lines fanning out around his eyes. “I'm sure she doesn't want to hear that.”