Because of You

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?”

With wide eyes Aziza savored the lingering taste on her tongue. “It’s incredible.” She opened her mouth and then closed it when Jordan popped the remaining piece into his mouth.

“It is delicious,” he agreed, chewing slowly.

“Hey! That was mine.”

Leaning closer, he pressed a kiss to her ear. “There’s plenty more where that came from.” Jordan went completely still when he heard cheers coupled with the distinctive sound of exploding fireworks. He’d become so engrossed with Aziza that he’d lost track of time. He angled his head and slanted his mouth over Aziza’s slightly parted lips. “Happy New Year.”

Chapter 3

Aziza felt the soft brush of Jordan’s mouth on hers. It was more a mingling of champagne and caviar-scented breaths than an actual kiss.

“Happy New Year, Jordan,” she whispered, praying he wouldn’t feel the runaway beating of her heart slamming against her ribs.

There was a tradition that said the person you find yourself with on New Year’s Eve when the clock strikes midnight will be the one you would spend the year with. She didn’t know Jordan Wainwright. And she hadn’t wanted to get to know him that well and didn’t want to know if or whether he was involved with a woman. And even if he wasn’t, she didn’t have time for a man—not when she’d just gotten her life back on track.

Sitting up straight, Jordan smiled, recognizing the expression of surprise freezing Aziza’s features. “Are you all right?”

She blinked. “I’m good. Really.”

Jordan drained his flute. “We should’ve been with the others counting down the seconds.”

“It’s okay. If I hadn’t been here I would’ve been home dressed in my most comfortable jammies watching the ball drop.”

Jordan’s expressive eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Alone?”

A smile crinkled the skin around Aziza’s eyes. “Is that a subtle way of asking me whether I’m involved with someone?”

“I’d like to believe I was being direct,” he countered.

“Well, counselor, the answer to your very direct question is no.” She shifted slightly on the love seat until they were facing each other. “What about you? If you weren’t here, where would you be?”

“Probably in the Caribbean with my brother and his girlfriend.”

It was Aziza’s turn to lift her eyebrows. “What about your girlfriend?”

“My, my, my, counselor. Aren’t you direct.”

“That’s the only way I know how to be, counselor,” Aziza countered with a grin.