Because of You

by Rochelle Alers

  “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 suit
cases 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.”

  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?”