Because of You

by Rochelle Alers

  But it was not to be. She’d continued to see Lamar, lost her virginity to him the night of prom and believed herself totally and inexorably in love with him. They had been inseparable throughout college and law school. Eight months after passing the bar, they’d exchanged vows. However, that was when her world as she’d known it at that time had changed forever. Instead of a fairy-tale romance, it had become a macabre horror show.

  “What you’re proposing sounds wonderful but…”

  Jordan lifted his expressive eyebrows when she hesitated.

  “What’s bothering you, baby?”

  Aziza smiled. The endearment had rolled off his tongue as naturally as breathing. “I’m not looking for anything that’s too serious.” And by serious she meant declarations of love that would lead to marriage.

  “We don’t have to get serious. All I want is for us to have fun. A lot of fun.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  Jordan stared at the lowered lids, sweep of lashes grazing silken cheeks and the lush parted lips that called to him like a beacon on a moonless night at sea. She was like a powerful magnet that pulled him in, refusing him respite from her hypnotic sensuality. He’d met a lot of women, known some intimately, but none had affected him the way Aziza Fleming did. Within minutes of meeting her for the first time he’d known there was something special about the tall, attractive woman who’d become an unwilling victim for a predator boss.

  He’d promised Alexander Fleming that he would help his sister prepare and win her lawsuit, but what he hadn’t anticipated was being captivated by her wit, ambition and sensual warmth.

  “I know you don’t put much stock in my promises,” he said in a quiet tone, “but this one time I know I can follow through. We’re going to have crazy fun together.”

  Aziza lowered her gaze, staring at their entwined hands. She felt a shock of electricity sweep up her arm when the pad of Jordan’s thumb made circular motions on her palm. She’d lied when she’d told him that she wasn’t a good actress, because she’d given an award-winning performance when interacting with Jordan Wainwright.

  Coming face-to-face with him for the first time had been not only exciting but also shocking. Television cameras had failed to capture the sexual magnetism that made him so self-confident. They also hadn’t revealed the brilliant colors of his eyes or how he looked as good as he smelled. The cologne was clean, subtle and undeniably masculine like the man who wore it.

  When Jordan admitted not being able to keep his hands off, it was as if he’d been reading her mind. Although she’d been alone for several years, she wasn’t lonely. Aziza had filled the empty hours decorating her home, setting up a private practice, visiting her parents in Florida, nieces and nephews in California and Arizona and socializing with friends from her childhood.

  Most of the girls she’d grown up with were either married, divorced or a few had elected to remain single. The tightly knit trio planned a Girls’ Week each summer and for the past two years had piled into cars and driven to New Jersey’s Cape May, reverting to teenage girls when they “acted a fool.” They returned home tanned, exhausted and a lot heavier than when they’d arrived. Everyone complained about going on a diet or undergoing detoxification from the calorie-laden foods and alcoholic libation, but no one said they wouldn’t do it again.

  Yes, her life was predictable and uneventful, and the only thing missing was a man. Aziza was aware that if she wanted to meet a man, she knew where to go. Al was a professional football player, and if she’d asked him to set her up with somebody, he would. Dating Jordan wouldn’t change her mind about marriage, but he would serve to fill up some of the empty spaces on her social calendar.

  “I want to warn you about one thing, Jordan Wainwright.”

  “What’s that, Aziza Fleming?”

  She leaned closer. “I’ll let you know when it stops being fun.”

  “What are you going to do if it does?”

  “Walk away and not look back.”

  Jordan stared, complete surprise on his face. Aziza hadn’t issued a warning but a challenge. The proverbial ball was in his court, and he was expected to play hard or go home. But that wasn’t to going happen because he wasn’t going home. Not when he’d gotten Aziza to agree to come out and play.

  “Point taken, baby.” He let go of her hand and signaled their waiter. “I don’t know about you, but right about now I’m hungry enough to eat half a cow,” he drawled. The server approached the table, placing menus in front of them.

  Aziza stared at Jordan’s head as he studied the menu. The black hair covering his head reminded her of the silky black feathers she’d seen on a raven. It wasn’t jet-black but blue-black.

  You could do a lot worse. The voice in her head was right. Jordan Wainwright was a rare find, and if she’d wanted something more permanent, then a keeper.

  He’d been blessed with jaw-dropping good looks, a hot body, intelligence, excellent taste in clothes, and he wasn’t a baby daddy. Jordan had everything women looked for in a man and then some.

  Without warning, he looked up and caught her staring. “Do you see anything you like?”

  Aziza wanted to say you but glanced down at the menu instead. “The macadamia nut crusted wild salmon looks good.”

  Jordan smiled. “It is.”

  “What are you having?”

  “I have to decide between the duck and halibut. Would you mind if I order a bottle of wine and appetizers?”

  “Not at all.”

  The waiter returned and Jordan ordered a bottle of white zinfandel, crispy rock shrimp, fanny bay oysters, baby spinach Caesar salad and their entrées. He’d decided on the duck breast.

  “That’s a lot food, Jordan,” Aziza whispered when the waiter left to put in their order.

  He winked at her. “I told you I was hungry. I got so wrapped up in listening to your tapes that I didn’t stop to eat.”

  “Do you cook for yourself?”

  “Not really.”

  She gave him a narrowed look. “What do you mean by not really?”

  “Last summer I hired someone to cook for me. Occasionally we would cook together, and I learned to make a passable brunch and how to grill meat, chicken and fish.”

  “Where is your personal chef now?”

  Jordan wondered how much he should tell Aziza about Natasha before divulging they’d also become lovers. “She went back to culinary school. She had a year before graduating.”

  “After she graduates, will you hire her back?”

  “No.”

  “Why not, Jordan?”

  “She’ll probably look for a position in New Jersey where she can be close to her husband who was seriously injured in a vehicular accident with a drunk driver.”

  Aziza blinked. “So, she’s married?”

  Jordan stared at the smirk on Aziza’s face under hooded lids. “Why would you say it like that?”

  “Something in your voice changed when you mentioned that you’d cooked together. I’d thought perhaps you’d been a couple at one time.”

  Jordan wanted to tell Aziza that she’d thought right. He and Natasha had been a couple, albeit temporarily, but still a couple. He’d brought her with him to backyard cookouts at Kyle’s and Ivan’s homes, and he had invited Kyle and his fiancée to his place where Natasha had prepared dinner, while stepping in as his hostess for the night.

  “We weren’t a couple in the real sense of the word.” He decided to be truthful. “I didn’t know she was married until she told me about the accident. It came as quite a shock because there’s one thing I don’t do, and that is sleep with a married woman.”

  “Were they living together?”

  “No. They’d been separated for years. I suppose I would’ve felt better if she’d been divorced.”

  “If she was, would the two of you still be together?”

  Jordan shook his head. “No. We knew it was going to be just for the summer.”

  Aziza wanted to ask him how h
e’d been able to sleep with a woman, then walk away completely detached from what he’d had with her. Maybe it was different for a man? Or maybe it was because she’d only slept with one man that she wasn’t as open-minded about sex as she should’ve been.

  “Were you in love with her?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Jordan crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture she interpreted as defensive.

  “No, Aziza. I wasn’t in love with her. If I had been, then I wouldn’t have let her go.” It was the same thing he’d said to Noah.

  “For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health,” Aziza intoned.

  “Why so cynical, Zee? Don’t you believe in the institution of marriage?”

  “I’m ambivalent. Most of my cases over the past two years have been divorces. All but one involved women who were married to extremely wealthy men, who were prisoners because their husbands were quick to remind them that he’d bought them.”

  She told Jordan about a client whose millionaire husband couldn’t achieve an erection unless he physically abused her. Her screams and moans had become a sexual turn-on for him. However, he’d always countered the violent act when he’d come home with a diamond necklace, emerald ring and other expensive baubles. He’d compounded his physical brutality with emotional abuse when she was expected to come to him on hands and knees to ask for money.

  It all had come to an end when he’d beaten her so severely that her mother had called the police when she’d shown up unexpectedly and saw the welts and bruises.

  “I took on another case when a former client pleaded with me to save her cousin, who was too frightened and intimidated to press charges. A ninety-minute consult at the woman’s hospital bedside ended when I got her to press charges against her husband for assault. I also talked her into asking for a restraining order. As soon the restraining order was executed, I started divorce proceedings asking for sole custody of their preschool twin sons.

  “The benign-looking batterer was arrested as he chaired a board meeting, led out in handcuffs and charged with multiple counts of assault and battery. The judge set his bail at two million and he was ordered to surrender his passport because he posed a flight risk. He was given half an hour to pack what he needed from his four-million-dollar home and ordered to stay away from his wife and children until his trial or his bail would be revoked and he’d be remanded to the Westchester jail to await trial.”

  “Was he indicted?”

  “He took a plea and was given two years probation and a thousand hours of anger management.”

  “Did she get what she wanted in the divorce?”

  “Oh, yes,” Aziza drawled, grinning. “There was no pre-nup, so she cleaned the sucker out. She was granted sole custody with supervised visitation.”

  “Good for her. She’s lucky she had you to represent her.”

  Aziza sobered quickly. “I was dealing with Kenny coming onto me and my own divorce, so transference was in full effect. Every man who’d done a woman wrong had become Lamar Powers and Kenneth Moore. If a man looked at me or ignored the scowl on my face and attempted to talk to me got the straight no-chaser business from me.” Her eyelids fluttered wildly. “But when I think about some of the things I said to those guys, I wish I could find them and apologize.”

  The approach of the waiter and a sommelier carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of wine preempted their conversation. The appetizers arrived and they toasted each other with an excellent vintage of the pale rosé. Over the next ninety minutes, they dined on delicately prepared appetizers and delicious entrées, and they talked about everything but themselves.

  Aziza didn’t miss the stares from other women as they walked past their table. Several were bold enough to stop completely until garnering Jordan’s attention before moving on. They only validated what she’d known. Her dining partner and date for the night was so hot he sizzled!

  Jordan shook Aziza gently in an attempt to wake her. They were finally back in Manhattan and in front of his building.

  She’d fallen asleep when they’d encountered bumper-to-bumper bridge traffic. A ride that should’ve taken about twenty minutes, barring delays, had stretched into more than an hour. He’d enjoyed the warmth of her body draped over his and the sensual scent of her perfume. He’d alternated between watching the slow-moving traffic with staring at the woman asleep in his arms. To say Aziza Fleming was an enigma was an understatement. She was soft and feminine, but there was also an edge to her that said, “Don’t mess with me.”

  What had shocked him when he’d listened to the tapes was there were only four incidents where Kenneth Middleton Moore, Jr., had crossed the line, blatantly sexually harassing Aziza. All of the other encounters were open to interpretation. Four incidents in hundreds of hours of taping.

  Kenneth’s initial undertaking to get Aziza into his bed had been subtle, beginning with compliments on her work and appearance. Then a year later and within two weeks, his behavior had changed, escalating into an all-out campaign to pressure her to give into his demands.

  Aziza woke, disoriented, looking around her. “Are we there yet?”

  He ruffled her curls. “Yes, we are.”

  Stretching and covering her mouth with a hand to smother a yawn, she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry about falling asleep on you.”

  Smiling, Jordan stepped out of the car when the driver came around and opened the door. Turning, he assisted Aziza out while the driver retrieved her luggage from the trunk. His arm went around her waist, following Sergio as he carried the bags to the side street entrance. The driver handed off the bags, then turned and walked back to his vehicle.

  Aziza walked into the Fifth Avenue maisonette, her eyes widening in amazement at the size of the duplex Jordan called home. Rather than enter through the lobby, he’d used the entrance on 98th Street, leading into a small kitchen and maid’s room and bath.

  “I’ve turned the maid’s room into a home office,” Jordan said, standing off to the side when Aziza peered in.

  “No law books?” she teased.

  He shook his head. “We have a law library at the office.” Reaching for her hand, he pulled her gently down a narrow hallway and into an area with a pantry and a laundry room with a washer and dryer.

  “Do you do your own laundry?”

  “I don’t know how to turn the damn things on.”

  Aziza rolled her eyes at him. “Then why do you have them?”

  “The lady who cleans my apartment also does laundry.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you see?”

  “As the French say, c’est la vie.”

  Jordan placed her overnight and garment bag on the floor. He turned back to face her. “Do you have a problem with something?”

  With wide eyes, Aziza stared up at him. “There’s no need to get defensive, Jordan,” she said quietly. “Chacun à son goût.”

  A smile spread over Jordan’s face like a ray of sunshine. “So, the beautiful woman speaks fluent French. You are just full of surprises.”

  “And it’s apparent you understand the language.”

  “Yes. My mother taught me.”

  “Who taught her?”

  “Her mother.”

  “What did I say?” she asked.

  “Everyone to his taste,” he translated. Supporting his back against the wall, Jordan closed his eyes. “I grew up with live-in housekeepers, a butler, chef and chauffeur, all who were available 24/7.” He opened his eyes. “I never had to concern myself with having clean clothes or what to eat because someone was always there to take care of my basic needs.”

  Aziza leaned closer, bracing her hands on his chest, feeling the warmth from his body through the custom cotton shirt. “What did you do when you went away to college?”

  He smiled down at her. “I rented an apartment off campus and hired someone to come in to clean and do laundry. I contracted with a caterer who prepared what I wanted and delivered it in containers I could freeze for several weeks
.”

  Rising on tiptoe, she pressed a kiss to his throat. “You know you’re spoiled.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are,” she crooned, her mouth inches from his. “You always get want you want, which means I’m very fortunate to have you helping me with my lawsuit.”

  Jordan held his breath until he felt a band tightening across his chest. Was that all he was to Aziza? Someone to help her build a solid case where she could sue Kenneth Moore? What she didn’t know was that he wanted to be more—much more.

  “You’re wrong, Zee. I don’t always get what I want.” I want you, he added silently.

  Aziza leaned closer, her breasts pressed to his chest, her arms going around his trim waist. “Okay,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should rephrase that. You get almost everything you want.”

  Jordan smiled. He lowered his head, burying his face in her curls. “True.” Pressing his palms to the wall, he splayed his fingers. “You can’t push up on me like this.”

  “I’m just hugging you. Can’t I get a hug from my friend?” His hands came off the wall, as if in slow motion, and he rested his hands on her back over her coat.

  Jordan knew if they continued to stand there with Aziza’s full breasts pressed to his chest, if he continued to hold her, then he didn’t think he would be able to control the growing heaviness in his groin. She was fully clothed, yet he’d become so aroused he feared she would feel his erection.

  “Baby, please, you’re going to have to get off me before something happens.”

  It was too late. Something did happen when Aziza felt the solid bulge against her thigh. Dropping her arms, she took a backward step, her gaze locked with Jordan’s. His breathing had quickened, the skin over his cheekbones tightening. Without warning, her body reacted to his arousal; breasts warm, heavy, panties wet, the flesh between her legs pulsing uncontrollably.

  “What’s the matter? I can’t hug you?”

  For the tiniest fraction of time, they froze, sharing the space and the sexual magnetism that made it impossible for them to move or speak. The chaste kisses, casual hugs, the inane repartee had served as cover for what had been an instantaneous attraction.