Because of You

by Rochelle Alers

  Aziza rested her forehead on his shoulder. “Christmas is my favorite holiday.”

  “It happens to be mine, too.” Jordan ruffled her hair. “It appears as if we both want the same thing, but I’m not going to do anything until you tell me I can.”

  “What about your thirty-day rule about sleeping with a woman?”

  “What about it, Zee?”

  “What if we make love before the month is up?”

  “Rules and laws were made to be broken. If not, then we’d never get any clients.” She laughed, the throaty sound sending a warming shiver up Jordan’s back. He couldn’t believe he was talking about making love with Aziza if they were discussing a case. “I want you—now—but I don’t want it to be something we talk about, then execute.”

  Aziza traced the curve of Jordan’s eyebrows, the ridge of his cheekbones and jaw with her forefinger. “You want spontaneity?”

  “Spontaneity, passion and tenderness.”

  “In other words, we’ll become friends with benefits.”

  He smiled. “I promise benefits beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “I know about you and your promises, Jordan.”

  “I can’t believe you still aren’t going to cut me some slack about eating your caviar New Year’s Eve.”

  Aziza pressed her mouth to his throat, feeling the strong pulse beating there. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you.”

  “No more than I can believe you’re here with me.”

  Jordan wanted to tell Aziza it was as if he’d waited all his life for someone like her. He hadn’t known what he’d wanted in a woman until he’d shared the same space with Alexander Fleming’s sister.

  How a woman looked wasn’t a priority. How she related to him topped his list of requisites. He’d never dated a lawyer, and interacting with a woman who shared his passion was an added bonus. Aziza claimed she didn’t want anything serious, and Jordan was more than willing to go along with her assertion. However, if he found himself getting in too deep, then he knew he would have to be the one to end it.

  The sound of the phone ringing shattered the silence and the spell pulling Jordan and Aziza together in a cocoon of desire.

  He went still. The house phone rarely rang, and it usually meant a member of his family was attempting to reach him. “I have to get that,” he said after the second ring. Rising from the stool, he walked over and picked the cordless receiver off the cradle. “This is Jordan,” he said with his usual greeting.

  “Jordan, this is your grandfather.”

  A slight frown appeared between his eyes. It’d been more than a year since Wyatt Wainwright had dialed any of his numbers. Jordan glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was almost eleven—an hour past the time when Wyatt usually retired for bed. Anyone familiar with the habits of Wyatt knew if they didn’t reach him before ten at night, then they would have to wait until eight the following morning. His habits were as predictable as the change of seasons.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this call at this ungodly hour?” he drawled sarcastically.

  “Watch your mouth, son!”

  “Remember, Grandpa, you called me, not the reverse. What do you want?”

  “I need your help with something.”

  Jordan turned his back when he saw Aziza, with wide eyes, staring at him. “Does it have anything to do with Wainwright Developers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandpa, but I can’t help you. I’m no longer involved with the family business.”

  “This became your business when you called me out on television. I’m certain you remember that little show of bravado.”

  “Grandpa, do you mind if we talk about this at some other time?”

  “When is that?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m not going to be in the office for the rest of the week, so I’ll get in touch with you.”

  “You’re not sick, are you?”

  Jordan smiled for the first time since hearing his grandfather’s voice. He and Wyatt were like oil and water, but he knew the older man would give up his life for his first grandchild. Jordan knew he would do the same for his grandfather, but he wasn’t about to let Wyatt know that.

  “No, Grandpa, I’m not sick. My schedule was rearranged because of the fire and explosion near the courthouse, so I decided to take a few days off from the grind. I’ll call you on your private line tomorrow morning and we’ll talk.” Although Wyatt had stepped down as CEO of Wainwright Developers Group, he still went into the office.

  “Thank you. Good night, son.”

  “Good night, Grandpa.”

  He hung up and exhaled a sigh. Jordan didn’t know if the rift that had begun when he’d inadvertently discovered the circumstances of his adoption and that Wyatt had been the mastermind behind the scheme would ever heal. The things he’d said to his grandfather had come from a place inside him he hadn’t known existed, yet once the acerbic words were out, they could not be retracted. The act of betrayal had spilled over to his parents and they’d had to endure his wrath.

  Christiane Wainwright had collapsed and had to be sedated and that was when Jordan realized she’d been forced to become an unwilling participant in a game not of her choosing. He’d apologized to her, and Christiane had held him to her bosom sobbing that she understood his anger. It’d been two years and he and his mother had never broached the topic again. She was his mother and he her son.

  Once he rethought his words and actions, Jordan had come to the conclusion that not only did he physically resemble the man who’d ruled his family and his real estate empire with an iron fist, but he’d also shared similar negative psychological characteristics with Wyatt Wainwright. It’d become a daily struggle not to become his grandfather’s clone.

  “What you doing?” he asked Aziza when she walked over to the sink.

  “I’m rinsing my cup before I put it in the dishwasher. I’m ready to turn in.”

  “But it’s still early.”

  “Not for me,” Aziza said. “You city folks dress in black and stay up all night like vampires. I’m sorry, but this country girl is early to bed and early to rise.” The glass of wine she’d had with dinner had made her sleepy. She didn’t know why Jordan had ordered a bottle of wine when he’d only taken a couple of sips before setting his glass aside.

  “What time do you want breakfast?” Jordan asked.

  “What if we play it by ear? I doubt if I’m going to be hungry, so instead of breakfast I’ll probably want brunch.”

  Jordan closed the distance between them, leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Sleep well.”

  Aziza felt her pulse quicken when the warmth of his body swept over her. Everything about Jordan was so compelling, his sensuality so magnetic, that it was all she could do not to beg him to make love to her. She wanted him, he wanted her and it would only be a matter of time before the sexual tension would have to be resolved. And she prayed it would be soon rather than later.

  “Thank you, Jordan.” Turning on her heels, she walked out of the kitchen, feeling the heat from his gaze on her back.

  She knew she’d turned a corner, leaving her past behind, when she’d told him that she wanted and needed a man to make love to her. It’d taken years, but now she knew what her father had been talking about when he’d insisted she see other boys. Committing to and knowing only one man so early had stunted her growth emotionally.

  When she should’ve gone out with other boys at her high school and college, she had become so fixated on Lamar that she’d forgotten they existed. In the end, it had become her undoing when she had unknowingly surrendered her will in order to please him.

  However, Lamar Powers hadn’t known Aziza Fleming as well as he’d thought he had. Growing up surrounded by males had given her an advantage. She’d had to fight in order to assert herself.

  Her father and brothers had always had her back, and that was what she’d expected Lamar to do. But when he’d failed to protect her, she
’d known she had to go it alone.

  It was as if her carefully constructed world had come crashing down on her. She’d filed for divorce at the same time she was fighting a harassment case that threatened to destroy her career.

  Meeting Jordan Wainwright would serve a twofold purpose: he would help build a case to bring down a predator, and he was the perfect candidate with whom to have a no-strings-attached affair.

  She smiled as she climbed the staircase to the second floor. For her it would become a win-win situation.

  Chapter 11

  Jordan’s internal alarm clock woke him at five. Groaning, he lay on his stomach, punching the pillow under his head. It’d taken hours for him to drift off to sleep and now that he was awake he knew it was impossible to go back to sleep.

  If it had been a normal workday he would’ve taken the elevator to the building’s basement-level health club and swum laps in the Olympic-size swimming pool before returning to his apartment to prepare to go into the office.

  During the summer months he walked to the brownstone, working out in the street-level gym. Employees in the brownstone utilized the workout equipment in lieu of a costly Manhattan health club membership. He kept a supply of shirts, slacks, jackets and suits on hand in a closet in his office to change into after using the showers set aside for the men and women.

  But today was different. He wasn’t going downstairs or going into the office. Kyle had insisted he take the three days off because since he’d joined the practice in July he hadn’t taken a day off. The firm usually closed the week between Christmas and New Year’s, so he didn’t consider that a vacation. He usually arrived at the office around six and tried to leave most nights around six. Late nights were for clients who were unable to come to the office during the day.

  Working with Kyle at the Harlem-based practice was different than when they’d worked for TCB because they hadn’t had to juggle so many cases then. At any given time, Jordan had no less than six or seven open cases. Most he sought to settle before going to trial to save money for his clients. He’d realized early on that Kyle Chatham hadn’t opened a practice in Harlem to make a lot of money but to advocate for those he represented. The glaring difference between the clients at Chatham and Wainwright and those at Trilling, Carlyle and Browne was the number of zeros in their bank balances. The clients at TCB had pockets so deep they could buy an island with a single stroke of the pen. And unlike the partners at C & W, those at TCB always went to trial where billable hours sometimes exceeded six figures.

  Turning over, Jordan stared up at the ceiling. It would be another two hours before sunrise and he loathed getting out of bed. He would’ve been content to remain in bed if he hadn’t been alone, but the woman he wanted in his bed was in a room across the hall. Her revelation that she wanted and needed to be made love to had kept him from a restful night’s sleep. Images of undressing her, seeing her completely naked and picking her up and taking her to bed had invaded his head, swirling around like a sirocco until he felt as if he were losing his mind; the erection that had refused to go down made him feel as if he was coming out of his skin.

  Jordan’s body betrayed him again, he groaning as if in pain. Sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he walked on bare feet to the en suite bath. He lingered long enough to brush his teeth and rinse his mouth with a peppermint mouthwash before standing under the spray of ice-cold water beating down on his head and body. His lips had taken on a bluish hue and his teeth were chattering uncontrollably before he attempted to adjust the water temperature. He may have caught hypothermia, but at least his hard-on had gone down.

  Patting the moisture from his body with a thick towel, Jordan tucked it around his waist and returned to the bedroom. He entered a walk-in closet, opening drawers to select underwear, socks and a long-sleeve tee. Moving farther into the closet, he selected a pair of khakis. Racks, like those in a department store, held slacks, jackets, shirts, suits and ties. They were arranged according to fabric and color. Jordan used the services of his father’s personal tailor to fashion his wardrobe, and the result was sartorial sophistication. Most of his suits were in varying shades of blue and gray, his shirts predominately white with French cuffs and silk ties in solids, stripes and checks ranged from snow-white to midnight-black. Other shelves were lined with footwear with styles from running shoes to dress patent leather slip-ons. His casual attire was conservative, reflective of the Americana style adapted by Ralph Lauren. Wearing a uniform to school from grades one through twelve had set the stage for suits, shirts, ties and shoes.

  Jordan dressed quickly, slipping his feet into a pair of running shoes, and walked out of his bedroom. The door to Aziza’s bedroom was closed, and he didn’t break stride as he headed for the staircase.

  He took a quick glance out the window. The sky had brightened and the sound of cars and buses along Fifth Avenue was a signal that the city was wide awake and readying itself for another day of bustling activity. Walking to the front door, he opened it, retrieving a copy of the New York Times. Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he retreated to the kitchen to drink several cups of coffee while he perused the paper.

  The caffeine was what Jordan needed to jolt him into awareness as he turned on the small flat-screen television on the countertop and half listened to the commentary from a news journalist as he read the articles that garnered his attention. His head popped up.

  Images of Robert Andrews, his wife and daughters filled the screen as the businessman-turned-politician announced his intent to challenge popular incumbent New York State Senator Billy Edwards in the upcoming election. With wide eyes, he peered closely at the extremely attractive woman standing beside her husband. She had to be at least fifty or fifty-one, but appeared at least a decade younger. Her daughters, who looked to be in their twenties, were a mirror image of their tall, slender mother.

  “Good luck, Robert,” Jordan said to the television.

  Although approaching eighty, Billy Edwards was wildly popular with the Harlem community. His constituents had suggested he run for mayor, governor and/or a U.S. Representative, but Billy’s concern for his assembly district exceeded his ambition to become a political juggernaut.

  Jordan wasn’t as concerned about Robert Andrews winning or losing the election as he was about the man’s wife and children, who would now be subjected to public scrutiny. What was the man thinking? Had blind ambition overshadowed common sense?

  Maybe he doesn’t know. The thought popped into Jordan’s head as the television journalist faced the camera to identify herself and her station’s call letters. He wanted to believe that Robert knew everything he should know about his wife before becoming a public figure. Family secrets thought to be buried had a way of coming to the surface at the most inopportune time. He prayed that this wouldn’t be one of those times. Putting aside the newspaper, he left the kitchen and headed for his home office.

  The twelve-by-twelve space had been the bedroom for the live-in maid of the former tenant. Jordan, who’d grown up with live-in household staff, hadn’t wanted a repeat of that, so he’d contracted with a bonded cleaning service to have someone come in twice a week to clean and do laundry.

  Picking the receiver off the cradle, he sank down in to a tobacco-brown suede love seat and pressed speed dial for Wyatt’s private line. It was answered after the first ring.

  “Wyatt.”

  Jordan smiled. The single word was pregnant with power. “Good morning, Grandpa. How can I help you?” There was a pause before Wyatt’s voice came through the earpiece. No doubt, he was shocked that Jordan had offered to help him without hearing what it was he wanted him to do.

  “I need you to handle a situation for me. Someone has been shakin’ down tenants in the buildings on 114th.”

  “What do you mean by shaking down, Grandpa?”

  “Several tenants have complained that since the violations have been removed, someone from the tenants’ committee is pressuring them to make a mon
thly donation to a special fund to defray the monies they had to pay out for legal fees.”

  Jordan wanted to tell his grandfather there were no legal fees because Kyle had taken on the case pro bono. “Did they say who was hustling them?”

  “No. They said something about ‘snitches get stitches.’”

  “If they’re not willing to give up a name, then what do you expect me to do?”

  “I heard one of them mumble about ‘red dreads and fly shit.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

  “I know who they’re talking about.”

  “Who?” Wyatt asked.

  “I can’t tell you, Grandpa. But, I promise to take care of it.”

  There came a beat. “Thanks. I don’t need any more negative talk coming out of Harlem, not when we’re trying to buy several abandoned parcels near 118th and St. Nicholas.”

  “Good luck with that. Meanwhile, I’ll handle this extortion situation.”

  “Thanks, Jordan.”

  “No problem, Grandpa.” He wanted to ask his grandfather if he’d seen the news segment where Robert Andrews was throwing his hat into the political arena but decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Wyatt would find out soon enough, and then all hell was certain to break loose.

  Jordan knew exactly who his grandfather was referring to. He ended the call and phoned Kyle, repeating his telephone conversation with his grandfather. “You didn’t charge the tenants’ committee for representation, but the president of the committee decides to shake down his own people.”

  “Did they actually identify Joseph Mills by name?” Kyle asked.

  “No. But Wyatt said someone mentioned ‘red dreads and fly shit.’ And that could only be Mills because he does have reddish dreadlocks and freckles.”

  Kyle laughed. “What do you know about fly shit, partner?”

  Jordan also laughed. “I’m not that removed from cultural vernacular as you’d like to believe I am.”

  “You keep hanging out in Harlem and you’ll be a certified brother before you know it.”