Jordan had to agree with his father. Aziza and Wyatt were smiling and holding hands. Not waiting for his grandfather to bring her back to him, he walked across the ballroom to reclaim the woman who completed him.
Dancing with music from a live band followed a seven-course dinner and numerous toasts to Wyatt Wainwright. Aziza pressed closer to Jordan as he led her over the dance floor. “Why do you continue to keep me off balance whenever you want me to interact with your family?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You invite me to go with you to a social event, but you never let me know your family will be in attendance. It’s like you spring me on them and wait for their reaction.”
“No, I don’t, Zee.”
“Yes, you do, Jordan. You said we were going to a birthday celebration, yet you didn’t tell me the celebrant was your grandfather.”
“By the way, what did you and my grandfather talk about?”
“What’s said between Wyatt and Aziza stays between Wyatt and Aziza.”
“Oh! It’s like that, baby.”
“Yes. Now don’t try to change the subject. Why didn’t you tell them I was coming with you?”
“Because I never tell them who I’m bringing, that’s why.”
Jordan had proven he was his own man living his life by his leave. He spun her around and around in an intricate dance step. “Where did you learn to dance?”
“I had dancing classes and what some call lessons in deportment at that froufrou school that combined social protocol with academics.”
“You must have been a very good student.”
Jordan pulled back and stared down at the woman who made him feel things he’d never felt before, the woman for whom he would give up all the material trappings if only she agreed to become his wife.
He’d dated Kirsten for two years, yet the call or pull of happily-ever-after had never been evident. He’d asked her to move to New York because he’d tired of an I-95 relationship. His male pride had been off the charts because Jordan had been certain the legislative aide would jump at his offer. It had taken several weeks of self-examination for him to realize he hadn’t offered her stability, permanence. It was “come to New York and shack up with me” without a declaration of love or a proposal of marriage. But it was different with Aziza. He loved her and had asked her to marry him, but she’d refused because she wasn’t willing to risk loving and losing again.
“I was,” he admitted. “I’ve always been a good student, but there is one subject where I’ve been getting a failing grade.”
Aziza stared at the length of lashes shadowing his luminous eyes. “What subject is that?”
“Love. I’m terrible when it comes to love, baby.”
“Why do you believe that?”
Jordan focused on the diamond hoop in her ear. “I find a woman I didn’t know I was looking for, fall in love with her at first sight, then when I tell her I want to marry her she doesn’t even think about it and says, ‘I’m not marrying you, Jordan,’” he mimicked in falsetto.
Aziza pressed her face to the side of his neck. “Maybe you should ask that woman again.”
Jordan missed a step but recovered quickly. “What did you say?”
“You heard what I said, Jordan Wyatt Wainwright.”
“Damn, girl. Did you have to use my government name?”
“Yes, because when I exchange vows with my groom I’ll have to say your legally recognized government name to make it official.”
“I’m not into playing head games, Aziza. You should know that by now.”
“If I know nothing else about you, Jordan, I know that.”
“Good. Now, we’ll talk about this some other time.”
Aziza didn’t know why, but she felt like crying in the middle of the dance floor in front of nearly a hundred people. The chandeliers were dimmed and hundreds of flickering votives had created a romantic, fairy-tale-like setting that was perfect for love and seduction. She wanted Jordan to propose marriage when she hadn’t told him she was in love with him. What did she expect?
The tempo changed, the music becoming more upbeat with an infectious Latin rhythm. Jordan pulled Aziza flush to his length. “Are you ready to show me your Latin ballroom moves, Señorita Fleming?”
Aziza was never given the chance to protest when he spun her around and around, her hips swaying sensuously to the sexy beat. Other couples joined them, and without warning, she found herself in the arms of another man who had to be a professional dancer. There was one partner, then another. It was obvious when Christiane had planned the party she’d hired professional dancers to make certain the guests would end up dancing. The music played on nonstop, the quartet of vocalists singing everything from Sade, the Rolling Stones, Whitney Houston, Bon Jovi, Alicia Keys, Usher and the Black Eyed Peas. There was something for everyone.
The celebrating continued past midnight, beyond the time when the guest of honor had retired for bed. It was three in the morning when the waitstaff began removing tablecloths, stacking silver, china and crystal and removing the gauzy fabric from the cushioned chairs.
Jordan and Aziza walked into his maisonette at four, undressed, shared a shower and fell into bed together. All talk about love and marriage were forgotten until another time.
Aziza stood at the rail of the sleek yacht; she’d closed her eyes and turned her face to take advantage of the warmth from the rising sun. She, along with Jordan, Duncan, Tamara, Ivan and Nayo were sailing to Puerto Rico for Kyle Chatham and Ava Warrick’s wedding. They had boarded the ship in Hoboken, New Jersey, two days ago and were expected to reach their destination midafternoon.
Sailing to the Caribbean had become the perfect remedy to what had become an unusually cold and snowy Northeast winter. When it snowed, accumulations averaged between two and three inches—not enough to completely cripple cities or hamper the delivery of essential services, but enough to become a nuisance.
Her initial apprehension about filing charges against Kenneth Moore for sexual harassment had been abated when Jordan suggested she not attend the arraignment. The judge had ordered Kenneth to give a sample of his DNA and his bail was set at two million, which he promptly posted and left the court in a chauffeur-driven limo. His arrest wasn’t front-page news, but Jordan had reported the topic was on everyone’s lips when he’d joined a group of former classmates for a lunch at the Harvard Club.
RLH Realty had become her latest client after she’d contacted Raymond Humphries to let him know she would negotiate the sale of the buildings off 118th and St. Nicholas Avenue. A subsequent meeting with Raymond, CFO Robert Andrews and the head of the company’s legal division was more than enlightening for Aziza. She was asked and required to sign a confidentiality agreement. The blustery attorney told her in the more than thirty years he’d worked for RLH Realty, he’d never taken his work home or discussed what had gone on at the office with his wife. When he’d mentioned pillow talk, Aziza told him she understood loud and clear what he wanted from her.
Before the meeting had concluded, she’d signed the confidentiality agreement and been given a file containing the information on the properties and a retainer. After spending hours on the phone and two trips to Tampa to meet with the children of the late owner, Aziza was able to discern that, among the four surviving offspring, two were in favor of selling and the remaining two wanted to renovate the buildings, turning them into condos. A clause in their late father’s will stipulated all sale of properties would require a unanimous, not a majority decision.
“What are you doing up here?”
Additional warmth and a mint-scented breath swept over her. “I’m watching the sun rise.”
Jordan’s arms went around Aziza’s waist, pulling her back against his body. “We can watch it rise through the stateroom’s portal.”
She smiled. “I could be enticed to return to the stateroom, but what are you offering?”
“A hug and a couple of kisses for a start.”
“Oo-oo. That sounds like fun. What else?”
“I’ll have to show you.”
Turning in his loose embrace, Aziza stared up at the man who’d stolen her heart, while refusing to give it back. He’d showered but hadn’t shaved. Whenever she saw the stubble she was reminded of romance novel covers with images of a sexy pirate sweeping her up and carrying her to his cabin as a willing captive.
He’d pulled on a pair of white drawstring linen lounging pants that showcased his toned upper body when he’d left his chest bare. Sailing down to Puerto Rico for the wedding had become even more significant. It had become a peace offering. When she’d flown to Tampa, she hadn’t told him where she was going, and Jordan had blown up her cell with voice mail and text messages. She’d accused him of clocking her every move, and he countered it was concern, not clocking or stalking. Before her second trip to Florida, she’d told him she was leaving the state on business, without giving him any details as to where or why. He’d given her a long, penetrating stare, but hadn’t pursued it, recognizing the need for attorney-client privilege.
She knew what Jordan wanted because she wanted the same. There was something very romantic about making love while at sea. “What are you waiting for? Show me.”
Jordan Wainwright became her pirate when he picked her up, carried her across the smooth polished deck and down a flight of stairs to the staterooms. An efficient professional crew was on hand to take care of the needs of the passengers on the sixty-foot sailing vessel. She buried her face between his neck and shoulder when she spied a crew member’s approach.
“Good morning, Mr. Wainwright.”
“Beautiful morning, Mr. Reilly.”
The Mary Catherine, named for his late grandmother and the love of Wyatt’s life, was usually stored at a shipyard along the Chesapeake during the winter months. But this winter Jordan planned to use the family yacht to fulfill his promise to take Aziza to several islands in the Caribbean. Inviting Ivan and Duncan and their partners along added a partylike atmosphere whenever the three couples sat down to dinner that was followed by either a spirited card game or dancing under the stars. He pushed open the door leading to their stateroom with all the amenities of a four-star hotel.
They’d planned to spend four days in Puerto Rico before returning to the mainland, and Jordan intended to take advantage of every day, hour, minute and second he would spend with Aziza. He’d found it ironic they’d spent more time together within the first two weeks of their meeting than they did now. It wasn’t his caseload that had increased, but hers.
Whoever the new client she’d taken on was, he or she had kept her busy with trips that took her out of the state. Other times when she’d stayed behind the closed door to her office talking at length on the phone. Jordan had felt he was losing Aziza, but his fears were belied their first night aboard the ship. She’d come to him with a passion that had snatched the breath from his lungs, leaving him lightheaded and gasping.
It was times like that in which he’d come to believe that she loved him as much as he loved her. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d confessed to loving her, and he’d stopped waiting for her to respond in kind. Maybe she’d heard the declaration too many times from her ex-husband, and now hearing it from another man meant nothing. Perhaps she was numbed when it came to love. She’d asked him to propose marriage again and he hadn’t. Not until she confessed to loving him. As much as he wanted her as his wife, Jordan refused to marry a woman who didn’t love him.
However, it wasn’t the same when it came to passion. He had found Aziza to be the most passionate woman he’d ever known—in and out of bed. It was the only time they were completely in sync with each other. There were no cases, clients, courtrooms or ex-husbands or girlfriends.
Jordan placed Aziza on the unmade bed, his gaze fusing with hers when he untied the drawstring at his waist. The lounging pants fell down round his hips and knees, he stepping out of them.
Smiling, Aziza wrapped her arms around his hips, as she moved closer to the edge of the bed. The scent of soap lingered on his body as she buried her face between his thighs, placing soft kisses on the inverted tangle of pubic hair cradling his semi-erect sex.
“No!” Jordan bellowed when he realized her intent. Her mouth closed around his penis like a heat-seeking missile, suckling him until he doubted whether his knees would support his body.
Aziza took as much of the hardened flesh into her mouth without gagging, her tongue moving around the blood-engorged flesh until she established a rhythm that had Jordan close to ejaculating. Applying the slightest pressure with her thumb, she stopped him time and time again all the while he moaned, groaned and bellowed as if he were being tortured.
Jordan knew if he didn’t stop Aziza he would spill his seed in her mouth—the last place he wanted to do so when his intent was to be inside her. Resting his hands on her shoulders, he applied pressure to the nerves above her collarbone, and she released him. What happened next defied description and common sense.
He had Aziza on her back, and pulled down her shorts and panties in one motion. He pushed into her with the velocity of someone possessed. Splaying a hand under her hips, he lifted her higher as he began to move in a slow, measured rhythm, pulling back as far as he could go without pulling out before he repeated the pushing in and out of her hot, wet flesh.
It was as if they were making love for the first time. The scent of their lovemaking had become an aphrodisiac as potent as the most addictive narcotic. It pulled him, sucking him under like a powerful undertow where he was drowning in the scented embrace of the woman in whose arms he wanted to breathe his last breath.
He managed to pull the T-shirt up and over her head until her ripe breasts were bared for his hungry eyes. He suckled them the way she’d suckled him, eliciting a keening from Aziza that made the hair on the nape of his neck stand up in response. She was on fire. He was on fire. In the split second between sanity and insanity he surrendered everything he was and had when he released his passion inside her.
“I love you. I love you,” Aziza repeated over and over like a litany.
“Marry me, baby. Please, marry me,” Jordan whispered in her ear, his heart pumping painfully in his chest.
Raising his head, he looked at Aziza. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t ask her to marry him again until she admitted to loving him. Had he imagined she’d said it, or had she really said she loved him?
“Say it again.”
Aziza half opened her eyes to look up at Jordan. A smile had softened her mouth. His face was flush, his eyes a deep moss green, and his chest rose and fell as if he’d run a grueling race. “You picked the wrong time to make love to me without a condom, darling.”
“Does that bother you, darling?”
“Not so much.”
“Why not, baby?”
Her eyes opened. “I think it would be nice having a child in my life.”
“A child?”
Her smile grew wider. “Okay. Your child, Jordan. And I know I would love our baby as much as I love you.”
“Do you love me?”
Her smile faded. “Of course I love you. You did hear me say it, didn’t you?”
“And you did hear me ask you to marry me.”
“Ask me again, Jordan.”
“Aziza, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife and the mother of our children?”
A beat passed. The tears Aziza had wanted to shed the night of Wyatt Wainwright’s birthday celebration flooded her eyes and rolled down her cheeks like fat raindrops. When she’d walked into Brandt Wainwright’s penthouse, she never would’ve imagined the man who would change her and her life would be there waiting for her. It was because of Jordan she was given a second chance at love and had learned to trust a man again.
“Yes, Jordan. I will marry you, become your wife and the mother of our children.”
They lay joined until Jordan finally rolled off Aziza. He undressed her complet
ely, pulled her close and they slept the sleep of sated lovers. When they woke again, the sun was high in the sky and the outline of the island of Puerto Rico had come into view.
Chapter 19
Jordan and Aziza, along with the two other couples, checked into the Hotel Casablanca after disembarking and piling into cars that took them from the pier to the sizzling new boutique hotel in the heart of Old San Juan.
Signature Bridals’ wedding planner had arranged to take over the thirty-five guest rooms in the Moroccan-inspired hotel for the Warrick-Chatham nuptials. The hotel was erected on one of the hottest streets in Old San Juan with a string of trendy restaurants and a thumping, pumping, blue-light club called Basiliko. Kyle and Ava were expected to arrive later that afternoon, and a rehearsal dinner was scheduled on the hotel’s rooftop where guests could soak in the five stone hot tubs that took the place of a pool.
Immediately after Aziza and Jordan checked into their room—that had pottery vessel sinks, an antique armoire, gilt mirrors and ornate bedding—they went shopping, looking for an engagement ring.
She felt as if she’d stepped back in time when walking the cobblestone streets of a part of the island that had its fifteenth-century flavor. They managed to find a small shop without hordes of tourists, and an hour after walking in, she left the shop wearing a platinum-and-yellow diamond engagement ring on her left hand. The price of the ring was mind-boggling, but Jordan hadn’t hesitated when he handed the man his Black Card. They’d left the shop, stopping at a restaurant for a light repast, then returned to their room to make love for the second time that day without using protection.
Jordan rolled off Aziza and reached for her hand. He knew he had to reveal the circumstances surrounding his birth because he didn’t want to begin their lives together keeping secrets.
A ceiling fan stirring the warm air swept over their naked bodies. “Baby, I have something to tell you.”
Aziza smiled but didn’t open her eyes. “Are you going to tell me you’re married with a bunch of babies hidden away somewhere?”
Because of You Page 23
