“Bet.”
Jordan hung up, turned off the television and went back to bed. He was going to take Kyle’s advice and relax.
Chapter 8
“Mr. Wainwright, this is Sergio. I will be there in two minutes.”
Aziza opened her eyes and stared out the side window. The driver had turned down East 98th Street, slowed and double-parked beside a high-rise facing Fifth Avenue. Jordan had called earlier to say he’d listened to the tapes and they had to talk. There had been warmth in his voice when he’d asked if she’d had anything planned for the next two days. When she’d answered in the negative, he’d ordered her to pack enough clothes to last through the weekend and that he was sending a driver to bring her into Manhattan.
Aziza did not and could not fathom what he’d found on the tapes that she’d missed. Her wanting to sue Kenneth Moore wasn’t about money, but stopping a predator.
She didn’t need the money because she didn’t live an extravagant lifestyle. She was able to pay her mortgage every month. Her vehicle was paid in full, and she had zero credit card debt.
Her hourly rate was less than what she would’ve charged if she’d had a practice in the city because her overhead for operating the practice was negligible. The fee she’d earned from negotiating Brandt’s contract netted a six-figure commission, and Alexander had asked her to handle his contract when it came time for renewal.
What she wanted was revenge and retribution. Men like Kenny went through life using their power, money and influence to do whatever they wanted without a hint of a sense of right and wrong. The instant she’d given Jordan the tapes, Aziza had vowed to make it her life’s crusade to make Kenneth Middleton Moore, Jr., pay for his crimes and his sins.
The rear door opened, startling her. Jordan had appeared like a specter. He slipped in beside her, reaching for her hand. Smiling, her eyes met and fused with his, wondering if he was as pleased to see her again as she him. They were going out to eat, then return to his apartment.
“Missed you,” Jordan whispered in her ear. He took off his suit jacket, hanging it on a hanger suspended behind the front passenger seat.
A shiver shook her from the repressed passion in his voice to the warmth from his body when he pulled her close. “I’ve missed you, too.” The admission was ripped from somewhere she hadn’t known existed.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” Aziza said much too quickly. It was impossible for her to be cold. She’d selected a magenta silk surplice blouse, black wool slacks and a reversible three-quarter black suede swing coat lined with sheared mink. Pink-hued pearl studs and a matching strand around her neck complemented her simple but elegant outfit.
“I like your hair.” Jordan pulled a spiral curl, smiling when it sprang back like a tight spring. Her hair was her crowning glory. Full, lush and framing her face like a beautiful doll’s.
Aziza gave him a sidelong glance. “Thank you.”
Her favorite stylist had called earlier that morning to inform her that she had a cancellation, and if she wanted to come in to relax her roots and trim her ends she would take her. What normally would’ve been a twenty-minute drive was accomplished in ten. She’d missed her standing appointment six weeks ago because she’d flown down to Florida to celebrate Thanksgiving with her parents.
She silently admired his dark gray suit with a faint pinstripe. A stark white shirt, silk silver tie and black slip-ons pulled together his winning look. The scales of justice tie tack was a match for the gold cuff links in the shirt’s French cuffs.
“Nice cuff links.”
Jordan glanced at his wrist. “They were a gift from my dad when I graduated law school. The tie tack is from my law partner.” Reaching for her hand, he laced their fingers together.
The warmth and the smooth rolling motion of the car lulled Aziza into a state of total relaxation. “Do you like working in Harlem?” she asked after a comfortable silence.
“No.”
“No?”
Looking out the side window, Jordan stared at the passing landscape. “I love it. I love the neighborhood and the people. I don’t know how to explain it, but working in Harlem feels like a homecoming.”
Aziza laughed softly. “It could be that in a parallel universe you’d lived there.”
Jordan gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “If you had the option of living or working in a parallel universe, where would you choose?”
“That’s easy. It would have to be a tropical island where I’d wear a minimum amount of clothes, eat exotic foods, drink fruity concoctions and dance half-naked on the beach under the moonlight.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very, very serious,” she drawled.
“I can make it happen for you.”
Shifting to her right, Aziza stared at Jordan, seeing an open invitation in his hazel eyes. “Talk to me, Jordan Wainwright.”
“Kyle and Ava, whom you’ll meet Saturday, will marry in Puerto Rico next month. I’d like you to come with me as my guest.”
Aziza wanted to tell Jordan to hold up, that he was moving much too quickly, that they’d known each other barely a week. Did he believe, because he’d offered his legal services, she would agree to everything he proposed?
“I’ll let you know.”
“When will you let me know?”
Taking a deep breath, Aziza forced herself to relax. There was something in Jordan’s tone and line of questioning that reminded her of Lamar. Whenever he asked a question he’d expected an immediate answer.
“If we’re going to remain friends, then you should know I don’t react well to being pressured. I can’t commit or give you an answer until I check my calendar.”
Jordan brought her hand to his mouth, dropping a kiss on her knuckles. “I’m sorry. There’re times when I can be a little too overbearing.”
“A little?” she teased.
“You don’t have to agree with me,” he countered, smiling.
“Okay, I won’t.”
Jordan pressed his mouth to her fragrant curls. “You just have to have the last word, don’t you?”
“That’s what you get for dating a lawyer.”
“Didn’t you tell me you don’t date?”
Aziza rolled her eyes upward. “Yes, I did. But what do you call going out to dinner together?”
“A business meeting.”
“We’re going to discuss business?”
“Yes.”
He closed the partition, concealing the driver from view. “What are you doing, Jordan?”
Staring at Aziza under lowered lids, Jordan found himself transfixed by her stunning beauty. “We’re going to discuss business.”
He knew she was apprehensive about collecting evidence or finding a loophole in the law where Kenneth Moore would pay for causing her emotional pain and suffering, but it was going to take time and planning.
“I listened to the tapes. I want to cross-exam you as if you were on trial. We’ll tape our sessions, then transcribe them. Once we review the transcripts, word by word, line by line, it will be up to us to find a case or cases with decisions we can use to bury the pig. It may be a lengthy process, so you need to exercise patience.”
Aziza ran a finger down the length of his nose. “I promise to be very, very, very patient.” She kissed his chin. “How can I thank you?”
“You already are. Didn’t I tell you a hug and kiss is thanks enough?”
“But the question is when will a hug and kiss stop being enough?”
The air in the rear of the limo felt charged, electrified as if a storm—a very passionate storm—was just beyond the horizon. Aziza knew she and Jordan were playing a game, a very dangerous game wherein once they crossed the line there would be no turning back.
“I don’t know, Zee. You being with me is more than I could’ve ever expected.”
More than I’d expected. As soon as the admission had rolled off his tongue Jordan knew he’d revealed a little too much about how h
e felt and was beginning to feel about Aziza Fleming. He liked her. That she knew, but what she did not know was how much he liked her.
Kyle thought his taste in women had changed since he’d come to work in Harlem. He hadn’t wanted to debate the issue with his partner. He’d always liked a particular type of woman. Whereas some men were attracted to a woman’s overall physical appearance, it hadn’t been that way with Jordan. For him it was usually her intelligence and ambition.
His relationship with a legislative assistant had begun when he’d asked her for directions during a trip to D.C. He’d driven to Washington to attend the wedding of a former law school friend and had gotten lost. Tapping his horn, he’d managed to get the attention of a young woman in the car next to his. When he’d explained his dilemma, she’d told him to follow her because she lived blocks from where the wedding was scheduled to take place.
Jordan had handed her a business card, telling her to contact him if or when she came to New York because he would take her out for a night on the town. He’d forgotten the incident until she’d called him six weeks later. She was in New York on business, and wanted him to make good on his promise to show her a good time.
Kirsten was exceptionally intelligent, ambitious and completely uninhibited. What had begun with dinner dates, Broadway plays and trips to museums escalated into a deepening relationship where Jordan had found himself inexorably in love with her. They’d alternated weekends when he would drive down to D.C. with her coming up to New York.
What had surprised Jordan was his willingness to accept a long-distance relationship. Everything had changed when his workload at TCB increased and his trips to Washington became less and less frequent. He knew their relationship had reached a point where it had to be resolved. He had asked Kirsten to move to New York, and she had refused. She didn’t want to resign her position with an up-and-coming U.S. representative, and she could never see herself living in New York. Their two-year liaison had ended as smoothly as it had begun: amicably.
Jordan had waded back into the dating pool with a condition that he not sleep with a woman until they’d dated at least a month. It had worked with some women, and the others who wanted sex on the first or second date, he’d quickly relegated to his past.
Perhaps Kyle mentioning his taste in women had changed since he’d come to work in Harlem was because Natasha Parker was the first African-American he’d seen him with. What his partner hadn’t and didn’t know was she wasn’t the first and probably wouldn’t be the last. After all, he was a Wainwright, and like his brother Noah, he, too, liked diversity.
“Where are we going?”
Aziza’s sultry voice shattered his reverie. The driver was attempting to maneuver into a lane leading to the Robert F. Kennedy Triborough Bridge.
“Long Island City. Have you ever eaten at the Water’s Edge?”
“No.”
He smiled. “Good. Then you’re in for a real treat.”
Aziza settled back to watching the passing scenery. She wasn’t familiar with the restaurant, and she’d never been to Long Island City. She was born and raised in the suburbs, still lived in the suburbs, and the only borough she was familiar and completely at home with was Manhattan. Jordan mentioning eating in another borough was an indicator that she needed to get out more and that Manhattan was only one-fifth of New York City.
“Would you ever consider moving out of Manhattan?” Now where did that question come from? she asked herself.
Stretching out his legs, Jordan shifted into a more comfortable position. “It would depend where. If it were Long Island or Westchester, then I would consider it because I could commute directly into Manhattan by taking the Metro-North or the Long Island Railroad.”
“What about the other boroughs? Just say…Brooklyn?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why leave Manhattan for Brooklyn, the Bronx or even Queens? It’s almost like making a lateral move. Besides, I don’t like being packed into a subway car with a thousand other people all jostling to get to work on time. And forget about standing on a corner and waiting for a bus.”
“You sound like an elitist, Jordan. You live in the city, yet you eschew public transportation. How did you get to school as a kid?”
“I was driven to school.”
“I know you didn’t take the cheese bus because you don’t do buses.”
Jordan gave her a puzzled look. “What the heck is a cheese bus?”
“It’s what kids call a yellow school bus.”
“No, I didn’t take the cheese bus.”
Aziza stared, speechless. Jordan had come back at her like a rabid dog, snarling and snapping. “Dial it down, Jordan. There’s no need to be so defensive.”
“I’m not defensive, and I never make excuses for my family’s wealth or my lifestyle. It is what it is.”
“If I’ve insulted you, then I apologize.”
The sweep hand on his watch had made a full revolution when Jordan said, “Apology accepted.”
He felt Aziza withdraw from him, although she hadn’t moved, and that was the last thing he wanted. Talking about his family was not high on his discussion list. Every family had its secrets, but the closely held secret surrounding his birth had become an explosive topic between him and his grandfather.
Jordan would’ve never known the truth if he hadn’t overheard the heated verbal exchange between Wyatt and Edward Wainwright. The two men were unaware that he’d walked into the room until he’d interrupted the argument, saying things to the patriarch he never would’ve said under another set of circumstances.
The adoring bond between the elderly man and his first grandchild had evaporated in a blink of the eye, mistrust rearing its ugly head to keep them at a distance.
Wyatt was no longer Grandpa, but the more formal Grandfather. His visits to the mansion had become sporadic, and it was months at a time before he’d stop by to see his mother. Whenever Jordan called her, he’d always ask if Wyatt was there. Christiane had called him immature and unreasonable, that he couldn’t change or control the past.
Jordan didn’t tell Christiane she was right, that he couldn’t change what had happened in the past. But as someone in control of his own destiny, he would never lie to his child or children. He would tell them the truth whether it hurt or if they chose not to accept it.
Estrangement from Wyatt had served one purpose—it had put the tyrannical reprobate on notice. He could not and would not control Jordan Wyatt Wainwright.
Chapter 9
The tension that had filled the Town Car until it was palpable was missing once Jordan seated Aziza at a table in the restaurant with panoramic views of the East River and the buildings along Manhattan’s east side. When he’d called to make the reservation for dinner, Jordan had requested a table near the window. The fluctuating early January temperatures had returned to normal, a brisk cold wind had swept clouds from the nighttime sky, and stars littered the heavens like a sprinkling of diamonds on black velvet.
Rounding the table, he sat, watching Aziza staring out the wall of glass.
“Beautiful.”
She turned and smiled at him. “Yes, it is.”
“I wasn’t talking about the view.”
Aziza hesitated, replaying his compliment. It was apparent he was referring to her. She looked away again. “Thank you.”
Jordan leaned over the table. “Did I embarrass you?”
“No.”
“If I didn’t, then why won’t you look at me?”
Her gaze swung back, and she gave him a long, penetrating stare. “What are you doing, Jordan?”
“What do you mean?” He waved away the waiter approaching their table.
“Why are you sending me double messages? We claim not to be dating, yet you tell me to wear something nice because you’re taking me out to dinner. To me that translates into a date. You also tell me you want to spend the next four days together so we can plan strategy for my case, but
one of those nights we’ll attend a dinner party together. Please answer one question for me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What role do you want me to play, Jordan? Are you going to introduce me to your friends as your girlfriend or just a friend?”
The beginnings of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I’ll leave that up to you. If you feel comfortable enough with me to pretend I’m your boyfriend, then boyfriend it is. Otherwise a good friend will do.”
Propping an elbow on the table, Aziza rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “I’ve never been good at pretense. What you see is what you get.”
Jordan’s expression stilled, becoming almost somber. “I like what I see, Aziza.”
“Aren’t you coming on a little strong, Jordan?”
“No, Zee. You just don’t know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you. And because I know what you went through with Kenny Moore, I’m in a quandary how to pursue you.”
Lowering her arm, Aziza reached across the small space separating them to hold Jordan’s hand. “How would you pursue me?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Reversing their hands, Jordan’s thumb caressed the silken skin on the back of hers. “I would court you, Aziza Fleming. I’d call and ask you out to dinner and escort you as my date to fundraising events. I like museums, walks in the park, drives in the country and watching action movies. You say you love tropical islands. We could visit one where we’d wear next to nothing, sip tropical concoctions and dance on the beach under the stars. I’m not the world’s best cook, but I can make breakfast and serve you in bed. Does that answer your question?”
Aziza fought to control her swirling emotions. A man she’d known less than a week was willing to give her what a man she’d known all her life hadn’t or couldn’t.
She and Lamar had become an unofficial couple in junior high school, joining kids their age when they hung out at the mall or went en masse to the movies. It wasn’t until she was a high school junior that her father had permitted her to date. And what he’d meant by dating was her seeing other boys and not Lamar exclusively.
Because of You Page 10