Because of You

by Rochelle Alers

Jordan’s expression became a mask of stone. “I thought I already was a brother, brother.”

  “You are. Forget it, Jordan. I’ll handle Joe Mills. I’m going to tear him a new one, because he’s ripping off people who trusted him.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need me to confront him, Kyle?”

  “No, Jordan. The man’s a bigot and I don’t want him to say something slick and end up looking for his teeth. I’ll be certain to let him know that you’ve dislodged more than a few speed bags and you’re not too shabby with the heavy bag.”

  Jordan, seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, swiveled in the seat. Aziza had come into the office without making a sound. Leaning against the door, she’d crossed her arms under her breasts. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from her fresh-scrubbed face. “He’s not worth me knocking him out.”

  Jordan had hired a personal trainer who’d put him through a strenuous martial arts workout that included lifting weights and a boxing regimen of hitting the speed and heavy bags. The workout had increased his endurance and overall body strength.

  “After I talk to Mills, I’ll give you an update.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up, his gaze fusing with Aziza’s as he came around the desk and sat down on a corner. “Good morning.”

  Aziza smiled. “Good morning. Who are you talking about knocking out?”

  “Some clown who’s not worth the time of day. How was the bed?”

  It took Aziza several seconds before she realized Jordan was asking how she’d slept. “The bed is wonderful, although I found myself tossing and turning.” She smothered a yawn with her hand. “Sorry about that.”

  Jordan wanted to tell her that he’d done the same tossing and turning when he usually fell asleep within minutes of his head touching the pillow. Pushing off the desk, he reached for her hand. “Come with me. I’ll show you where you can relax while I bring you a cup of coffee.”

  Aziza followed Jordan, walking into a large room that was sports bar, game room and lounge. Wall-mounted flat-screen TVs could be viewed from every angle, foosball and pool tables were set up in opposite corners, and a neon jukebox, pinball machines and arcade games offered something for everyone. A quartet of matching leather love seats were positioned for ultimate viewing.

  “This is better than Coney Island,” she teased. “It’s been ages since I’ve played Pac-Man, Ms. Pac-Man and Donkey Kong. I still have one of the highest Pac-Man scores at an arcade in my old neighborhood. But what I excel at is pool.”

  Jordan rested a hand at the small of her back. “Do I hear a challenge?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “We’ll play later. But I only think it’s fair to warn you I’ve been known to make grown men cry.”

  “That’s their first mistake. They’re men.”

  “Oh, so you’re going to rely on your feminine wiles?”

  “Whatever works, Wainwright.”

  “You’re going down, Fleming.”

  “We’ll see,” Aziza drawled.

  Jordan told Aziza he was going to begin his cross-examination using his trademark technique. He introduced himself as if gaining the witness’s confidence with a gentle voice that soothed rather than antagonized or put them on the defensive. He asked and she revealed how a recruiter had approached her six months before graduation, based on the recommendation of one of her professors, who was an associate of Moore, Bloch and Taylor. She was interviewed twice—once by one of the partners and then by Kenneth Middleton Moore, Jr., who’d seemed genuinely impressed with her grades.

  Kenny, as he’d asked her to call him, offered to pay off her twenty-thousand-dollar student loan and promised to give her a generous raise if she passed the bar on her first attempt. Kenny kept his promises, and her first year working at the firm had exceeded her expectations.

  Jordan turned off the tape recorder. Their first session had lasted forty-five minutes, Jordan stopping before she got to the part where she’d begun to suspect that Kenny’s interest in her was more than professional.

  “I’m going to fix you something to eat, then after I transcribe our session, we’ll play that game of pool.”

  “Do you mind if I make a suggestion?” she asked.

  He gave her a direct stare. “Of course.”

  Aziza met his eyes. The stubble on his lean jaw made him look dangerous, less urbane. “What if I prepare brunch while you transcribe the tape? That way we can accomplish two tasks at the same time.”

  His lids lowered. “Are you sure you don’t mind cooking?”

  “Of course I don’t mind.”

  “I didn’t invite you here to work.”

  “If I’d stayed home, I still would have had to prepare something to eat,” she argued quietly.

  “Okay,” Jordan said after a pregnant pause.

  “Don’t worry, Jordan. I’m not going to burn down your kitchen.”

  He made a face. “Very funny, Zee.”

  Jordan knew she was right about saving time. It wouldn’t take that long for him to transcribe her responses because he’d already input his questions into the computer. All that remained was his typing in her responses—most of which he could repeat verbatim. He extended his arms, and he wasn’t disappointed when Aziza moved into his embrace. “I don’t want you to worry about Kenny. We’re going to take him down. Down where he’ll pay for what he did to you and probably countless other women.”

  Aziza nodded. She wasn’t as concerned about herself as she was with other women who either were forced to endure his harassment because they felt they didn’t have any recourse, or those who were too frightened to speak up. Exposing Kenneth Moore would give those frightened and silent ones a voice—a voice that said they were sick and tired of the harassment and that they weren’t going to take it anymore.

  “How long will it take you to transcribe the tape?” she asked.

  “Probably a couple of hours. Why?”

  She smiled up at him. “I need to know in case I decide to make something a little more complicated than bacon and eggs.”

  Aziza loved cooking in a kitchen twice the size of hers. She discovered an abundance of fresh fruit and veggies in the refrigerator but not much meat or fish in the freezer. The pantry provided a treasure trove of gourmet jams, preserves, pure flavor extracts and several varieties of flour: cake, wheat, bread and bleached. Reaching for a straw basket among a collection on a shelf, she filled it with ingredients she needed to put together an elegant brunch.

  It was exactly two hours later when she’d set the table with china, silver and crystal glassware and covered dishes when Jordan walked into the kitchen. She smiled at him. “Perfect timing.”

  He shook his head. “No, you didn’t.” He laughed, pointing to the flowering plant. Aziza had taken a potted orchid from the bathroom, placing it on the table as a centerpiece.

  “Yes, I did. Don’t you think it looks nice?”

  “Is this your way of telling me that I should have fresh flowers in the house?”

  “Loud and clear,” she retorted. “Come and sit before everything gets cold.”

  Pulling out a chair at the table, Jordan seated Aziza, then came around and sat opposite her. A wide grin split his face when she removed a covered dish to reveal eggs Benedict. She handed him a basket filled with croissants dusted with confectioners’ sugar and slivered almonds. A glass bowl was filled with diced cantaloupe, apples, orange sections, green grapes and strawberries. Crystal goblets were filled with fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  “You did all this in two hours?”

  “It would’ve taken even less if I didn’t have to wait for the yeast to rise.”

  “Give me your plate, sweetheart, and I’ll serve you.”

  Aziza handed him her plate, and he carefully ladled an English muffin topped with crisp bacon and a lightly poached egg smothered in a rich, buttery hollandaise sauce onto it.

  “You know we can’t eat this too often,” Aziza warned. “Talk about cholesterol overload.”
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  “Once a week is all right.”

  “How about once a month, Jordan?”

  “Uh-huh, baby. There’s no way I’m going to wait thirty days to eat like this again.”

  Aziza took a sip of orange juice, savoring the feel of pulp on her tongue. “Okay. Twice a month.”

  Jordan raised his goblet in a salute. “Twice a month it is.”

  “If you want more coffee, then you’ll have to make it. I don’t know what you do to make the coffee taste so good, but I’m not even going to attempt to challenge you in that department.”

  “It’s the beans and water.”

  “What about them?”

  “I grind the beans and use distilled water.”

  “They can’t be just ordinary coffee beans, Jordan.”

  “It’s Jamaica Blue Mountain. I get it at a gourmet shop on Madison Avenue in the 80s. I purchase enough to last about a couple of months. Even when stored in airtight canisters they tend to lose some of their flavor over time. I buy my caviar at the same shop.”

  “Speaking of caviar, you’re going to have to help me eat it once I open the tin.”

  Jordan bit into the croissant, shocked to find it filled with almond paste. “Damn! This is good.”

  “It’s nice to see someone appreciate food.”

  He swallowed a mouthful of the delicious pastry. “I’ve always had a good appetite. That’s why I have to work out or I’d end up with a nice little paunch.”

  Aziza sucked her teeth. “Yeah, right. You probably have less than three percent body fat, so stop playing, Jordan Wainwright.”

  “Come on, babe. You know I spend most of my day sitting behind a desk.”

  “Desk or no desk, you probably would never have a weight problem.”

  “How do you stay so thin?” Jordan asked Aziza.

  “I’m hardly thin.” She was five-nine and weighed one-forty, but she wasn’t about to reveal her weight to Jordan. “What I do is go to a dance studio several days a week.”

  “What type of dancing?”

  “Al got me hooked on ballroom dancing after his stint on Dancing with the Stars.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not, Jordan. A couple hours of the samba, mambo and cha-cha equal a strenuous workout.”

  “It looks as if you like the Latin dances.”

  “I love them because they work the entire body. I keep promising myself that I’m going to Rio for Carnivale and samba until I drop from sheer exhaustion.”

  “A couple of years ago I went to Trinidad for Carnivale.”

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “Awesome. Do you want to go with me?”

  “When, Jordan?”

  “This year. Ash Wednesday isn’t until the last week in February, so if you want to come with me, then don’t schedule anything the weekend before.”

  “When is your partner’s wedding?”

  “The second weekend in February.”

  “That’s a lot of partying in the Caribbean in February,” she said teasingly.

  “It’s usually the coldest and snowiest month in the Northeast, so it’s the perfect time to leave for warmer climes. What say you, counselor? Will you come with me?”

  Aziza smiled, although her mind was a jumble of confusion and contradiction. A week ago she hadn’t met Jordan Wainwright and now he was making plans for her to accompany him to Puerto Rico and Trinidad. Was he moving too fast, or was she too slow? The lawyer had unknowingly overwhelmed her with his unabashed masculine charm that left her fighting for control of emotions gone awry.

  Her inexperience with men had left her totally unprepared for someone like Jordan Wainwright. She was certain she could hold her own with him when it came to the law, but unfortunately, she was still an ingénue in matters of the heart.

  “I’ll let you know after I’ve checked my calendar.” It was the same thing she’d told him when he’d asked her to accompany him to Puerto Rico.

  “Do you get seasick?”

  “Not usually.” She gave him a quizzical look. “Why, Jordan?”

  “I’ve made arrangements for some of us to sail down to Puerto Rico for the wedding.”

  “It sounds like fun.”

  Jordan winked at her. “I did promise that we’re going to have fun.”

  Aziza nodded as she ate her eggs. To say Jordan Wainwright was full of surprises was putting it mildly. Sailing to Puerto Rico and celebrating Carnivale in Trinidad. What else, she mused, could she look forward to sharing with him?

  Chapter 12

  “What’s the matter, baby?” Aziza drawled, chalking the tip of her cue. “Why the tight jaw?”

  She knew what had Jordan out of sorts without asking the question. She’d beat him in Pac-Man, foosball and Donkey Kong, and the final challenge was a game of billiards. She’d beat him handily, while not pretending to give him an edge.

  With a deathlike grip on his cue, Jordan glared at the woman who’d trounced him soundly in every game. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t warned him, but he hadn’t wanted to believe she was that good. What bothered him was not her beating him, but how coolly she’d reacted after each victory. It was if there was ice water in her veins.

  What shocked Jordan at times was how detached and unaffected she appeared when talking about her ex-husband and boss. As if she’d turned a switch to tune out the ugliness. Even when he’d taped their first session, her answers were direct and delivered in a monotone. If he’d been a juror, he would’ve thought her rehearsed.

  However, he was about to salvage what was left of his ego. He’d been taught to shoot pool by someone who’d learned from his father: Wyatt Wainwright. His great-grandfather had schooled Wyatt in the game in the same manner a teacher her students. By the time Wyatt was twelve he’d been earning enough money to pay the rent on his parents’ cold water Lower East Side flat.

  Christiane complained bitterly that her father-in-law exposed his grandson to lowlife riffraff whenever he’d taken Jordan with him to pool halls, but the older man had tried to reassure her no harm would come to the boy as long he was with him. Wyatt had carried a registered firearm on his person at all times, and his driver, who doubled as his bodyguard, was also armed.

  You’re going down, baby—hard. Jordan forced a smile that stopped before it reached his eyes. “Instead of two out of three, let’s play a single game.” He took a step, bringing him closer to the table.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure you don’t want a second chance?”

  He slowly shook his head. “No, Zee. You’re going to need a second chance. What if we make a little wager?”

  Aziza went completely still. Jordan had changed the rules. She’d wanted to wager, and he hadn’t. Why now had he changed his mind? “What do you want?”

  “You’ve heard of strip poker?” She nodded. “Well, I propose a game of strip pool. For every ball you miss, I’ll remove an article of your clothing. The same rule applies to me.”

  “What about socks and shoes?”

  “Shoes and socks are included.”

  She went back to chalking her cue. “When I’m finished you’re going to be butt naked. And to show you that I’m a good sport, I’m going to let you break first.”

  Jordan moved into position, resting the cue between the fingers of his left hand. Bending slightly from the knees, he recalled everything his grandfather had taught him. He went still, then in an action too quick for the eye to follow, the white ball made contact, scattering colorful balls over green felt, all finding a home in the pockets.

  Placing the cue stick on the table, he raised his arms in victory. “How you like that?” he taunted, enunciating each word. Winking, he beckoned her. “Come, darling. Let’s see what you’re hiding under that shirt.”

  Aziza backed away from the table. “You’re a ringer!”

  “No, Zee. You’re wrong. What I am is a winner. Now it’s time to pay the piper.”

  She set her cue next to Jordan’
s, then turned and sprinted out of the room, he in pursuit. She’d gotten as far as the door when he swung her up, her feet leaving the floor so quickly she almost lost her breath.

  “No fair, Jordan!”

  He cradled her to his chest. “Yes, fair, Zee. I won, and now it’s time for you to adhere to the rules.”

  Aziza put her arms around his neck in an attempt to keep her balance. His eyes bored into hers, seemingly reading her thoughts. She wasn’t afraid to take her clothes off for Jordan. What was frightening was her inability to remain indifferent around him.

  “Okay. But let me go.” One minute she was in Jordan’s arms and the next she stood in front of him, her hands going to the top button on the tailored shirt she wore over a pair of jeans. A slight gasp escaped her when Jordan stopped her, his fingers tightening around hers.

  “It’s all right, Zee,” he said softly, “you don’t have to undress for me.”

  “What kind of game are you playing?” There was no mistaking her confusion and annoyance.

  “I was testing you to see how far you would go.”

  She gave him a wild-eyed stare, her chest rising and falling heavily. “Test me, Jordan? Who the hell do you think you are to test me? Is it because of the tapes? Did you hear something that made you believe that I’d perhaps said or done something to Kenny Moore that would make him turn on me like a predator stalking prey?”

  Jordan shook his head. “No. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “No!” she flung at him. “You’ve got it all wrong. I thought I’d never be able to trust another man again. And I was beginning to trust you. But then you come out of nowhere with the bait and switch. You laid the ground rules for the game and when I follow through you tell me it’s test.”

  Reaching out, Jordan pulled Aziza to his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head. She was trembling. “Are you angry with me, baby?”

  “I’m more than angry,” she mumbled against his chest. “I’m livid.”

  He smiled. “Good.”

  “Good? What the hell are you talking about, Jordan?”

  “I want you enraged because it is that passion and thirst for revenge that will help me bring Moore to justice. You’ve told me you want to make him pay for nearly ruining your career, but they are just words, Zee. When we talk about charging Moore with sexual harassment, you sound as if we’re talking about the weather. You showed me more emotion when you talked about your clients.”