BECAUSE OF YOU

Because of You
Rochelle Alers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

When readers are asked why they read romance, the reason I hear most often is the family-themed miniseries. I’ve created a few over the years: the Coles, the Blackstones, the Whitfields and the Eatons. But now there is a new family waiting to take center stage—the Wainwrights.

Romance readers first met Jordan Wainwright in Man of Fate from The Best Men series, and got another glimpse of him in the online read Man of Fame.

When I introduced Jordan Wainwright in Man of Fate, I wanted to know why a man born of privilege would walk away from his family’s real estate empire and a prize position with a prestigious New York City law firm to champion the little guy in a community undergoing gentrification. These questions are answered in Because of You, when family secrets surface and rivals must face the truth before it destroys everything they have worked for.

In Because of You we see a very different Jordan, who works hard, plays hard and loves even harder. He is a man who is used to getting what he wants, and when he meets Aziza Fleming, he knows he must have her. Set against the backdrop of the fast-paced, glamorous and edgy chic of Manhattan, the sizzling passion between Jordan and Aziza promises forever.

Look for the Wainwright Legacy to continue with Super Bowl champion quarterback Brandt Wainwright in Here I Am, in early 2011.

Yours in romance,

Rochelle Alers

So she caught him, and kissed him, and with an impudent face said to him, I have peace offerings with me; this day have I paid my vows. Therefore I came forth to meet thee, diligently to seek thy face, and I have found thee.

—Proverbs 7:13–15

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Prologue

“Mr. Humphries?”

Raymond Humphries opened his eyes but didn’t bother to turn around when he heard his personal secretary’s voice. A hint of a smile tilted the corners of his mouth. Minerva Jackson, or Min, as he affectionately referred to her whenever they weren’t in the presence of others, was the love of his life and the keeper of all his business and a few personal secrets.

“What is it, Minerva?”

“Mr. Ennis is here to see you.”

Raymond swiveled in the leather executive chair. The same supple leather also covered the love seat, sofa and chairs next to the mahogany table in an alcove he used for small, intimate meetings. A larger conference room was set up on the first floor of the town house that housed the offices of RLH Realty, Ltd. The three-story structure was one of nearly a hundred buildings RLH owned and managed throughout Harlem. A reporter had dubbed him the “Emperor of Harlem Real Estate,” a sobriquet Raymond modestly accepted.

His large, penetrating dark eyes met a light brown pair that changed color with her mercurial moods. And lately Min’s moods had veered from syrupy sweet to unbridled rage. Maybe, Raymond thought, it was time he let her go—with a generous severance package of course. He would continue to spend time with her, but only away from the office.

“Send him in. And hold my calls.”

Minerva’s full lips parted when she stared at her boss. Raymond Humphries was only her boss at the office. In the bedroom she was boss. He was rapidly approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, yet he looked twenty years younger. His wasn’t tall, only an inch above her five-eight height, but his slim physique and ramrod-straight posture gave him the appearance of being much taller. His personal barber cut his graying hair to camouflage the thinning strands on the crown, and Raymond had a standing weekly appointment for a full body massage and a monthly European facial; the features he’d inherited from his beautiful mother made him almost too pretty for a man. His skin, the color of polished rosewood, was clear and virtually wrinkle-free. The exception were the lines around his eyes when he smiled.

He was the only man she’d known who, once he had begun a regimen, he didn’t vary from it. The year he’d celebrated his sixtieth birthday, he’d begun tennis lessons. Raymond had quickly become addicted to the game, installing an indoor court on the lower level of the brownstone. Minerva cursed the times when he left her bed before dawn to go into the office to practice with his coach.

“But Mrs. Humphries said she will call you back at ten.”

“Tell her I’ll call her back.” That said, Raymond swiveled again, rudely and unceremoniously dismissing his secretary.

“If you say so,” Minerva drawled sarcastically.

“Get out, Minerva!”

The fastidiously dressed middle-aged woman with a flawless café au lait complexion and stylishly coiffed, chemically straightened hair turned on her heels and stomped out of the office of the man who in the past month had changed in front of her eyes like a snake shedding its skin. Even after a snake shed his skin for a new one he’d still retain the behavior of a reptile. However, it wasn’t the same with Raymond Humphries. He may have looked the same, but Raymond had changed. Most of the time he was curt to the point of rudeness, short-tempered and exceedingly condescending. Perhaps, she mused, it was time to move on—to get another job.

Affecting a professional smile, she walked into the reception area. “Mr. Ennis, please follow me.” She escorted the man into her boss’s office. The first time she’d met the man, she’d stood several feet away from him, fearing he would smell. Yet upon closer inspection she had discovered he was clean—it was just his scraggily beard, matted hair and rumpled clothes that reminded her of the homeless man who sat on a wooden box outside a corner store near her subway station.

Donald Ennis pulled back his shoulders in an attempt to appear taller than his five-six stature. “Thank you,” he mumbled, giving the uptight, prissy woman a sidelong glance.

He knew she didn’t like him, and the feeling was mutual. Each time he came to see Raymond Humphries she turned her nose up at him as if he were offal. What Minerva Jackson didn’t know was his unkempt appearance was a foil, a carefully scripted persona for his profession. She didn’t sign his checks, so he couldn’t care less what she thought of him.

Raymond was up on his feet, hand extended, when Donald walked into his office, closing the door softly behind him. “Good morning, Ennis.” He shook his hand, then indicated a chair at the conference table. “Please sit down.”

Donald sat while Raymond stood close by, no doubt watching for his reaction when he stared at the half-dozen black-and-white photographs, some shot with a long-range lens. “What do you want?”

“Do you know who he is?” Raymond asked, answering the question with a question.

“Who doesn’t?” It was another question. It was a game the two men played, matching wits. “Only someone dead or living under the proverbial rock wouldn’t recognize Harlem’s hottest slick-talking shyster lawyer.”

Raymond sat, tapping one of the photographers with his finger. “Slick-talking—yes. Shyster—hell, no. This young boy knows his stuff.”

Donald flashed a rare smile. “He’s smart and ballsy. He proved that when he called out his grandpappy for being a slumlord all the while television cameras were rolling.”

Raymond nodded. “It was a risky move, but fortunately for him it worked. Next month my son-in-law will announce he’s challenging Billy Edwards for his state assembly seat and I don’t want anything to jeopardize that.”

Robert Andrews, married to Raymond’s daughter Diane, was CFO of RLH Realty.

“What does his election bid have to do with Jordan Wainwright?” Donald asked.

“There’s more to Wainwright becoming partner in a Harlem law firm than his reputation for helping the so-called little guy. I believe he staged that televised press conference to embarrass his grandfather, because Wyatt Wainwright is using his grandson as a pawn.” Raymond held up his hand. “And before you ask me for what, I’ll tell you. It isn’t enough that Wainwright Developers Group owns most of the prime real estate on the Upper East and West Side, SoHo, Chelsea and Tribeca. Now they’ve set their sights on Harlem. I don’t know how they did it, but they’ve managed to buy the buildings on one-fourteen right from under our noses. I don’t want Robert embroiled in a real estate war where the fallout could be his losing the election.”

“So, you think the grandson is slumming in Harlem to identify potential parcels for his grandfather?”

“I know he is,” Raymond confirmed. “I want you to use all your resources to keep tabs on Jordan Wainwright 24/7. I want you to report back to me where he goes and who he meets until after the election.”

Donald nodded. “Does he live in Harlem?”

“No. He has a duplex on Fifth Avenue, facing Central Park.”

A beat passed. “That means paying off the doormen. And that’s—”

“Don’t worry about the money,” Raymond interrupted, visibly annoyed with the private investigator. “Just do what I pay you to do. If Robert is able to run a campaign free of scandal and goes on to win the election, then maybe you’ll get that apartment in the building you so badly want as a bonus.”

Donald schooled his expression to not reveal the rush of excitement that made him want to jump for joy. He’d made it known to Raymond that he was saving money in order to purchase an apartment in one of his renovated buildings overlooking the East River. The real estate mogul paid him well whenever he had him investigate something or someone, but the jobs had not come as frequently as they had in the past. He would give Raymond Humphries what he wanted, and then in turn Donald Ennis would give his oversexed, young girlfriend what she wanted: an apartment in Manhattan with a view of the river.

Raymond stood up, Donald rising with him. “Ms. Jackson will give you the envelope with all the data you’ll need on Jordan Wainwright. Next year this time I intend to throw a blowout of a victory celebration for my daughter’s husband. Please don’t disappoint me, Ennis. Leave the photos,” he said when Ennis gathered them off the table. “There’s an extra set in the envelope.” The P.I. knew whenever he picked up an envelope it was sealed with his illegible signature scrawled over the flap—a signature impossible to forge.

He was still standing, staring at the space where the P.I. had been, when Minerva entered his office closing the door and the distance between them. A sensual moue parted her lips. “What are you up to, Slick?”

Raymond froze. It’d been a long time since anyone had called him by his childhood nickname. All the kids from the neighborhood had called him Slick until he married Loretta Clarke. Then, he’d become Mr. Humphries.

Running a finger under Min’s jawbone, he gazed into her beautiful eyes. They were now a dark green. “Go home, put on something real sexy and we’ll have lunch in bed.”

“Are you trying to distract me, Ray?”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“What’s the connection between you, that nasty-looking little man and Jordan Wainwright?”

Raymond lowered his hand. “Some time when you cross the line I usually let it go. This time I’m not. Don’t ever mention Jordan Wainwright’s name to me again.”

“Or you’ll what?” Minerva crooned, her mouth inches from her boss’s.

“I’ll step on you like a bug.”

It took a full minute before she realized the man she’d loved without question was serious. She took a backward step, swallowed the acerbic words burning her tongue and turned on her heels. “I think I’m going to work through lunch and then go home—alone.”

“I really don’t care, Miss Jackson,” he flung at her retreating back. “You can stay, or go home for good. Frankly, I don’t give a damn one way or the other. And if you slam the door you’re fired!” The door closed with a barely perceptible click.

When he’d begun sleeping with Minerva Jackson, Raymond knew he had to be careful not to divulge too much during pillow talk. He’d never mentioned Jordan Wainwright to Min and had no intention of ever discussing him with her. There were some topics that were taboo, and Wyatt Wainwright’s grandson was categorically off-limits when it came to his mistress.

Jordan Wainwright was his and his wife’s business.

Chapter 1

Jordan Wainwright turned the collar to his ski jacket up around his neck and ears as sleet pelted his face and exposed head. He chided himself for not accepting the doorman’s offer to hail a taxi to drive him sixteen blocks to where his parents lived in a Fifth Avenue beaux arts mansion overlooking Central Park.

It was Christmas Eve, and he’d promised his mother he would spend the upcoming week with her, while reconnecting with his sister and brothers. Since joining Chatham and Wainwright, PC, Attorneys at Law, he hadn’t had time to do much socializing. The exception was business-related luncheons or dinner meetings with his partner, Kyle Chatham.

Jordan had hit the snooze button on his love life after a whirlwind summer romance ended. Natasha Parker had returned to culinary school and her estranged husband, whose existence the very talented aspiring chef had neglected to disclose. He’d made it a practice not to date married women and those who were on the rebound. And, whenever Jordan ended a romantic liaison, he was usually reluctant to start up a new one, unlike some men who jumped right back into the hunt.

He’d recently celebrated his thirty-third birthday. And although he hadn’t ruled out any plans to settle down, he wasn’t actively looking for someone with whom he could spend the rest of his life. This didn’t mean he hadn’t kept his options open for a casual relationship.

The cell phone attached to his waistband vibrated. Taking a hand from his jacket pocket, he plucked the phone off his belt, punched a button without looking at the display and announced his standard greeting. “This is Jordan.”

“Where are you, darling?”

“I’m on my way, Mother.”

“Don’t tell me you’re walking.”

Jordan smiled. “Okay, I won’t tell you that I’m walking.”

“Why didn’t you have your doorman hail a taxi?”

“Because I could be at your place by the time he flagged down an empty taxi. Remember, Mother, this is New York and whenever it rains or snows a yellow cab without an off-duty sign becomes as scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“If you hadn’t wanted to take your car out of the garage, then you could’ve called me and I would’ve sent Henry to pick you up.”

“Hang up, Mother, because I’m on your block.”

“You must be chilled to the bone,” Christiane Wainwright cooed.

“A little,” he half lied. “Goodbye, Mother.” Jordan ended the call, mounting the steps to the magnificent building, spanning half a city block, where he’d grown up and still maintained an apartment.

He’d placed his booted foot on the first step to the four-story gray-stone when the massive oak doors festooned with large pine wreaths and red velvet bows opened. “Thank you, Walter.” The formally dressed butler who also doubled as his grandfather’s valet had come to work for the Wainwrights the year Jordan was born. Walter Fagin was one of six full-time, live-in household staff that included a chef, driver, housekeepers and a laundress.

“It’s quite nasty out there, Master Jordan.”

Jordan slipped out of his jacket, handing it to Walter. “If it gets any colder, then we’re definitely going to have a white Christmas.”

The lines around bright blue eyes deepened when the older man smiled. “It’s been a while since New York City has had a white Christmas.”

Sitting in an armchair in the expansive entrance hall, Jordan unlaced his boots, leaving them on a thick rush mat, because he didn’t want to track dirt onto the priceless Persian and Aubusson rugs scattered about the gleaming marble floors. Lifelong habits weren’t easy to forget.

The mansion was decorated for the season: live pine boughs lined the fireplace mantel, as a fire blazed behind a decorative screen. Lighted electric candles were in every window, and the gaily decorated eight-foot Norwegian spruce towered under the brightly lit chandelier that hung from a twenty-foot ceiling. Some of the more fragile glass ornaments on the tree were at least two hundred years old.

He always remembered the lengthy lecture from Christiane Wainwright about rugs and furnishings that had been passed down through generations of Johnstons who’d made their fortunes in shipbuilding, the fur trade and maritime insurance. With the advent of train and air travel, the family had shifted its focus to banking.

When Christiane Renata Johnston had married Edward Lincoln Wainwright at twenty, her net worth was estimated to be close to twelve million dollars. However, Edward was purported to be worth twice that amount when he came into his trust at twenty-five. With the Johnstons and the Wainwrights, it wasn’t who had amassed the most money, but rather whether it was old or new money.

The Johnstons were old money, and the Wainwrights were new money—a fact that Wyatt, the Wainwright patriarch, was never allowed to forget whenever he was with his daughter-in-law’s family.

“Master Jordan, Madame Wainwright has held off serving dinner until you arrive,” the butler announced as Jordan stood up and walked toward the wing of the mansion where the apartments were located.

“Please tell my mother to begin serving without me. I want to get out of these wet clothes,” Jordan said, not breaking stride.

He made his way across the expansive space his parents used as a reception hall whenever they hosted a gathering of less than fifty to an alcove where an elevator would take him to the private apartments.

His grandfather had claimed the entire first floor, Jordan and his brothers Noah and Rhett had bedroom suites on the second floor, his father, mother and sister Chanel had the third floor, and the three suites on the top floor were set aside for houseguests.

It took Jordan less than ten minutes to change out of his slacks and into a pair of charcoal-gray flannel with a black cashmere mock turtleneck sweater and imported slip-ons. Although he’d told Walter to instruct Christiane to begin dinner without him, he knew she would wait for him to put in an appearance. Her mantra was never begin a meal unless everyone was seated at the table. The exception was whenever Edward called to inform her that he would be working late.

He took the staircase instead of the elevator, and, after walking through a narrow hallway to the opposite wing of the house, he entered the brightly lit dining room. It was the smaller of two dining rooms in the mansion. Christiane held family dinners in this room because she claimed it was less formal and more intimate. Who was his mother kidding? A table for sixteen wasn’t what Jordan thought of as intimate. After all, there were six people who lived at the house: his parents, his grandfather, his two brothers and his sister.

Everyone was seated, awaiting his arrival: his mother, father, grandfather, sister, her friend Paige Anderson and his brothers Noah and Rhett. A pretty dark-haired woman with sparkling light brown eyes clung to Rhett as if she feared he would disappear. It was only the second time Jordan could recall Rhett bringing a woman to a family get-together.

Rounding the table, he leaned over, kissing his mother softly on her cheek. “Sorry I’m late.”

Christiane reached up and patted his arm. “That’s okay, darling.” Her shimmering emerald-green eyes met her eldest son’s. There was a hint of laughter in his hazel orbs. “Did you change out of your wet clothes?”

Jordan winked at her. “I changed upstairs.”

He wanted to tell his mother that she had to stop treating him as if he were six years old, but knew it was futile. Christiane said “once a mother, always a mother,” regardless of how old her children were. She was the mother of four and still without grandchildren—something that had become a bane of her existence. Many of the women in her social circle were grandmothers or had married children. Although three of her four children were in their twenties and thirties, none seemed remotely interested in exchanging vows.

“Grandpa,” he said, acknowledging Wyatt Wainwright sitting at the head as the family’s patriarch.

“We’re so glad you decided to drag yourself away from Harlem to visit with your family,” Wyatt drawled facetiously.

“Grandpa, why do you always have to start with Jordan?” Noah Wainwright asked.

“Watch your mouth, son.” Edward Wainwright glared at his middle son, who was his spitting image in every way except temperament. Noah’s mood swings kept everyone off balance and on guard because of his sharp tongue. “After all, we have guests present.”

A pale eyebrow lifted a fraction when twenty-three-year-old Noah leaned back from the table. Shaggy ash-blond hair framed a deeply tanned face. He’d cut short his stay in the Caribbean to return to the States to share Christmas with his family. His blue eyes changed color depending on his mood. Noah was very angry because he’d been coerced into joining the family’s real estate firm after Jordan had refused to take over the reins from their father.

“That has never stopped Grandpa from saying what he had to say.”

Jordan gave Noah a look that he had no trouble interpreting. He wanted his brother to drop it. A barely discernible smile parted Noah’s lips as he nodded. Shifting his gaze, he glared at the elderly man with a shock of thick white hair and sharp, piercing sky-blue orbs that hadn’t faded despite having lived seven decades. The coal-black eyebrows of his youth remained. The less he said to Wyatt the better it was for grandfather and grandson. He nodded to the young woman sitting beside his youngest brother. Rhett would celebrate his twenty-first birthday in another month, and he was just beginning to assert himself.

Taking his seat, he leaned to his right and pressed a kiss to his sister’s hair. “What’s up, Charlie?”

Chanel Wainwright flushed a bright pink. Jordan had promised never to call her Charlie within earshot of their mother. “Don’t call me that around Mother,” she whispered with clenched teeth.

Jordan wanted to tell his sister that if their mother hadn’t named her children after a character from Gone with the Wind and her favorite fragrance, she wouldn’t have a problem explaining her name.

“Hi, Jordan,” said a soft girlish voice.

He leaned forward, smiling at Paige. “Hello, Paige. Where are your parents?”

“It’s all right, Jordan,” Christiane said, as she signaled for the first course to be served. “Paige’s folks went to Monte Carlo for the holiday and I told them Paige could stay with us rather than with a sitter.”

Jordan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn’t and would never understand why people had children only to hand them over to a nanny or sitter, while they continued to live their lives as if by their leave. Only parents without a conscience would leave their only child—a sixteen-year-old girl—with the family of her friend to fly across an ocean to gamble and party on the French Riviera.

When—no, if—he married and had a family, he would make certain to play an active role in the lives of his children. That was where Christiane differed from her peers; she hadn’t left child-rearing to nannies, housekeepers or au pairs. Her face was the first one Jordan had seen when he woke up and the last one before he’d closed his eyes at night. Even Edward had become a more involved parent. Jordan didn’t agree with everything his parents said or did, but there was never a question as to their unwavering support when it concerned their children.

The mood lightened considerably after several glasses of wine accompanied by asparagus soup, a radicchio, fennel and walnut salad, rib eye roast with a mustard and black peppercorn sauce, winter greens with pancetta and potatoes au gratin. Chanel and Paige asked to be excused before dessert was served. The chef had outdone himself when he’d prepared Apple Charlotte with whipped cream.

Jordan was amused when Rhett, who was not yet legal, refilled his wineglass. He knew his brother had begun drinking before he’d celebrated his twenty-first birthday, but usually not in front of their parents. He, on the other hand, had raided the liquor cabinet at fourteen and had drunk so much that he had been sick for more than a week. It was another ten years before he took another drink.

“Jordan, are you currently dating anyone?” Christiane asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Tracing the rim of the wineglass with a forefinger, he stared at the prisms of color on the glass reflected from the chandelier. “No, Mother.”

“Didn’t you tell me you were seeing a girl?” Edward said, accepting a cigar from the engraved silver case Wyatt had handed him. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I was,” Jordan said truthfully, “but it was nothing more than a summer fling.”

Christiane sat up straighter. “Who was she, darling? Do I know her family?”

A pregnant pause ensued before he said, “Her name is Natasha Parker, and I doubt whether you’d know her family.”

All traces of color disappeared from his mother’s face, leaving it frighteningly pale. “Not that girl who worked with Jean-Paul for a few days.” Her words were a breathless whisper.

“She’s a woman, not a girl, Mother.”

Wyatt did something he rarely did in the dining room. He lit his cigar, inhaled deeply and blew out a perfect smoke ring. A gray haze obscured the sneer around his mouth. “It didn’t take long, did it, Jordan? I had no idea you liked dark meat. But then I really shouldn’t be surprised, because what else is there in Harlem.”

Noah flashed a white-tooth smile. “Does she have a sister?”

“Don’t you mean a brother?” Wyatt drawled.

Touching the corners of his mouth with a damask napkin, Noah pushed back his chair and stood up. He pointed to his parents. “Now you see why I don’t bring a woman into this.” He shifted his angry gaze to Rhett. “Get your girlfriend out of here before she finds herself with a bull’s-eye on her back.”

The young woman whom Rhett had introduced as Amelia pressed a hand to her chest. “Please don’t mind me. I grew up with my folks going at each other like cats and dogs. After a while, I learned to tune them out.”

Jordan joined Noah when he, too, stood up. “Excuse me.”

Turning on his heels, he walked out of the dining room, his brother following in his footsteps. He knew if he’d stayed what would’ve ensued would have been an argument that would have been certain to pit him and Noah against their parents and grandfather. Edward was fifty-five, yet he still hadn’t been able to stand up to his tyrannical, controlling father. Wyatt had clawed his way out of poverty on New York City’s Lower East Side to create a real estate dynasty second only to Douglas Elliman in New York City, and now at seventy-eight, he was tough as steel and wasn’t above using his fists when necessary to prove a point.

“When are you going to learn not to entertain Grandfather’s taunting?” he asked Noah.

“I just can’t stand it when he comes off so condescending. And just because I won’t subject a woman to his holier-than-thou attitude he thinks I’m gay.”

“He is who he is,” Jordan said, taking the spiral staircase instead of the elevator to the second floor and their suites. “After I had that dust-up with him last year I made myself a promise never to let him see me that angry again.”

“How do you hold your temper?”

Jordan pushed open the door to his apartment that included an en suite bath, dressing room, living/dining room area and a utility kitchen. He probably would’ve lived in the mansion until he married if he hadn’t had such an angry confrontation with his grandfather. The apartment suite afforded him complete privacy, and a full-time household staff was on hand to provide him with whatever he needed regardless of the day or the hour. However, purchasing the maisonette less than a mile away gave him something he hadn’t been able to achieve living under the same roof as his family—independence. Noah preceded him, flopping down on a club chair with a matching footstool, while he draped his long frame over a sofa.

“Remember, Noah, I’ve got ten years and a lot more experience, and with that comes maturity. I learned more working as a litigator protecting the interest of well-heeled clients than I had in three years of law school. And now working in Harlem with clients whose needs are as great or even greater than those at Trilling, Carlyle and Browne has forced me to examine who I am and what I want for my future.”

“What do you want, Jordan?”

“I want the best for the clients of Chatham and Wainwright.”

Noah gave him a long, penetrating stare. Ten years his senior, Jordan was considered tall, dark and handsome. His black hair and olive coloring was a dramatic contrast in a family where everyone was blond. However, whenever he saw photographs of their grandfather in his youth, the resemblance between Wyatt and Jordan was uncanny. Wyatt Wainwright had been quite the rake with his raven hair and penetrating blue eyes.

“What about your personal life?” he questioned again.

“What about it, Noah?”

“Don’t you want to get married? Start a family?”

Jordan rested his head on folded arms as he lay across the sofa. “I suppose I do one of these days.”

“Why are you so ambivalent?”

“I’m not ambivalent. It’s just that I haven’t met the right woman.”

“You haven’t met the right woman and I have.”

Sitting up as if he were pulled by a taut wire, Jordan planted his feet on the carpet. “Who is she?”

“You’ll meet her if you come down to the Bahamas with me.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow night. I’m not coming back until January the third.”

Jordan shook his head. “I wish I could. I promised Brandt I would attend his New Year’s Eve party.” Their professional football player cousin hosted a New Year’s Eve bash at his penthouse every two years.

“Damn! I forgot about that,” Noah said under his breath. “Well, maybe you’ll meet her another time. Now, tell me about your summer liaison.”

Leaning back, Jordan stared at objects in the room that were as familiar as the back of his hand: the suede and leather seating grouping, the marble fireplace with the mantelpiece lined with family photographs, the floor-to-ceiling windows with glorious views of Central Park. As a child he’d spent countless hours sitting on the padded window seats watching the change of seasons.

The park had become his personal playground when he’d ice skated at Wollman Rink and walked the 86th Street transverse road to the West Side to visit the American Museum of National History several times a month.

It was at the Museum of the City of New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Natural History, where he’d lost himself in art and history, where he’d escaped the orderly life his mother had created to mold him into someone he hadn’t wanted to be. Christiane Wainwright had wanted him to attend the boarding school where countless Johnston men had received an exemplary education. But it was Jordan’s first memory of his father asserting his authority when he told his wife that he refused to warehouse his son in a drafty New England school where he would act and react like a robot instead of a six-year-old boy. He’d been quick to remind her that their son was a Wainwright, not a Johnston. His parents had finally reached a compromise, and he had been enrolled in a prestigious Upper East Side preparatory school, where all of the students arrived and were picked up in chauffeur-driven limousines.

Life as Jordan knew it changed the year he’d celebrated his tenth birthday. With Noah’s birth he was no longer an only child. Rhett was born less than two years later, and Chanel five years later. He was seventeen when his sister was born, and her birth was a mixture of delight and sadness for Jordan. The joy of having a baby sister had softened him. But because he’d left for college, then enrolled in law school he’d missed seeing her first steps, hearing her talk in sentences and other important milestones during the first seven years of her life.

“Jordan!”

He jumped as if coming out a trance. “What’s up?”

A frown marred Noah’s handsome features. “I asked you about Natasha Parker.”

Jordan closed his eyes. “There’s not much to tell. She needed money for tuition for her last year in culinary school, so I hired her to teach me to cook—”

“Did you learn how to cook?” Noah interrupted, smiling.

He nodded. “I can put together a nice breakfast and grill steaks and fish. We got close, real close, but we both knew it was going to end once she returned to school.”

“Where’s she in school?”

“Rhode Island.”

“Come on, Jordan. It’s not as if Rhode Island is halfway across the country. You could still see her.”

Jordan shook his head. “No, I can’t. She’s married. I didn’t know it at the time, but she and her husband were separated.”

“When did you find out?”

“He was involved in an accident, and that’s when she told me.”

“Were you in love with her?”

The sweep hand on the clock on the mantelpiece made a full revolution before Jordan spoke again. “No. If I was, I would’ve fought to keep her. What’s up with you asking if she had a sister?”

Noah closed his eyes for several seconds, long pale lashes brushing the top of his cheekbones. “I don’t have a particular type when it comes to women.”

Attractive lines fanned out around Jordan’s eyes when he smiled. “I take it you like a little diversity.”

“It’s more than a little, big brother.”

Jordan sat up, leaned over and bumped fists with his brother. He knew instinctually when Noah did decide to marry, the woman he would choose was certain to change the complexion of the family in more ways than one.

The brothers talked for hours about the women they’d dated and those they wished they hadn’t. It was close to ten when Noah retreated to his own apartment and Jordan went into the bathroom to shower before climbing into bed. He was asleep within minutes of his head touching the pillow. He’d promised his mother he would spend the week with her, but chided himself for giving into her plea that she didn’t see him enough. He loved Christiane, but could only take his grandfather in small doses. Hopefully the week would go quickly, and after the first of the year he wouldn’t be obligated to hang out with his family again until the Easter break.

Chapter 2

Aziza Fleming pulled the cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders before settling back against the Town Car’s leather seat. It was New Year’s Eve and she was on her way to a party when she wanted nothing more than to be at home, in front of the television watching the ball drop, while toasting the new year with a glass of champagne.

Instead of stockings, a pair of designer stilettos, a dress that revealed more than it concealed, she would’ve preferred a pair of lounging pajamas and thick cotton socks. However, she’d caved when her brother threatened to come to Westchester and forcibly drag her out of the house to attend a party hosted by his pro ball teammate on New Year’s Eve at an Upper East Side penthouse.

Her brother Alexander Fleming claimed she worked too hard and was alone much too much. But what her football player brother failed to realize or understand was that she was content being alone. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t find a date—if she needed one. It was that she didn’t want to date anyone. She had a career she loved, owned a house in a community she liked and enjoyed decorating it, and most of all she’d learned to love herself.

At thirty-one she was five years older than Al, as most people called him, but he’d appointed himself her protector. Aziza constantly reminded him that she could take care of herself; however, as the only girl with two older brothers and one younger she had grown up very much the tomboy. She could fend for herself, whether it was with words or, on rare occasions, with fists. Her father had insisted she take martial arts training along with his rough-and-tumble sons.

She still fought, but now it was for her clients: women contemplating divorce, seeking custody of their children or pursuing delinquent child support or alimony payments. All of her clients were women, but there was one exception: Brandt Wainwright. The high-profile superstar NFL quarterback, who roomed with her brother whenever they played away games, had hired her to handle his legal affairs. If it had been anyone other than Brandt hosting the New Year’s Eve gathering, she would still be sitting in her family room staring at a wall-mounted flat-screen television—her Christmas present to herself—rather than in the back of a limo.

Aziza closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the supple leather seat. It was minutes after ten, and in less than two hours it would be a new year. She rarely made New Year’s resolutions, and this year was the same. The first and only time she had, it was to marry her high school sweetheart. The man she’d loved had turned into someone and something else within minutes of their exchanging vows.

Lamar Powers believed that wearing his ring and taking his name was a symbol of ownership. What he’d failed to realize was that growing up with three brothers, Aziza had been forced to assert herself. Unfortunately their fairy-tale romance had ended before it had a chance to begin. She’d tried to make a go of her marriage, but it ended after a year.

The smooth motion of the wheels suddenly stopped, and she opened her eyes. The drive from Bronxville to Manhattan had ended much more quickly than she’d anticipated. The driver had pulled up in front of a towering high-rise in the fifties between First and Second avenues. The glowing numbers on the vehicle’s dashboard showed the time. It was 11:16 p.m.

The rear door opened and she placed her hand on the driver’s outstretched palm, as he gently pulled her to her feet. Aziza flashed a warm smile. “Thank you.”

The driver’s dark eyes lingered briefly on the long shapely legs in sheer black hose and the stilettos that made her legs look even longer than they were under the fitted black wool gabardine dress with a generous front slit. “Just call me when you’re ready to leave.”

Aziza smiled. “I will.”

Alexander had arranged for the driver to pick her up and take her back home once she was ready. She’d told him that she hadn’t wanted to come into Manhattan, yet her protests had fallen on deaf ears. Once her brother set his mind to something, it would take a minor miracle for him to change it. Rather than engage in a verbal exchange with Alexander, she’d given in. Besides, what did she have to lose by leaving the house for a couple of hours? Partying with jocks wasn’t something she liked or looked forward to, yet she’d always enjoyed Brandt Wainwright’s company.

The elevator doors opened and Aziza walked into the penthouse with its panoramic views of the East River and bridges linking the island of Manhattan with the other boroughs. A slight smile parted her lips. Everyone was wearing the ubiquitous black. Dimmed recessed lights and dozens of candles provided a sensual backdrop to music coming from concealed speakers. She guessed there had to be at least sixty people milling around the expansive entryway and great room, but then a roar of laughter went up from another area beyond where she stood. Although Brandt had invited her to his home in the past, she’d always declined, deciding it was better not to mix business with pleasure. She walked into the space that took up two top floors of the opulent high-rise.

Removing her shawl, she folded it and draped the cashmere wrap over her left arm. She spied Alexander as he leaned down to hear what an attractive woman with a profusion of braided hair brushing her bare shoulders was saying to him. Whatever it was must have been funny, because he threw back his head and laughed loudly. Aziza smiled, although she couldn’t overhear what they were saying. Her brother, who was chocolate eye candy, and could lay claim to above-average intelligence and a quick wit, never failed to attract the opposite sex.

“How long have you been here?”

Turning, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled up at Brandt Wainwright. The quarterback had become the NFL’s latest heartthrob, appearing on the covers of most men’s and sports magazines. Nicknamed the “Viking,” because of his long ash-blond hair and piercing sky-blue eyes, Brandt garnered attention from legions of women wherever he went. He loved women and they loved him back. Dressed in street clothes, he appeared taller and larger than he did in uniform. Standing six-five and weighing in at two hundred fifty-five pounds, Brandt Wainwright was an imposing figure of rock-hard muscle. Even the black pullover and slacks failed to mask the power in his athletic physique.

“I just walked in.”

Brandt angled his head and kissed her cheek. “That’s good, because I threatened to fire anyone on staff if I didn’t see every guest with a glass or a plate of food.” Raising his hand, he beckoned a young woman balancing a tray with glasses filled with colorful concoctions. Taking a glass, he handed it to Aziza. “I know you like amaretto sours.”

She shifted the tiny silk evening purse to her left hand, their fingers brushing when she accepted the glass. “Thank you.” Aziza took a sip of the cocktail, smiling at her host over the rim of the glass. “It’s perfect.”

Reaching out, Brandt took her upper arm and steered her out of the living room and down a wide hallway to another wing of the penthouse. “Come with me. I want to introduce you to my cousin. I told him about you and your sexual harassment case.”

Aziza stopped. “How did you know about that?” Only Alexander knew about her plan to sue a former employer for sexual harassment.

“Al told me when I asked why you didn’t work for some firm in the city. But, don’t worry about my cousin. He’s one of the best litigators in the city,” he explained quickly. “And, there is no doubt he will be able to help you win your suit.”

“My case aside, if your cousin is an attorney, why did you ask me to represent you?” she asked.

She practically had to shout to be heard over the sound of voices raised in laughter when they entered a room that was as large as some multiplex movie theater. Reclining black leather chairs were lined up theater-style in front of a high-definition wall-mounted screen that was as least seventy inches. A powerful sound system blared music from one of the channels with images of partygoers gyrating to a popular dance tune filling the screen.

Brandt’s expression changed, becoming impassive. “I try not to involve family in my personal business. The attorney I had on retainer before I hired you, who happens to be a very distant cousin, had a habit of talking to the press. I had to remind him that he was my lawyer, not my publicist. But I suppose his obsession for fifteen minutes of fame cost him a client and my friendship. Even though I can’t change the fact that we’re related, I do have the option of not having to deal with him.” He rested a hand on the back of a man in a black mohair jacket, interrupting the conversation between his cousin and one of his teammates. “Excuse me, Donnie, but I need to talk to Jordan for a few minutes.”

It wasn’t until the tall, slender man with short-cropped black hair turned around that Aziza was able to connect the name Wainwright with the man who’d become something of a local celebrity around Harlem.

Smiling, she said, “I never thought I would have the pleasure of meeting the ‘Sheriff of Harlem.’”

A rush of color darkened Jordan Wainwright’s face. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the sobriquet after he’d won a landlord-tenant case that had garnered national attention.

Jordan hesitated for several seconds as the beautiful woman standing less than a foot away shifted her cocktail to her left hand before he extended his. She was so breathtakingly beautiful that he’d found himself at a loss for words. Recovering quickly, a smile parted his lips.

“Jordan Wainwright.”

Aziza grasped the long slender hand that tightened slightly around her fingers before Jordan eased the slight pressure. Her gaze was drawn to his firm mouth when he smiled. His teeth were white and perfectly aligned. She knew people who paid orthodontists thousands of dollars to have teeth like his.

His face was as perfect as his teeth. A lean jaw, strong chin, high cheekbones, sweeping, arching eyebrows and large jewel-like hazel eyes that seemingly didn’t look at her, but through her. She was mesmerized.

“Aziza Fleming.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “So, you’re Al Fleming’s sister.”

She nodded. “That I am.”

Brandt slapped Jordan’s back again. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Jordan, if Aziza needs anything, please make certain she gets it.”

Jordan nodded as he tucked the slender hand into the bend of his elbow. Not only did Aziza Fleming look good, but she also smelled delicious. If he were given three guesses as to what she did for a living, he would’ve struck out. He never would’ve thought she was an attorney.

She was tall, even without the stilettos. He was six-two in bare feet and Jordan estimated Aziza had to be at least five-eight or nine without the sexy heels. Her hair was dark, thick and brushed off her face and secured into a loose ponytail behind her left ear. He moved closer and went completely still. The asymmetrical neckline of her dress hadn’t prepared him for the wide bands crisscrossing her back to reveal an expanse of flawless brown skin from nape to waist. Aziza Fleming’s round, doll-like face with a hint of a dimpled chin, large round eyes that tilted at the corners and a full, lush mouth had him completely enthralled.

“I see that you have a drink, but have you eaten?” he asked her.

Aziza knew not to drink anything alcoholic without eating, or she would find herself slightly tipsy. “No, I haven’t. And I make it a habit never to drink on an empty stomach.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll make certain you get something to eat before we talk.”

She walked alongside Jordan as they made their way down another wide hallway. “What did Brandt tell you about me?”

“All he said was that you handled his legal affairs, but it was Al who mentioned that you had a pending lawsuit against a former employer for sexual harassment.”

Aziza groaned inwardly. “I wish he hadn’t said anything.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Jordan released her hand, placing his at the small of her back. She stiffened against his splayed fingers for several seconds before relaxing. “Why didn’t you want him to say anything? Whatever you tell me will be confidential.”

Aziza gave Jordan a sidelong glance, silently admiring his patrician features. It had been a long time, much too long, since she’d found herself attracted to a man. There was something about his striking looks that radiated sensuality, recklessness and danger. He had proven that when he’d stood in front of television cameras to enumerate the building violations in his family-owned properties.

“That would apply if I were your client and you were my attorney.”

Jordan smiled. “You’re right about that. But try to think of this as an unofficial consultation. I’ve handled several harassment cases and, fortunately, won them, so maybe I can give you a few pointers to help you out.”

“If it’s all right with you I’d rather not discuss my business here,” Aziza said softly. It wasn’t that she was paranoid, but she couldn’t run the risk that someone would overhear their conversation. After all, there were a lot people in the penthouse, and there was a saying about the walls having ears.

Jordan led Aziza into a room that Brandt had set up as his library and home office. After he touched a dimmer switch on the wall, the space was flooded with light. His gaze lingered on the skin on her back when she walked into the library. Whatever she’d used on her body had left a sprinkling of shiny particles that shimmered like gold dust.

Al Fleming had mentioned his sister had been sexually harassed, and Jordan believed that any man who forced his attention on a woman was in the same category as deviant sexual predators.

But he could easily see why a man would come onto Aziza Fleming. The woman was sexy without even trying. Her face, slender, curvy body and shapely legs that seemed to go on forever were enough to elicit dreams that were unabashedly erotic in nature.

“We’ll talk, but not about your case. Please make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Thank you.”

Aziza felt a sense of relief. Jordan hadn’t tried to pressure her into divulging the details of her impending lawsuit. And although Jordan Wainwright looked nothing like the men to whom she usually found herself attracted, there was something about his understated sophistication that she was drawn to.

Setting the glass down on a side table, Aziza strolled around the room that was lined with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves on opposite walls. The instant she’d met Brandt Wainwright, she’d realized he was what she called the trifecta: face, body and brains. He’d graduated with degrees in business and economics, but it was professional football that had become his calling and passion. The former Stanford University star and Heisman Trophy runner-up had been drafted by the NFL and had signed to a three-year contract for an unheard-of amount for a rookie quarterback.

The library furnishings were not what one would expect of a professional athlete. There were no trophies or pictures with celebs, framed newspaper stories or magazine covers. It appeared lived in, a place where Brandt came to read and relax. Dark brown leather chairs and a love seat, a massive mahogany antique desk, a leather desk chair, neutral colored walls and a sisal rug seemed better suited for a businessman. Brandt had once said that if he hadn’t become a professional athlete, he would’ve gone to work in his family’s real estate firm.

Aziza crossed the room and stood at the window, staring down at the traffic and pedestrians who looked like miniature toys. It was a mild New York City New Year’s Eve with temperatures in the mid-forties, and that made for larger-than-usual crowds of partygoers.

Her gaze lingered on the dark surface of the East River before shifting to the rooftops of buildings with water towers and heating and cooling units. There had been a time when Aziza loved commuting into the city from her Westchester home. It was during the half-hour train ride and the ten-minute walk from Grand Central station to the Park Avenue office building on Thirty-Second Street that she’d mentally reviewed the cases she was working on or planned her day.

As a thirty-one-year-old, childless divorcée, her only responsibility and focus was her career. She’d lived and breathed the law, and her ex had accused her of loving her work more than she’d loved him. No matter what she’d said or did, it hadn’t been enough to change Lamar’s mind, and in the end she’d stopped trying.

His attempt to control her life, while quietly sabotaging her career, had left her with no choice but to break off the relationship. It hadn’t been easy. Not when they’d been together since grammar school, throughout high school, college and then law school. Once she’d left Lamar, Aziza felt as if she’d lost a limb—a diseased limb that had to be amputated, or the poison would kill her spirit.

Don’t let anyone kill your spirit, or take your joy. She’d grown up with her grandmother’s wisdom. And when she’d told her Nana that Lamar was killing her spirit, Emma Fleming’s advice had been to walk away and not look back, and that was what she’d done.

Aziza shook her head. She wished she could erase the memory of Lamar as easily as hitting the delete key. She didn’t know why, but she hadn’t thought of him in more than a year.

Why now? she mused.

Why now when she finally had a successful law practice?

Why now when she’d completed renovating her home to suit her personal taste and lifestyle?

“What are you doing hiding out here?”

Aziza turned to find the broad shoulders belonging to her brother Alexander Fleming filling out the doorway. “Hey, you,” she crooned, approaching him, arms out-stretched. “I saw you when I came in, but you were busy with a very pretty sister with braided hair.”

Alexander flashed a slow smile, his dimples dotting his lean face like thumbprints. He hugged Aziza, while pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t get any ideas, Zee. She’s Damien Harvey’s girlfriend.” He kissed her again, this time on the forehead. “Thanks for coming.”

“Did I have a choice? You’d threatened me with bodily harm.”

Alexander laughed. “The only harm would’ve been the way you’d look if I had to go into Neanderthal mode and carry you over my back to bring you here.” He winked at his sister. “I must say you clean up very nicely.”

She returned his wink. “Thank you.”

Standing back, Aziza studied her brother’s face. He had classic good looks with strong masculine features and large eyes that were an odd shade of gray—eyes he’d inherited from their paternal grandmother, Emma Fleming.

Resting her hands on the lapels of his black wool jacket, she angled her head. “Where’s your woman?”

Alexander’s expression changed as if he was trying to conceal his innermost feelings. “I’ve decided to start the year solo.”

“What about Cynthia? I thought the two of you were getting serious.”

Shoving his hands in his pants pockets, the MVP defensive end stared at the lights on the bridges spanning the river. “We split up. Unfortunately, Cynthia is drama personified. Things would’ve been okay if she didn’t have to run everything we said or did past her girlfriends.” His eyes met his sister’s. “What’s up with women spilling their guts about what goes on between them and their man?”

Aziza held up her hands. “Please, don’t lump me in that category. I only have two girlfriends, and we never discuss our men or lack thereof.”

“I know you told me you’re not interested in getting married again, but what about dating?”

“What about it, Al?” She’d answered his question with a question.

“One of the guys on the team told me that he’d like to take you out once the season is over, but I told him I can’t speak for my sister.”

“You approve?”

“He’s all right.”

Aziza pondered her brother’s response. If she was going to date someone, he had to be better than all right. “Don’t tell me he’s coming out of a bad relationship, because if he is then I’m not the one.”

Alexander exhaled an audible sigh. “Other than an occasional baby mama drama, he’s a good guy.”

“No, Al. Forget it. I’m not getting involved with some man with a psycho ex-girlfriend. Call me selfish, but if I’m not a baby mama, then I’m not going to put up with it. Why don’t you guys marry these women when you get them pregnant? It would prevent a lot of problems.”

“Back it up, Zee. I’m not a baby daddy.”

“I’m not talking about you, Al. How many guys on your team are paying out huge chunks of money for child support? Probably too many to count,” she said, answering her own questions. “Wouldn’t it be easier to get married and take care of their wives and children without all the drama?”

Alexander recognized the look in Aziza’s eyes. He’d seen it enough to know that she was ready to go off on a rant about how a lot of men couldn’t be trusted. He knew she’d soured on marriage because the man she’d believed she knew had turned into someone she didn’t really know, and her mistrust in men was exacerbated whenever female clients came to her with their custody or child support or sexual harassment problems. He’d been shocked when she’d agreed to become Brandt Wainwright’s legal counsel. Brandt was her only male client.

“What do you want me to tell him?” Alexander asked.

“Is he here tonight?”

Her brother nodded.

“If that’s the case then I’ll tell him myself.”

“No, Zee. I don’t need you to get in his face and lecture him about his responsibilities. I’ll tell him you’re currently seeing someone.”

“Whatever,” she drawled. “You know I’m not into stroking the egos of overgrown…” Her words trailed off when she detected movement behind her.

“I’m sorry. I’ll come back.” Jordan Wainwright had walked into the library holding a bottle of champagne and two flutes, as a waiter stood behind him with a tray balanced on one shoulder.

Alexander beckoned. “Come on in, Jordan. I was just leaving.” He turned back to Aziza, kissing her cheek. “Don’t forget to save me a dance.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

Alexander had told her there would be dancing in the penthouse atrium, and she’d promised to dance with him at least once before leaving. Ever since he’d been a contestant on Dancing with the Stars, Alexander had become a dancing dynamo. During the off-season, he’d taken up ballroom dancing. It had been hard to imagine her six-four, two-hundred-twenty-pound brother tiptoeing across a dance floor until the show had aired. Not only was he light on his feet, but also graceful.

He’d also gotten her to take dancing lessons while she was going through her divorce. Spending hours on the dance floor was the perfect antidote to her pity party, and like her brother, she’d discovered she was hooked. She still took lessons at a local dance studio several days a week. The dance workout was a substitute for jogging during the winter months and had helped tone her body.

Alexander approached Jordan. “Thanks for agreeing to help Zee out,” he said.

“I’ll do what I can,” Jordan replied in a low voice.

Aziza stood off to the side, watching as the waiter set up a table, covered it with a tablecloth and a platter filled with an assortment of crudités and hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. She hadn’t meant to go off on her brother, but she’d grown tired of the behavior exhibited by so many professional athletes. Most of the time they were let off with a slap on the wrist because they were star athletes.

“That’s a lot of food,” she said to Jordan when he took her hand and led her to the love seat.

Jordan sat down beside Aziza. “It just looks like a lot. Besides, I haven’t eaten all day, so I doubt if any of it will go to waste.”

She leaned to her right, and her bare shoulder brushed against his jacket. Aziza stared at Jordan, noticing for the first time the length of his lashes. It’s not fair, she thought. Women spent a lot of money for false eyelashes while Jordan Wainwright was born with lashes that were not only thick but long.

“How did you get special service?” she whispered as the waiter uncorked the champagne with barely an audible pop.

Tilting his head at an angle, Jordan gave her a wink. “It helps when you have the same last name as the man hosting tonight’s fête.”

Aziza couldn’t help but smile. “So, are you saying being a Wainwright has its privileges?”

“It does,” he admitted modestly. “But so does being a Fleming.”

She sobered quickly. “Al’s the celebrity in the family, not me.”

“I could say the same about Brandt.”

Aziza shook her head. “You can’t be that self-effacing, Jordan. Not after that stunt you pulled on TV.”

She couldn’t believe that Jordan, who’d represented a Harlem tenant’s committee, had announced at a news conference that the owner of several buildings with numerous housing violations was his grandfather. Headlines referred to him as the Sheriff of Harlem. When he’d become a partner at Chatham Legal Services, most of the local politicos turned out to welcome him to the neighborhood as one of their own.

Jordan stared at his highly polished shoes. “I did what I had to do for my clients.” His head came up and he gave Aziza a direct stare. “I’m certain you do the same for your clients.”

The seconds ticked as she met his penetrating stare. “Of course I do.”

A hint of a smile softened his firm mouth. “Good. That’s one thing we can agree on.”

Green-flecked irises moved slowly from Aziza’s delicate face to her bare shoulders. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to press his mouth to her skin to see if she tasted as good as she looked.

Jordan knew it wasn’t going to be easy to remain unaffected around Aziza Fleming. Her beautiful face, gorgeous body and intelligence would certainly test his professional integrity. What he had to do was think of her as his client. Not only couldn’t he cross the line, but he was determined not to cross the line.

“What does Aziza mean?” He had to say something—anything except stare at her as if she were something to be devoured.

Aziza lowered her gaze, her eyes fixed on Jordan’s strong neck. He’d worn a mock turtleneck under his jacket. He was the epitome of casual sophistication.

“It’s Swahili for precious.”

“The name is perfect.” His words sounded neutral in tone.

“Mr. Wainwright, do you want me to pour the champagne?”

The waiter’s question shattered Jordan’s fantasy. “Yes, please,” he said, as he continued to stare at Aziza’s lush lips.

He took a flute of pale bubbly wine from the waiter, handed it to Aziza, then took the remaining one, holding it aloft. He waited until the waiter left the library, closing the door behind him. Jordan touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to a successful working relationship.”

Aziza lowered her lashes, unaware of the seductiveness of the gesture. She felt as if she was being sucked into a vortex from which there was no escape. Jordan Wainwright looked nothing like the men to whom she found herself attracted. Yet there was something about him that was so masculine, so sensual that she found it almost impossible to control the butterflies in her stomach. Raising the flute, she took a sip of champagne. It was an excellent vintage.

“Would you mind if I serve you?” Jordan asked after he’d taken a sip from his flute.

She swallowed, nodding. “Yes, please.”

Reaching over, he picked up a cocktail napkin and then a toast point covered with Almas pearly white beluga caviar. Holding the napkin under her chin, Jordan watched as she took a bite. “How is it?”

With wide eyes Aziza savored the lingering taste on her tongue. “It’s incredible.” She opened her mouth and then closed it when Jordan popped the remaining piece into his mouth.

“It is delicious,” he agreed, chewing slowly.

“Hey! That was mine.”

Leaning closer, he pressed a kiss to her ear. “There’s plenty more where that came from.” Jordan went completely still when he heard cheers coupled with the distinctive sound of exploding fireworks. He’d become so engrossed with Aziza that he’d lost track of time. He angled his head and slanted his mouth over Aziza’s slightly parted lips. “Happy New Year.”

Chapter 3

Aziza felt the soft brush of Jordan’s mouth on hers. It was more a mingling of champagne and caviar-scented breaths than an actual kiss.

“Happy New Year, Jordan,” she whispered, praying he wouldn’t feel the runaway beating of her heart slamming against her ribs.

There was a tradition that said the person you find yourself with on New Year’s Eve when the clock strikes midnight will be the one you would spend the year with. She didn’t know Jordan Wainwright. And she hadn’t wanted to get to know him that well and didn’t want to know if or whether he was involved with a woman. And even if he wasn’t, she didn’t have time for a man—not when she’d just gotten her life back on track.

Sitting up straight, Jordan smiled, recognizing the expression of surprise freezing Aziza’s features. “Are you all right?”

She blinked. “I’m good. Really.”

Jordan drained his flute. “We should’ve been with the others counting down the seconds.”

“It’s okay. If I hadn’t been here I would’ve been home dressed in my most comfortable jammies watching the ball drop.”

Jordan’s expressive eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Alone?”

A smile crinkled the skin around Aziza’s eyes. “Is that a subtle way of asking me whether I’m involved with someone?”

“I’d like to believe I was being direct,” he countered.

“Well, counselor, the answer to your very direct question is no.” She shifted slightly on the love seat until they were facing each other. “What about you? If you weren’t here, where would you be?”

“Probably in the Caribbean with my brother and his girlfriend.”

It was Aziza’s turn to lift her eyebrows. “What about your girlfriend?”

“My, my, my, counselor. Aren’t you direct.”

“That’s the only way I know how to be, counselor,” Aziza countered with a grin.

“The answer is I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Why not, Jordan? You seem like a nice guy.”

Jordan was hard-pressed not to laugh at Aziza’s crestfallen expression. Did she really feel sorry for him? “Thank you. But it’s been said that nice guys usually finish last.”

There he was again, Aziza mused. She didn’t understand Jordan’s self-deprecation. “I don’t believe that. Nice guys may not choose wisely at times, but that doesn’t mean they always wind up on the losing end.”

“So you say there’s hope for me?”

Picking up her flute, she sipped her champagne, staring at Jordan over the rim. The illumination from the lamp on a side table slanted over his lean face, and in that moment she sucked in her breath. His eyes were now a rich mossy green.

“You don’t need hope, Jordan. You’re the total package.” A rush of color darkened his face with her compliment. “Are you blushing?”

Jordan glanced away. “Men don’t blush.” Reaching for the bottle, he refilled his glass. “What else would you like?” he asked, gesturing to the tray with prosciutto-wrapped breadsticks, stone wheat crackers, oysters, quail eggs, tiger shrimp, sushi, lobster and crabmeat and a variety of cheeses.

Aziza wanted to tell Jordan he was blushing but didn’t want to make him feel more embarrassed than she assumed he was. “It’s my turn to serve you.” She knew she shocked him when she picked up a pair of chopsticks and clamped the sushi and fed it to him. They alternated feeding each other the gourmet treats while drinking champagne to cleanse their palates.

The rich food and three glasses of champagne left Aziza full and languid. Kicking off her heels, she tucked her feet up under her body and closed her eyes. “I think I’m a little tipsy.”

Jordan stood up, removed his jacket, then sat again, cradling her stocking-covered feet between his hands. “You only had three glasses to my five.”

“Only three. Two is usually my limit,” she said without opening her eyes.

“Are you driving?”

“No. I have a driver.”

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Bronxville.” Aziza opened her eyes. Jordan’s jacket had concealed a rock-hard upper body. His neck wasn’t as large as her football player brother’s, or his teammates, but it was obvious he worked out regularly.

“Where do you live?” Her voice was soft, the timbre low, sultry.

“Manhattan.”

“Where in Manhattan?”

“The Upper East Side. My apartment building faces Central Park.”

“Why didn’t you just say that you live on Fifth Avenue?” she asked. A beat passed. “What are you hiding, Jordan?”

His fingers tightened on her instep. “Nothing. What makes you think I’m hiding something?”

“I don’t know. Call it a hunch, woman’s intuition.”

He massaged her instep before moving up to her ankles. “What else does your woman’s intuition tell you about me?”

Aziza tried to will her mind not to think rather than enjoy the sensual fog of premium French champagne and the sexy man rubbing her legs and feet. “I think you’re uncomfortable being a Wainwright. It’s probably why you decided to expose your grandfather as a slumlord and why you decided to work for a small Harlem law firm rather than your family’s real estate company or a prestigious Wall Street firm.”

Jordan’s expression remained impassive. He hadn’t known Aziza Fleming an hour, and she didn’t realize how close she’d come to the truth. “You’re wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m proud to be a Wainwright. The name gives me entrée to places open to a privileged few, while it also allows me to do things for other people with less.”

“Tell me about your family.”

Jordan shook his head. “I’ll leave that for another time.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you about the Wainwrights without revealing my mother’s side of the family. Have you ever heard the Cher classic hit ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves’?” Aziza nodded. “If she’d been singing about the Wainwrights and Johnstons, then it would’ve been miscreants, pimps and thieves.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was, Zee,” he said, shortening her name.

“Where did you go to college?” Aziza asked.

“Harvard, undergraduate and law. After law school I went to work for my father, but after a few years I was bored. I quit and worked as a litigator for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne.”

She whistled softly. “They’re one of the top firms in the city.”

Jordan nodded. “My salary topped out at high six figures, including bonuses, but the trade-off was working an average of sixty to seventy hours a week. That left very little time for socializing. Whenever I was able to take a vacation I was too tired to do anything more than sleep, get up and shower, eat and then sleep some more. I knew I couldn’t continue at that pace, so I walked into the office of one of the senior partners and handed in my resignation.

“My grandfather wanted me to come back to Wainwright Developers Group to head the legal department and set my own hours, but that would be like taking a step backward.”

“What did you finally decide to do?”

Jordan’s hands moved up and over her calves. “I moved out of my parents’ house, bought a condo and spent the next four months relaxing in a villa in Costa Rica while it was renovated and decorated.”

Aziza stared at the long fingers gently massaging her legs and feet, wondering if Jordan knew how much his light touch had aroused her. The area at the apex of her thighs pulsed with sensations she hadn’t felt in a while. She wanted to tell him to stop, but didn’t because the seemingly innocent stroking was so pleasurable that she wanted it to go on—forever.

“How could you go away and not monitor what was being done?”

“The architect and interior designer emailed me weekly updates.”

She smiled. “Clever.”

“The internet ranks right up there with the finest French champagne and Persian beluga caviar.”

Aziza wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t know about that because someone ate mine.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’m sorry I ate your caviar. I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?” she asked, pouting as she’d done when her older brothers wouldn’t let her tag along with them whenever they’d wanted to hang out with their friends.

“I’ll buy you a tin.”

She shook her head. “I don’t need a tin. One toast point or a tiny spoonful will do.”

Jordan released her legs and got up from the love seat. “I’ll go and see if there’s any left.”

Aziza watched him leave, silently admiring the way his trousers fit his waist and hips. It was obvious Jordan didn’t buy his clothes off the rack. She unfolded her legs, slipping her feet into her shoes, and stood up. Walking across the room, she opened the door and plowed into her brother.

“I was just coming to get you. You did promise to dance with me,” Alexander said when she gave him a blank stare.

She held back when he grasped her hand. “I need to wait for Jordan to get back.”

“Jordan will know where to find you.”

Aziza knew physically she was no match for Al, so she followed his lead where revelers had crowded into the atrium that was designed to resemble an indoor rainforest. A DJ was busying spinning tunes, while couples were on their feet dancing to an infectious Black Eyed Peas song.

“Now, isn’t this better than sitting home alone?” Alexander said in her ear as he swung her around and around in an intricate dance step.

“It’s all right,” she admitted.

“Liar!”

“Okay. I’m having a good time.”

The truth was Aziza was really enjoying herself, and she knew Jordan was responsible for keeping her entertained. She’d felt comfortable talking to him, and he exhibited none of the brashness she’d seen during the televised news conference. Perhaps that was what he’d wanted the audience to see. After all, she’d performed more times than she could count in the courtroom. Some judges didn’t care for theatrics, so Aziza knew to keep it to a minimum.

Alexander tightened his grip on his sister’s waist. “Does Jordan Wainwright have anything to do with you having a good time?”

Aziza missed a step, then caught herself. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Do you realize the two of you have been behind a closed door for more than an hour?”

“Hel-lo, Al. Weren’t you the one who wanted me to talk to Jordan?” Eyes narrowing, Aziza stopped midstep. “I hope you’re not thinking I would…” Her words trailed off.

Alexander pulled Aziza closer. “Don’t turn around, but Jordan’s standing there staring at you like a lovesick adolescent. I told you not to turn around!” he said when his sister ignored his warning.

Jordan held up a piece of toast with caviar, put it into his mouth, chewing it as if in slow motion, then made a big show of wiping his hands. “No, he didn’t,” she whispered.

“What the hell is going on, Zee?”

“He ate my caviar.” Aziza managed to free her right hand, made a fist and pretended to blacken both his eyes.

This was an Aziza Alexander hadn’t seen in a very long time. She’d always been a practical joker and had the most carefree and spontaneous laugh of any woman he’d known. She was as tough as she could be feminine, and he’d believed growing up with three brothers had prepared her to navigate the male-dominated law profession. What she hadn’t been prepared for was being sexually harassed, or her husband not having her back. The result was she’d lost her husband and her job with the law firm that had recruited her even before she’d passed the bar.

That spark and zeal for life she’d always exhibited hadn’t burned as brightly as it had before she’d married Lamar, but tonight it was back. And he felt sorry for Jordan Wainwright, because there was one thing Alexander knew about his sister, and that was she was a scrapper—in and out of the courtroom. If the high-profile attorney wanted to play with fire, then he’d better be prepared to be singed.

He smiled. “Maybe I should rephrase my question.”

“And what’s that?”

“Do you like Jordan?”

Aziza’s brow furrowed. “Like him how? The way a woman likes a man?” Alexander nodded. “No, Al. It’s nothing like that. He’s nice and he makes me laugh.” And he’s very easy on the eyes, she added silently.

“Would you ever consider dating him?”

“I doubt it,” she said quickly.

“Why?” Alexander questioned.

“He’s a lawyer, and you know that we don’t mix.”

“Just because Lamar was a horse’s ass doesn’t mean you have to lump all attorneys in that category.”

“Don’t forget about the one who sexually harassed me, then got his buddies to cover his ass. So, right about now I’m not feeling the male species.”

The song ended, and Alexander led Aziza over to a corner of the atrium where they were partially concealed by the leaves of a banana tree. “You can’t blame all men for a few idiots. Remember what you told me about women when Nikki cheated on me, then posted it on her Facebook.”

Aziza lifted a glass of water off the tray of a passing waiter and took a deep swallow. “Maybe we’re the Flemings who’re destined to be unlucky in love. Nana and Grandpa were together more than fifty years before he passed away. Mom and Dad will celebrate their fortieth anniversary this year and Danny and Omar have passed the seven-year-itch mark. It’s just you and I who seem to keep blowing it.”

Pausing, she took another sip of water. “You’re only twenty-six, so you have plenty of time to date before deciding to settle down. Fortunately, you don’t have to concern yourself with a biological clock.” She had another four years before she was considered high risk.

Alexander stared at his sister, wondering if she was aware of what a gift she would be to a man. She was pretty, smart and would enhance his image—but only if he wasn’t intimidated by her intelligence. It’d happened with his ex-brother-in-law, and no doubt it would happen again with other men with whom Aziza found herself involved.

“Here comes your admirer,” he whispered when he spied the teammate, who was interested in Aziza.

Aziza’s senses were on full alert when she saw him approach. He was at least six-foot-eight and as wide as a French-door refrigerator. His bright red hair and beard reminded her of the disgraced ex-baseball great Mark McGwire, but the resemblance ended with hair color. The behemoth heading toward her was a full head taller and outweighed her by at least two hundred pounds.

He dipped his head and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

Aziza went completely still, wondering what Alexander had told him about her. She wasn’t aware that she was staring, her mouth gaping. “It’s…it’s nice meeting you, too,” she gasped breathlessly when she’d recovered her voice. She offered her hand. His smile was so wide she could see his molars. “I’m Aziza.”

A large hamlike hand rubbed his thigh before he extended his. “Trevor Butler.”

She shook his hand. “It’s nice meeting you, Trevor.” Aziza knew it was time to end something before it even began. “Al mentioned that you wanted to take me out, but what he didn’t know is that I’m seeing someone.”

Trevor’s face seemed to crumple like an accordion. “Is he here?”

Aziza felt a wave of panic when she realized she had to back up her lie. If she was involved with someone, then it would make sense that they would spend New Year’s Eve together.

“Yes, he is.” She took several steps from behind the large plant, her eyes scanning the crowd for Jordan. She spotted him standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. Raising her hand, she beckoned for him to come, sighing inwardly when he wove his way through swaying couples to close the distance between them.

Looping her arm over the fabric of his sweater, she leaned in close to Jordan. “Baby, I don’t know if you know your cousin’s teammate, but this is Trevor Butler.” The two men exchanged handshakes.

Jordan, who’d quickly picked up on Aziza calling him baby, followed her cue when he saw lust in the linebacker’s eyes. It was obvious he’d been coming onto her, and a quick glance at Alexander Fleming validated his suspicions. Wrapping his arm around Aziza’s waist, he pulled her close.

“I didn’t get the chance to talk to you at the last party,” he admitted to Trevor, “but I want to congratulate you, because without your defense, you guys never would’ve made it to the Super Bowl.”

Trevor’s expression brightened. “Thanks, man.” He nodded to Aziza. “Your lady is gorgeous.”

“I think so, too,” Jordan countered without a bit of modesty. His fingers tightened on Aziza’s waist. “Come, baby. You did promise me one dance before we leave.” The tempo of the music had changed from upbeat to a slower rhythm.

“Don’t you dare say anything,” Aziza cautioned quietly when Jordan pulled her close to his body.

He pressed his mouth to her ear. “You owe me, baby.”

“No, I don’t. You didn’t have to play along if you didn’t want to.”

“I can always go back and tell Trevor that we just broke up.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Jordan smiled. “I dare, because I just saved your gorgeous behind from a man who was literally devouring you with his eyes.”

“I don’t know why my brother didn’t tell him that I don’t date.”

“Have you ever dated?”

Aziza gave Jordan an incredulous stare. “Of course I’ve dated.” She and Lamar had dated each other.

He stared back under lowered lids. “Why is it that you don’t date now?”

“I have a problem with trust.”

“You don’t trust men?”

She nodded.

“Does it have anything to do with your suit?”

A beat passed before Aziza said, “It goes deeper than that.”

Jordan’s expressive eyebrows lifted a fraction. “A bad relationship?”

Aziza’s eyelids fluttered. “How about a bad marriage?”

Her revelation that she’d been married rendered Jordan silent, and for the first time in a very long time he was at a loss for words. He, who’d earned his living debating and negotiating, was suddenly speechless.

“I’m sorry, Zee.”

“I’m not, Jordan. I’m just glad I got out of it before it was too late.”

“You’re going to have to trust me if you want my help with your case.”

“A professional relationship is very different from a personal one. What we’ll have is the former.”

“I promise not to cross the line,” Jordan said, when it was the opposite of what he wanted to do.

He liked Aziza because she was easy to talk to, straightforward, feisty and funny—a winning combination. She hadn’t freaked out or gone ballistic when he’d kissed her, and although she’d used him to parry Trevor Butler’s romantic notions, she’d managed to let the man down while not destroying his pride. Aziza had admitted she didn’t trust men, but it was obvious she didn’t hate them either.

He’d met women who’d complained about dating men who were misogynists, but he could say the same thing about women who were man-haters.

“Your promises aren’t worth the breath it takes to make them. What about my caviar? You weren’t very nice when you made a big show of eating it in my face.”

Jordan buried his face in her fragrant hair. “I told you that I’ll buy you a tin.”

“And I told you I don’t need a tin of caviar, Jordan. I don’t eat it that often or give dinner parties where I can serve it to my guests.”

“I’ll eat it.”

Aziza missed a step but Jordan tightening his hold around her waist kept her from losing her balance. “You’re going to eat my caviar?”

“Yep. You can it serve whenever we get together to go over your case. We’re going to have to meet at your office, because if you come to mine then you’ll become a client of Chatham and Wainwright.”

“I work out of my home.”

Jordan’s smile was dazzling. “Then I’ll come to your home. Unless…”

“Unless what?” she asked when he didn’t finish his statement.

“Unless you’d prefer to come to mine.”

“It’s all right, Jordan. We can meet at my place, because I need to give you tapes.”

Jordan stopped, his hand gripping her upper arm as he led Aziza out of the atrium. Skirting a couple locked in a passionate embrace, he pulled her into an alcove between the living room and formal dining room.

“You have tapes?”

A sensual smile parted Aziza’s lips, bringing his gaze to linger there. “Yes.” The word was barely off her tongue when she found herself lifted off her feet and Jordan’s mouth on hers.

“Get a room, cousin,” Brandt drawled, grinning from ear to ear as he strolled by with a buxom brunette clinging to his arm.

If the floor had opened up under her, Aziza would’ve easily crawled in and disappeared. If it had been anyone but Brandt, her client, she wouldn’t have been so embarrassed. And it wasn’t as if she could play it off that she and Jordan were exchanging the obligatory New Year’s kiss.

Brandt winked at her before she cast her eyes downward. “Don’t worry, counselor. When it comes to Wainwrights, Jordan happens to be the best in the bunch.”

“That’s nice,” Aziza mumbled under her breath. “Please put me down,” she ordered Jordan between clenched teeth. Her feet touched the floor and she turned and walked in the direction of the library to retrieve her wrap and purse, Jordan following.

He caught up with her. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” she flung over her shoulder.

She wasn’t as upset with Jordan as she was with herself. Her image had to be impeccable if she was going to go public with a lawsuit charging a prominent attorney with sexually harassing his female employee; if anyone saw her locking lips with Jordan Wainwright at a party hosted by Super Bowl MVP quarterback Brandt Wainwright, then her display of affection could be called into question. Most cell phones came with cameras.

“I hope you’re not going home because Brandt saw us kissing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jordan. It’s time that I head home.” Aziza entered the library, retrieving her shawl and purse, while Jordan picked up his jacket. She opened her purse, took out her cell phone and called the driver.

“I’ll ride with you downstairs.”

“I’ll be all right.”

Jordan reached for her elbow. “I said I’ll ride downstairs with you.”

Their eyes met and held for a full minute in what had become a stare-down. Aziza knew she couldn’t afford to alienate Jordan because she needed his legal help. Not only was he a more experienced attorney, but he also had the name.

She needed Jordan when he didn’t need her. “Okay. You can ride with me down to the lobby.”

Jordan bowed low as if she were royalty. “Thank you.”

Aziza rolled her eyes at him. “I still owe you a knuckle sandwich for eating my caviar.”

“I thought we settled that. When do you want to meet?” he said, deftly changing the subject. “Whatever’s convenient.”

They arrived at the elevator. He punched the button and the doors opened. “What are you doing Sunday afternoon?”

“Watching the play-offs.”

“What if I come over after the game?”

Aziza shook her head. “That’ll be too late. If you can get to my place by one, you can work in my office while I fix Sunday dinner.”

The doors opened and Jordan let Aziza precede before he walked in behind her. “You cook?” he teased, pushing the button for the lobby.

“I try. What I can promise is that you won’t get ptomaine poisoning.”

“If that’s the case, then I’ll come early. Don’t you think you should give me your address and phone number?”

Smoothing her shawl, Aziza wrapped it around her upper body with a dramatic flourish. Smiling, she peered over her shoulder. “Ask your cousin.”

If Jordan was serious about helping her build her case, then he would follow through and contact her. If not, then she would have the memory of spending two hours with a man who’d unknowingly reminded her that she was a woman—a woman who’d denied her femininity for much too long.

“Tease,” Jordan whispered close to her ear as the car reached the lobby.

He followed Aziza through the lobby, nodding to the doorman on duty, and out to the street where a Town Car idled at the curb. The driver got out and came around to open the passenger door, but Jordan preempted him and helped Aziza as she slid onto the leather seat.

Leaning in, he stared at her face in the soft glow of the high-intensity lamp behind the rear seats. “I’ll see you Sunday around one.”

Aziza smiled, her gaze moving slowly over the lean face with the dramatic hazel eyes. “Happy New Year, Jordan.” Placing two fingers to her mouth, she touched her fingertips to his slightly parted lips. They stared at each other, the silence swelling to deafening proportions. “Close the door, Jordan.”

Blinking as if coming out of a trance, Jordan stepped back and closed the door with a solid thud. He stood at the curb a long time, long after the taillights from the limo disappeared into the blackness of the night.

Then he returned to the building, when the doorman opened the door for him. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers, he waited for the elevator, his mind awash with the time he’d spent with Aziza Fleming. He was able to recall her every expression, the sound of her sexy voice, the color of her face that was an exact match to the exposed skin on her bare back.

However, what he didn’t want to remember was how she’d tasted, because the sexy lawyer was forbidden fruit.

He could look, but not taste.

Looking was safe.

Tasting was too much of a risk, and he didn’t want to do anything that would risk or jeopardize their very fragile professional relationship.

Chapter 4

Bracing his back against the tiles in the shower stall, Jordan closed his eyes as lukewarm water beat down on his head. He had a headache, his mouth felt as if it’d been filled with cotton and his stomach was doing flip-flops. It wasn’t how he’d wanted to start the new year.

After watching the car with Aziza drive away, he’d returned to the penthouse and had tried to get into the mood of the festive holiday, failing miserably. He’d switched from drinking champagne to downing shots. It had all ended when some woman tried putting her tongue into his mouth. He’d gagged and forcibly pushed her away. He did remember finding his way to the bathroom in one of Brandt’s guest bedrooms where he’d brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth before falling across the bed, fully clothed. The sun was high in the sky, the penthouse silent as a tomb when he’d ridden the elevator to the lobby where the doorman had hailed a taxi to take him uptown.

Groaning, he opened his eyes and pushed the button on the dispenser filled with shampoo. He went through the motions of washing his hair, then his body with a shower gel that complemented his specially blended cologne. It took two cups of strong black coffee and a slice of dry toast for him to settle his queasy stomach.

He felt like a caged cat, pacing the length of his home office until he called the garage where he stored his car and requested that it be parked in front. The temperature had dropped more than twenty degrees in twenty-four hours, and with the steel-gray sky and the forecast of rain mixed with sleet, he slipped into a ski jacket over a rugby shirt and jeans. Instead of running shoes, he’d selected a pair of rugged Doc Martens.

Jordan wasn’t certain what had triggered his state of agitation but knew it wouldn’t be assuaged if he remained indoors. Instead of leaving his apartment through the high-rise lobby where the doorman monitored everyone coming and going, he left through the side door that led directly from the apartment to a side street.

He hadn’t realized until after he’d purchased the maisonette how much he’d come to value his privacy. Although he had an apartment suite in the Wainwright mansion, Jordan had never invited a woman to spend the night there. If they did sleep together it was either at her place or in a hotel. Never one to kiss and tell, he also did not advertise or flaunt his affairs, which was why it had surprised him when he’d kissed Aziza where anyone could see them. He knew he’d shocked his parents when he’d revealed that he’d been seeing Natasha Parker, but whom he’d dated or slept with was not their business.

He walked out to find Fifth Avenue a bustle of activity with post-holiday shoppers and out-of-towners crowding buses that ran along Central Park. Pedestrians with cameras stopped to photograph one another, using the park as the backdrop. Jordan turned down a side street to the east side rather than attempt to navigate the crowds strolling Museum Mile. The first day of the year had fallen on a Friday, which left Saturday and Sunday for everyone to recover from their revelry before beginning a new week.

It wasn’t until he was seated behind the wheel of the black-on-black two-seater BMW roadster that he abandoned his initial intent to drive down I-95 to hang out in D.C. until Sunday, and he decided to go to his office in the brownstone in Harlem’s Mount Morris Historic District.

Donald Ennis waited for Raymond Humphries to return to the phone. He’d heard Minerva Jackson’s voice in the background, so he assumed Raymond was at her place. He would’ve thought the real estate mogul would’ve been at home with his wife instead of with his secretary, who obviously was his mistress.

Donald had spent the past two weeks shadowing Jordan Wainwright. There was nothing the young lawyer had done that had set off alarm bells, but that was only his opinion, and Raymond Humphries did not want or pay him for his opinion. He’d agreed to contact Humphries every other Friday. If something out of the ordinary happened, then he was to contact him immediately.

“Sorry about that, Ennis. I had to tell Minerva something. What do you have for me?”

“Not much. Wainwright went to his grandfather’s place Christmas Eve and hung out there for a couple of days. When he did leave it was with his sister and another kid about his sister’s age. They walked to the Met, stayed about three hours and then walked to 72nd and Third Avenue. He only interacted with the girls.”

“He had to do more than hang out with a couple of teenage girls for the past week.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Donald snapped.

“Watch your tone, Ennis.”

The P.I. counted slowly to ten in an attempt to bring his temper under control. When he’d first done investigative work for Raymond Humphries, he’d had to remind the man that he wasn’t one of his employees who relied on him for a paycheck. Donald Michael Ennis was a highly regarded intelligence operative whose career had ended when he’d been diagnosed and had failed to seek treatment for Ménière’s syndrome. The recurring dizziness, tinnitus and slight loss of hearing in his left ear had led to early retirement. He’d allowed six months of feeling sorry for himself before deciding to set up a private investigation agency. He’d hired a streetwise friend and a cousin, both of whom had one foot in the criminal world.

“You pay me, Humphries. Not own me.”

“Point taken,” Raymond drawled.

“My man told me Wainwright returned to his place New Year’s Eve, then left again later that night. He went into a building where Brandt Wainwright owns a penthouse. He was seen again sometime after one when he was talking to a woman before she got into a limo.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“Not yet. But I have the limo’s license plate number. As soon as we track down the driver, we’ll know who she is and where she was going.”

“Where’s Wainwright now?”

Donald shifted on the park bench across the street from Jordan Wainwright’s apartment building, stretching out his legs and staring at the scuff marks on his boots. He pressed the cell phone closer to his ear for warmth. He’d spent the better part of an hour sitting on the bench after his friends reported that Jordan Wainwright had returned home earlier that afternoon. It wasn’t easy casing out a building facing the park because of ongoing police patrols. He didn’t want to be questioned about watching residents who paid seven figures for their condos and co-ops. Doormen were very protective of their tenants, but there were always a few who were willing to provide a little information on the comings and goings, if the price was right.

“My man just sent me a text that he’s heading uptown. If he goes anywhere other than his office, then I’ll get back to you with his whereabouts.”

“Who the hell works on New Year’s?”

“Doctors, cops, bus drivers—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Raymond intoned, cutting him off. “Just keep watching him. Let me know if you need more resources.”

“I’m good for now,” Donald replied.

He ended the call, pushing the cell phone into the pocket of his down-filled jacket. Blowing on his hands, he rubbed them together to generate heat. He’d forgotten his gloves—again. Standing and pushing his stiff fingers into the pockets of the baggy wide wale corduroy, he waited for the traffic light to change before crossing the street to wait for the bus to take him back uptown.

Jordan drove along Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard, then turned on 121st Street. If he hadn’t called the garage to have his car ready, he would’ve either walked or taken a taxi to the office. Walking from 98th and Fifth to 121st Street was a workout.

Three boyhood friends who’d pooled their resources to purchase the three-story brownstone had set up their practices on each floor. Kyle Chatham, his former mentor and senior law partner, occupied the second floor. Financial planner Duncan Gilmore’s offices spanned the first floor, and psychotherapist Dr. Ivan Campbell counseled patients on the third floor of the nineteenth-century landmark structure that had been renovated for business use.

Miraculously, he found a parking space, maneuvering up to the tree-lined curb. He got out, locked the door and bounded up the staircase to the front door. Brass plates affixed to the side of the building indicated the location of each business.

Jordan unlocked the front door and punched in the code to disarm the security system. He reset it and walked past the elevator in the entryway and into the reception area furnished with comfortable leather seating, a wall-mounted flat-screen television and potted plants. Whenever the office was open during the winter months, a fire roared in the huge fireplace.

The soles of his shoes made soft squishing sounds on the marble floor when he made his way to the staircase. It wasn’t until he’d exited the last stair that he was aware he wasn’t the only one in the building. The sound of music floated down the hallway from the conference room.

Walking past his office, he stopped at the open door. Kyle Chatham sat at the conference table amid stacks of law books and legal pads. A pullover sweater, jeans and boots replaced his tailored suits.

“Happy New Year, Chat.”

Kyle’s head popped up, his eyes growing wider when he saw Jordan standing in the doorway. “Happy New Year to you, too. What the hell are you doing here?” It wasn’t often that he saw Jordan unshaven. “You look a little green around the gills.”

“Champagne and shots are a lethal combination.”

“What’s up with the frat boy antics?”

Jordan shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

“But I am asking, partner. I don’t remember ever seeing you overindulge.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jordan angled his head. His partner and former mentor was quintessentially tall, dark and handsome. Women were drawn to his angular face with chiseled cheekbones, deep-set, slanting, catlike, warm brown eyes and close-cropped black hair with a sprinkling of gray. He and his fiancée, Ava Warrick, were to be married in Puerto Rico the next month.

“Brandt and some of his boys started challenging one another, so I had to get my cousin’s back.”

“That’s when you should’ve bailed, Jordan. You know you can’t hang with those guys. They’re twice your size and have hollow legs.”

“I discovered that when I woke up this morning.”

“Why, then, are you here instead of sleeping it off?” Kyle asked.

“I came to look up some decisions on workplace harassment for a friend.” His cousin had given him Aziza’s address and phone number. He planned to call her later that evening and confirm a time for his arrival. “Why are you here instead of home with your beautiful fiancée?”

Kyle massaged his forehead with his fingers as he stared at his junior partner. He and Jordan had worked together at Trilling, Carlyle and Browne where he’d become the younger man’s mentor.

“I wanted to go over some details on this attempted rape case that has been literally kicking my behind. I should’ve passed on this one, but I couldn’t leave this kid’s fate in the hands of a public defender who will probably get him to take a plea where he will spend the next eight to ten years of his life behind bars.”

Slipping out of his jacket, Jordan entered the room and draped it over the back of a chair and sat down. “You took on the case because the kid is innocent.”

Kyle ran a hand over his face. “But it all comes down to ‘he said, she said.’”

Kyle leaned forward. “If he puts her on the stand and she breaks down, then our client’s fate is sealed and he’s going to go away for a long time. His mother didn’t sacrifice working two jobs to send her son to college to have him become a felon.”

Jordan continued to peruse the file. When Kyle had set up K.E. Chatham Legal Services, he’d established a routine of Monday-morning staff meetings where open cases were reviewed and updated. But since he’d made partner, Jordan and Kyle alternated chairing the meetings.

“This case is not about rape, Chat.”

Slumping back in his chair, Kyle stared across the table at his partner. “You tell me what it’s about.”

Nothing on Kyle Chatham moved, not his eyes, not his chest when he held his breath. He’d questioned himself when Jordan had come to him asking to join his firm. What he couldn’t fathom was why a Harvard-educated lawyer from one of New York City’s wealthiest families had resigned positions with his family real estate empire and a Park Avenue law firm to work in Harlem. Their clients weren’t remotely close to the well-heeled corporations they’d represented in the past.

“Talk to me, Wainwright.”

Jordan smiled for the first time since he’d woken up earlier that morning with a pounding headache. “They’re together as long as they’re students, but after graduation she expected to become Mrs. Robinson Fields. The script is flipped when he tells her that he’s moving on and dating someone else.”

Pushing back his chair, Jordan stood. “On that note I think I’d better leave.”

“How long are you going to hang out here?”

Jordan shrugged broad shoulders. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Just asking.”

“If I don’t see you before you leave, then I’ll see you Monday morning.”

He hadn’t lied to Kyle. He didn’t know how long he would be at the office when it came to researching cases. When he’d worked for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne, he had been second chair with two harassment cases, while workplace harassment at Wainwright Developers hadn’t been an issue. Wyatt Wainwright may have ruled his company with an iron fist, but he’d always generously compensated his employees for their hard work.

Jordan walked into his office, touching the wall switch and flooding the space with light. Tossing his jacket on a leather chair, he rounded his desk and sat down. His personal secretary had stacked files on a side table for the Monday-morning staff meeting.

Picking up a remote device, he pressed a button and music flowed from the speakers of a stereo unit concealed behind the doors in the mahogany armoire that matched the desk and tables. The melodious strains of a violin filled the office.

Jordan switched on his computer, and while waiting for it to boot, his cell phone rang. He answered it without looking at the display. “This is Jordan.”

“Jordan, Aziza.”

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