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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.”
