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Ngozi was surprised to see Alek, normally severe and businesslike, standing before her with mirth in his eyes. “So, we all have that one thing or one person—a vice—that makes us different. Today, Alek Ansah,” she said before turning to face Chance, “I have met yours.”
Chance’s smile broadened as he looked down at her. “And what—or who—makes you different, Ngozi Johns?”
She loved how her name sounded on his lips. “Oh, is there something about me that needs fixing?” she asked, forcing herself not to quiver under his intense stare as she met it with one of her own.
“From what I can see, not one damn thing,” Chance responded with ease, his voice deep and masculine.
“On that note,” Alek said, clearing his throat as he looked from one to the other, “I’ll take my leave.”
And he did, leaving them alone.
“Ngozi!”
At the sound of her name, Ngozi broke their stare and turned to find Marisa Martinez standing beside her. She gave the petite woman with a wild mane of shoulder-length curly hair a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, Marisa,” she said, her eyes taking in the clarity in the woman’s eyes and feeling sweet relief.
The former party girl who lived hard and fast off the allowance she received from the Dalmount dynasty had developed an addiction to alcohol and drugs that put both her and Alessandra’s freedom in jeopardy. As the head of the family, Alessandra felt it her obligation to guide and protect the entire clan made up of her two aunts, Leonora Dalmount and Brunela Martinez, her cousin Victor Dalmount and his bride, Elisabetta, and Marisa, Brunela’s daughter. That sense of duty had led Alessandra to seek out Marisa at a house party and to get caught in the middle of a police drug raid.
Ngozi was called on by her client to represent them both. The charges were dropped, but Alessandra had forced Marisa to either attend the long-term rehab program Ngozi arranged or be disowned.
Marisa chose the former, and six months later, she’d returned drug-free.
“I just wanted to thank you for everything you did to help me,” Marisa said, before lifting up on her toes to give Ngozi an impromptu hug.
“Well, I thank you for not letting my hard work go to waste,” she said, returning the hug. “You look good.”
Marisa released her. “I feel better,” she said, her eyes serious before she forced a smile and walked away with one last squeeze of Ngozi’s hand.
She watched her walk over to join her mother and aunt Leonora by the fireplace. With her work as a criminal attorney who insisted on pro bono work and tough cases, Ngozi was well acquainted with thankful clients.
“I’ve heard you’re one of the best attorneys on the East Coast.”
Him.
Ngozi took a sip of her champagne as she eyed him with an arched brow. “Just the East Coast?” she teased.
He chuckled.
“I’m kidding,” she rushed to say, reaching out to grasp his wrist.
His pulse pounded against her fingertips. She released him.
“La tentadora,” Chance said.
The temptress.
Her entire body flushed with warmth.
Chance was Dominican on his mother’s side, and like many other Afro-Latinos did appear to be what was standardly thought of as such. Much like Laz Alonso, Victor Cruz and Carmelo Anthony.
“Me das demasiado crédito,” she said, loving the surprise that filled his deep brown eyes at her using his native tongue to tell him that he gave her too much credit.
“Ah! ¿Tu hablas español?” he asked.
“Yes, I speak Spanish,” she answered with a nod.
“¿Pero alguna vez te ha susurrado un hombre en español mientras te hace el amor?”
Ngozi gasped in surprise and pleasure and excitement at his question of whether a man had whispered to her in Spanish while making love. She recovered quickly. “No,” she answered him, before easing past his strong build and imposing presence to leave.
“Usted tiene algo que esperar,” Chance said from behind her.
Then you have something to look forward to.
Chance Castillo.
She gave in to her own temptation and glanced back at him over her shoulder. He had turned his attention to greeting Alek’s younger brother, Naim. She pressed her fingertips to her neck as she turned away, admitting regret that his attention was no longer on her.
In truth, she couldn’t remember feeling that affected by a man in a long, long time.
She pursed her lips and released a stream of air, intending to calm herself.
Ngozi stopped a male waiter and set her near-empty flute on the tray. “Thank you,” she said. Her stomach rumbled, and she looked around with a slight frown, hoping no one had heard it. Quickly, she turned and tapped the shoulder of the waiter. “Is there another one like you with a tray of hors d’oeuvres? A sista is hungry.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “The food will be served after the ceremonies.”
Damn. Ngozi checked her platinum watch as he walked away.
She crossed the room and made her way outdoors. During the day, the September air was still pleasant. It was the early mornings and late nights that brought on a chill that reminded her summer was drawing to an end.
As she neared the Olympic-sized pool, she felt an urge to jump in and sink beneath the crystal clear depths to swim to the other end and back. Instead, she settled for slipping off one of her sandals to dip her toes in the water, causing it to ripple outward.
Dennis loved to swim.
She felt sadness, closing her eyes as she remembered his looking back at her over his shoulder before he dived into the deep end of her parents’ pool back in some of the rare moments of free time they had during law school.
She smiled a bit, remembering how happy they were then.
That was a long time ago.
“Excuse me, Ms. Johns.”
She was surprised by the same waiter who took her drink, now standing beside her with a sandwich on his tray.
“Courtesy of Olga, the house manager, per the request of Mr. Castillo,” he said.
Ngozi looked up and bit back a smile at Chance standing in the open doorway, raising his flute to her in a silent toast. Her stomach rumbled again as she bowed her head to him in gratitude. She assumed he had overhead her conversation with the waiter.
“One sec, please,” she said, holding the man’s wrist to keep her balance as she slipped her damp foot back into her sandal.
Once done, she took the sandwich and cloth napkin from him and bit into it. Her little grunt was pure pleasure at the taste of seasoned and warmed roast beef with a gooey cheese and a tasty spread on the bread. “Thank you,” she said to him around the food, with a complete lack of the decorum she had been taught by her parents.
“No problem.”
As he walked away to finish his duties, Ngozi turned her back to the house and enjoyed the view of the manicured lawns to avoid people watching her eat.
“Ngozi.”
Him.
Her body went on high alert. Every pulse point on her pounded. What is wrong with me? Am I in heat?
“Yes?” she said, patting the corners of her mouth with the napkin before turning to face him. Wow. He’s fine.
Chance was nursing his second glass of champagne and squinting from the sun of the late summer season as he eyed her.
“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” she said, offering him the other half of the sandwich still on the saucer.
He eyed it and then her. “My appetite isn’t for food, Ngozi,” he said before taking another deep sip of his drink.
“The only thing I have for you is half of this sandwich, Mr. Castillo,” she said, keeping her voice cool and even.
He chuckled.
“Akwaaba. Akwaaba. Memo o akwaaba.”
They both turned to find LuLu Ansah, Alek’s mother, standing in the open doorway looking resplendent in traditional African white garb with gold embroidery with a matching head wrap that was simply regal. Both the Ansah and Dalmount families surrounded her, with Alek and Alessandra beside her with the baby in Alessandra’s arms. Both she and Alek looked around before they spotted Chance and Ngozi, waving them over.
They rushed to take their place, Ngozi gratefully handing the saucer and the remainder of the sandwich to one of the waiters.
“Welcome. Welcome. We welcome you,” LuLu translated, looking around at everyone gathered with a warm smile that made her eyes twinkle.
Ngozi leaned forward a bit to eye her goddaughter, who was just eight days old. She was beautiful. A perfect blend of Alek and Alessandra, with tightly coiled ebony hair and cheeks that were already round. She couldn’t wait to hear her name. Alessandra had not budged in revealing it early.
“Today we are honored to officially present a new addition to our family. We will have both a religious ceremony to baptize our little beauty to ensure she is favored by God, and then an outdooring, which is a traditional Ghanaian ceremony when a baby is taken outside the home for the first time, given a name and prepared with the love and wisdom we all hope for her. Is that okay with you all?” she asked, looking around at the faces of everyone in attendance with a sweet, loving expression.
People applauded or shouted out their approval.
“And so, we welcome into our world, our community, our village... Aliyah Olivia Ansah,” LuLu said with pride. “May we all pray for her, guide her and love her.”
Alessandra pressed a kiss to Aliyah’s head, and then Alek pressed one to her temple.
She was so loved.
Ngozi was happy for them and couldn’t help but smile.
Chapter 3 (#ufc1eab50-2df1-5194-ba27-1c7597146c9e)
Two weeks later
“Congratulations, Counselor.”
Ngozi finished sliding her files inside her briefcase and then raised her hand to take the one offered by the Brooklyn district attorney Walter Xavier. She had just served him a loss in his attempt to prosecute her client, an ex-FBI agent, for murder. “You didn’t make it easy,” she told him, matching his steady gaze with one of her own.
With one last pump of her hand and cursory nod of his head, the man who was her senior by more than thirty years turned and walked out of the courtroom with several staff members behind him.
Ngozi allowed herself a hint of a smile as she looked down into her briefcase.
“Ayyeeee! Ayyeeee! Ayyeeee!”
“Angel!” Ngozi snapped in a harsh whisper, whirling around to eye her newly appointed personal assistant at her loud cry. She found her arm raised above her head, as if she was about to hit a dance move, which took her aback. A win in the courtroom was not the same as getting “turned up” in the club.
Angel, a twentysomething beauty whose enhanced body made a button-up shirt and slacks look indecent, slowly lowered her hands and smoothed them over her hips.
“Get out,” Ngozi mouthed with a stern look, seeing that other people in the court were openly eyeing them.
“What?” she mouthed back, looking confused as she picked up her fuchsia tote from her seat in the gallery and left the courtroom with a pout.
“Precious Lord,” she mumbled, thankful her client had already been taken back into the holding cell by the court officers.
Ngozi often went above and beyond for her clients, including hiring a former stripper/escort as her personal assistant to meet the requirements of the probation Ngozi was able to secure. At the firm she had her own staff, clerks, paralegals and junior associates, plus an experienced legal secretary. The last thing she needed was a personal assistant—especially one like Angel, who lacked discernment.
Two weeks down, two years to go...
Ngozi gathered the rest of her items and finally left the courtroom. As she made her way through the people milling about the hallway, Angel and her junior associate, Gregor, immediately fell in behind her. Her walk was brisk. She had to get back to the Manhattan office for an appointment with a prospective new client.
She had a rule on no walking and talking outside the offices of Vincent and Associates Law, VAL, so they were quiet. Once they reached the exit on the lobby level, she saw the crowd of reporters and news cameras awaiting her. This was another huge win for her in a controversial case. She felt confident in the navy Armani cap sleeve silk charmeuse blouse, tailored blazer and wide-leg pants she wore. She had self-assuredly and correctly anticipated the win and made sure to be camera ready—which had included an early morning visit from her hairstylist/makeup artist.
“Angel, go mannequin-style and say nothing,” she mumbled to the woman.
“But—”
A stare from Ngozi ended her statement before it even began.
They exited the building and then descended the double level of stairs, with Ngozi in the lead. She stopped on the street and the crowd created a semi-arc around them. “Hello, everyone. I am Ngozi Johns of Vincent and Associates Law. As you know, I am the attorney for Oscar Erscole, who has been successfully exonerated of the charges of murder that were brought against him. After a long and tenuous fight, we are thankful that the jury’s discernment of the facts and the evidence presented in the case has proven what we have always asserted, which is the innocence of Mr. Erscole, who can now rebuild his life, reclaim his character and enjoy his life. Thank you all. Have a good day.”
With one last cordial smile, she turned from them, ignoring the barrage of questions being fired at her as they made their way through the crowd and to their waiting black-on-black SUVs. Ngozi and Angel climbed into the rear of the first one. She pulled her iPhone from her briefcase and began checking her email. “Back to the office, please, Frank,” she said to the driver, working her thumb against the touch screen to scroll.
“Now, Ms. J.?” Angel asked, sounding childlike and not twenty-one years of age.
It wasn’t until the doors were closed and their tinted windows blocked them from view that Ngozi glanced over at Angel and bit the corner of her mouth to keep back her smile. “Now, Angel,” she agreed.
“Ayyeeee! Ayyeeee! Ayyeeee!” Angel said, sticking out her pierced tongue and bouncing around in her seat. “Congrats, boss.”
“Thanks, Angel,” Ngozi said, laughing when she saw the driver, a white middle-aged man who liked the music of Frank Sinatra, stiffen in his seat and eye them in alarm via the rearview mirror.
They continued the rest of the ride in relative silence as Ngozi swiftly responded to emails and took a few calls. When the car pulled to a stop, double-parking on Park Avenue in midtown Manhattan, Ngozi gathered her things back into her briefcase as the driver came around to open the door for her. “Thank you, Frank,” she said, lightly accepting the hand he offered to help her climb from the vehicle and then swiftly crossing the sidewalk with Angel on her heels and the rest of her team just behind her.
They entered the thirty-five-story beaux arts–style building complete with retail and restaurant space on the lower levels and corporate offices on the remaining thirty-three. Everything about the building spoke to its prominence and prestige. After breezing through security with their digital badges, Ngozi and the others traveled up to the twenty-second floor, where Vincent and Law Associates had occupied the entire twenty-two thousand square feet for the last twenty years, housing nearly fifty private offices, a dozen workstations, several conference rooms, a pantry, reception area complete with a waiting space and other areas essential for office work. The offices of the senior partners, including the one her father had vacated upon his retirement, were on half of the floor of the next level up.
