Because of You (20 page)

“You don't have to marry me, Aziza. I was just offering an alternative.”

“A marriage proposal is hardly an alternative, Jordan. It is a lifelong commitment—something that's a legal
and
emotional contract between two people.”

“Wrong, Zee. Look what happened between you and your ex. When you married him you'd believed you spend the rest of your life with him. How long were you married? One year? Two? I don't remember you telling me you made it to your third anniversary.”

Tears pricked the backs of Aziza's eyelids. “I didn't disclose my personal life to you so you could throw it in my face. I told you why I divorced my husband. I'd been victimized by my boss, and there was no way in hell I was going to hang around to be victimized again by my husband.”

“I am not your enemy, Aziza.”

She sniffled. “I know.”

“If you know, then why are you treating me like one? I care for you, baby. I care a lot more than I'd planned to or want to. I spend four days away from you and the whole time I was like a junkie who needed a hit when I wanted to call just to hear your voice. I needed to reconnect with you.”

“I told you not to call me.”

A wry smile twisted his mouth. “And like a fool I didn't call you.”

“I didn't want you checking up on me and I didn't want the guys to think you had to check in.”

Jordan snorted. “Do you really think I care what other men think? If I want to call my girlfriend while we're in a strip club, then I'd do it.”

“Did you go to a strip club?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“You guys went to Vegas, didn't you? And you probably went to a strip club!”

“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Hey, weren't you the one who talked about getting a male stripper for your halftime entertainment?”

“Don't try to shift the blame, Jordan Wainwright. I was just bluffing when I mentioned male strippers.”

“Look, babe, it was nothing.”

“Nothing! You let some half-naked heifer spreading her legs from east to west for a couple of dollars touch you.”

Jordan swallowed the f-bomb. He'd slipped up. Ivan, Duncan, Chat and Raphael Madison, who'd caught up with them the day of the game, had sworn an oath they wouldn't tell their women about the side trip to Vegas.

“No one touched me. And I didn't touch anyone.”

“Did you put money in her G-string?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, Jordan?”

“I'm sure, baby. I threw it on the stage.” He threw up his hands to ward off her swatting at him as if she were brushing away an annoying mosquito. “Stop it, baby.” He couldn't stop laughing.

Aziza pushed out her lower lip. “It's not funny, Jordan.”

He caught her wrists. “I know it's not. We did go to Vegas but only to gamble. Ivan and Rafe are married and Chat and Duncan are engaged to be married. Do you really think those guys would disrespect their women like that?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, I know they wouldn't. I hear women complain about men being dogs, that they can't be faithful and they don't want to take care of their wives and/or children, but the men I spent the weekend with aren't those dogs. They
love their wives and fiancées and they will take care of their children.”

“Nayo's pregnant.”

“How do you know?”

“She told us. You'll probably hear it from Ivan when you go into the office tomorrow.”

“That's wonderful news because that's all he's been talking about—becoming a father.”

“Well, it will happen before the end of the year.”

“What do you have on your agenda today?” Jordan had deftly changed the topic of conversation. The talk about marriage and children bothered him. All the guys he'd hung out with over the past four days were older than him, and what had been missing in his life became more apparent when they talked about their wives. All had confessed to tiring of the serial dating before they met the woman with whom they would plan their future.

Jordan knew he had tired of it after Natasha had returned to culinary school. Although he'd known in advance that their relationship wasn't going anywhere, that it had an expiration date, he still hadn't wanted to see her go.

“Do you want to come in, or do you want me to drive you to the train station?”

“Drive me to the station. I'll get off at one-two-five street and stop by the office.”

Aziza laughed, the sound low and sultry. “You know you sound like someone straight out of Harlem. They usually say one-two-five for One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street.”

Jordan wanted to tell Aziza how close she'd come to the truth. He knew if he could hope for any type of future with her—even if it didn't end in marriage—he had to tell her about the circumstances surrounding his
birth. He'd come to know firsthand how a family secret had almost shattered his life and his relationship with his grandfather.

His relationship with Aziza had changed him. He had become more tolerant and accepting. He'd extended Wyatt the olive branch, but didn't know how long the fragile truce would last. At least for now they could occupy the same space and be civil to each other.

“What are you doing?” Aziza asked when Jordan backed out of the driveway.

“If we leave now, I should make the next train.”

“Don't you want to get your luggage?”

“I'll get it some other time.”

Jordan accelerated, and when he maneuvered into the parking lot at the Bronxville Metro-North station, the train was just pulling in. He unbuckled his seat belt and kissed Aziza in one continuous motion. “I love you.”

He was there, then he was gone, she watching him sprint to catch the train. Aziza waited until the doors closed, then got out of the Murano, came around and sat down behind the wheel. Jordan's
“I love you”
was very different from
“love you.”

Was he in love with her? Was that why he'd asked her to live with him? And had gone as far as to ask her to marry him?

Even if he wasn't in love with her, she knew for certain that she was in love with him.

J
ordan sat with Kyle in the senior partner's inner office. Both wore jeans, pullover sweaters and running shoes. They'd discussed and decided on casual Fridays based on the practice of not scheduling clients for that day. It was a day when case records were updated, telephone calls returned and billable hours reviewed.

Kyle had known from their tenure at TCB that Jordan was a skilled litigator. Any reservations he'd had as to whether Jordan would advocate as passionately for Harlem clients were completely shattered when he'd publicly revealed his grandfather as a slumlord. That had made him a local hero. The attempted rape charge against Robinson Fields, dismissed within half an hour of his cross-examination of Roslyn Chance, had garnered the attention of local newspapers in record time. Jordan Wainwright had become a favorite of
The Amsterdam News.
The weekly had called him “
gangsta
sheriff of
Harlem” and the sobriquet stuck. It was on a rare occasion he didn't walk down the streets of the neighborhood and not be called out affectionately as
“yo, gangsta.”

“Are you certain you don't want to take my possession-with-intent-to-sell?” Kyle asked, successfully hiding a grin.

“Hell no, Chat.” Jordan rested his feet on the leather chair's ottoman, crossing his legs at the ankles. “You know how I feel about drug cases.”

Kyle smiled. “I thought because you just did a bang-up job getting Robinson Fields off you'd want another challenging case.”

Jordan closed his eyes, reliving a time when he'd witnessed firsthand how narcotics had destroyed the life of a cousin. What had horrified him was that the boy who'd sold him the drugs managed to escape prosecution. He opened his eyes. “No drug cases, Chat.”

Kyle heard something in his partner's voice that made him take notice. It was hard, unyielding. As senior partner, he could assign his subordinate any case he chose. What he didn't want to do was give Jordan a case where he wouldn't give one hundred percent. An attorney had to believe in his client in order to go the extra mile for him. Jordan had believed Robinson Fields enough to play the controversial race card, which may or may not go over well with a judge, and it'd paid off.

“Okay. No drug cases.”

Jordan smiled. “Thanks. Are you ready to give up your single status?”

Kyle nodded. “I was ready two weeks after I met Ava. The only advice I'm ever going to give you in the love department is not to wait until you're as old as I am to turn in your bachelor card. I'm thirty-nine and will be forty if and when I become a father for the first time. Trust me,
Jordan, when I say it's not going to be a pretty sight to see me lying on my back looking up at the sky trying to catch my breath after going one-on-one on the court after a b-ball game with my sixteen-year-old son.”

Lines fanned out around Jordan's eyes when he smiled. “I hear you.”

Kyle sat up straight. “Do you really hear me? Or are you just saying you do to shut me up?”

Jordan sobered quickly. “I do hear you.”

“I've dated more women than I can remember, but when I met Ava something just clicked. It wasn't about how she looked but how we connected to each other. When Ivan told me he was marrying Nayo six weeks after meeting her for the first time, I knew exactly what he was talking about. It's when you meet that special woman something inside you goes off like you've tripped an alarm. It's saying ‘don't be no fool, fool. Don't let this one go or you'll regret it for the rest of your life.'”

“It's like that?”

“Don't try to play it off, Jordan. I've seen you with enough ladies to know that Aziza is special, so special that you're representing her in a sexual harassment case when you're involved with your client.”

Jordan's eyebrows lifted a fraction. “I agreed to handle the case before we got involved.”

“It still looks bad, and when Moore finds out, your ethics will be questioned.”

“I'm not as concerned about ethics as much as putting this pig away.”

“That still can happen if you let me handle it. I know she's suing him for violation of her sexual and civil rights, so tell me if I'm wrong. Does her race also factor into this?” Jordan nodded. “Well, I'm going to enjoy ripping him a new one. Tell your girlfriend that I'm going to
take over. I know Moore entered a not guilty plea at his arraignment, but from what you told me what was on those tapes he's as guilty as sin.”

“He is,” Jordan confirmed.

The news that the head of an influential Park Avenue law firm had been charged with sexual and racial harassment had become fodder for countless conversations among those in the field. And when Kyle had approached Jordan, he'd given him a detailed account of the lawsuit. What Jordan hadn't known until now was that his partner wasn't too happy with his involvement.

“When I come back from my honeymoon, I want to listen to the tapes. You've got to know I'm pissed with you, Jordan, because I had to find out like everyone else. Hell, man, I'm your friend and partner.”

“This was personal.”

“I'm going to say this once, and then it's moot. I haven't known you as long as I have Duncan and Ivan, but the only thing that's personal between us is what we do when we close the bedroom door. My problems are their problems, and vice versa. It's the same with you, Jordan. If you'd trusted me, you would've come to me—”

“I trust you, Chat,” Jordan interrupted.

“Not enough, Wainwright. You get an attitude when I mention you not being a brother, but you are. You're as close to me as my biological brother and Ivan and Duncan. So, don't ever forget that I'll always have your back. That's the way we roll up here in Harlem—
brother.
”

A wry smile twisted Jordan's mouth. “There's no way I can forget it if you put it that way.”

“I'm sorry I can't take you up on your offer to sail down to San Juan for the wedding. Ava has horrific motion sickness that she can't control even with the patch behind her ear.”

“That's too bad because we plan to kick back and relax before you get there.” Duncan, Nayo, Tamara and Ivan had accepted his offer to sail down to Puerto Rico for the destination wedding.

“I hope y'all don't party too hard and forget y'all have to stand up straight as my groomsmen.” Micah Sanborn, who Kyle had mentored in law school, was to have been part of the wedding party but had opted out, so Jordan was recruited to take his place. Tessa Whitfield-Sanborn's obstetrician had recommended she not travel so late in her confinement. Tessa was now in her last trimester.

“Don't worry, Chat. No more tequila shots.”

“I tried that nonsense once and I was sick for two weeks,” Kyle admitted. “It was enough to swear me off the hard stuff for a long time.”

“I hear you, brother,” Jordan intoned.

“What's up with you and Aziza?” Kyle asked. “How serious are you about her?”

“More serious than she is about me.”

“More serious than you were about that girl you were seeing in D.C.?”

Jordan nodded. “There's no comparison. Don't get me wrong. I really liked Kirsten, but when we finally decided to end it, I wasn't broken up over it. That's not to say I didn't have feelings for her, because I did. I'd asked her to move to New York and she said no. I never tried to put any pressure on her or tried to persuade her to change her mind with an offer of marriage, and I don't think she was expecting me to propose to her. But it's different with Zee.”

“What's different?” Kyle asked when Jordan stared at the pattern on the rug.

“I don't know.” His gaze shifted and he stared directly
at Kyle. “You've heard people talking about meeting their soul mate. Well, I feel as if I've met mine. And because we're both lawyers that doesn't even factor into the equation.”

“It helps that she's gorgeous. Duncan and Ivan were talking about what would've happened if they weren't committed and they'd met her first.”

“Nothing would've happened, Chat. Because if they'd tried coming on to my woman they would find out how gangsta I can be.”

“All they have to do is look to Wyatt Wainwright to know the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree. You're better educated and more urbane, thanks to your mother, but under the cultured speech and tailored wardrobe, you're Wyatt. That's probably why you don't get along as well as you should.”

“That's where you're wrong, Chat. Wyatt is what you'd call OSG—an old-school gangster. By the time he was fifteen he was cutting school and picking up number slips for the biggest policymaker on the Lower East Side. By seventeen he was carrying a gun and using it when it became necessary to put the muscle on someone who owed money to a ruthless loan shark. What saved him from serving a life sentence in Sing Sing was marrying my grandmother. She got him to go to church and finish high school. What helped was that her family had money—a lot of money. My grandfather may have cleaned up on the outside, but he's gangster at heart. He still carries a handgun. It's registered, but he says he feels naked without it.”

“Please don't tell me you have a licensed handgun,” Kyle teased, smiling.

“No. I don't like guns. I'd take care of Duncan and Ivan
the old-fashioned way. I'd invite them outside, then stomp a mud hole in their asses!”

“Damn, gangsta! Lighten up. I've seen you wreck a speed bag, but you have to remember it will be the Upper East Side versus Harlem, and that may not be much of a fair fight.”

“I've got some Harlem in me,” Jordan admitted.

“Working in Harlem doesn't count, partner.”

Jordan sobered, wondering how much he should tell Kyle about himself. When he'd found out he'd been adopted, it had nearly destroyed him emotionally, but it was his love for his adoptive mother that had kept him grounded. Christiane had been forced to accept a situation not of her choosing.

Pushing off the chair, Jordan walked to the door of the outer office. Cherise Robinson stood at the file cabinet, putting away the stack on her desk. “Cherise, can you please hold all Kyle's calls?”

The legal secretary smiled at him over her shoulder. “Sure. Do you want me to have Juliana hold yours, too?”

“Please. If anything you feel is important comes in, then transfer it over to Kieran.”

Jordan becoming partner had permitted the firm to hire additional staff that included a full-time law clerk and researcher. He'd contacted his former secretary at Trilling, Carlyle and Browne, asking if she wanted to come uptown and work for him. It'd taken all of thirty seconds for Juliana to give him an answer. She lived less than ten blocks away from the office, so it had become a no-brainer for her.

He returned to Kyle's inner office, closed the door, sat down and told him what no one, other than a Wainwright and his birth mother's family, knew.

 

“I wouldn't have asked you to come if I didn't need you, son.”

Jordan waved a hand at Wyatt. “Stop apologizing, Grandpa. What do you need?”

He'd come to the Fifth Avenue mansion rather than the Wainwright office building. Christiane was hosting a party later that evening to celebrate her father-in-law's seventy-ninth birthday. Wyatt, who eschewed birthday celebrations, was overruled when Christiane insisted that once someone reached their seventy-fifth birthday, every subsequent was very special. Folding his tall frame down to a cushioned chair in the solarium, Jordan crossed one leg over the other at the knee, the same gesture Wyatt had affected.

He had to admit his grandfather didn't look as if he were approaching eighty. The shock of black hair of his youth was now a snowy white; there were a few deep lines around a pair of brilliant topaz-blue eyes that hadn't faded with age, and Wyatt's waist was the same size it'd been at twenty-five. No matter how much or how little he ate, his weight had remained constant over the years, and he'd managed to look elegant whether in a tailored suit, or the shirt and slacks he now wore.

“Are you coming to the circus tonight?”

Jordan smiled. He knew Wyatt was referring to the party that would be held in the smaller of two ballrooms. “I wouldn't miss it.”

Wyatt's bright blue eyes lingered on his grandson's face. He looked good—very good. In fact, he looked better each time he saw him. His lean face had filled out, and he appeared less hostile, more relaxed.

“Your mother told me about the young woman you took to the museum fundraiser.”

Jordan went still. “Did you ask me to come see you to talk about a woman?”

“No, I didn't. I'm just trying to make small talk.”

“What do you want to know about her, Grandpa? That is, if you haven't already had her investigated.”

A hint of a smile softened the lines around Wyatt's firm mouth. “That's where you're wrong, Jordan. I didn't have her investigated because whoever you sleep with is your business. Besides, I heard she's smart and quite beautiful.”

“She is.”

“Have you invited her to accompany you tonight?”

Jordan nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. I'm looking forward to meeting her.”

“Her name is Aziza Fleming.”

“What I did hear is that her brother is on same team as Brandt.”

“They're roomies whenever they play away games. Enough talk about my girlfriend. What's bothering you, Grandpa?”

“I'm still having a problem contacting the owners of the property at 118th and St. Nick. Official records show that the owner died some time ago, and his kids are handling his estate. Some want to sell and some don't. Noah managed to make contact with the oldest boy, who said another lawyer has been talking to him about purchasing the properties for her client. He wouldn't give me her name, but what I want is for you to talk to her and see if you can't work out a deal.”