Because of You. Rochelle Alers

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