Rochelle Alers - Because of You

“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.

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