Rochelle Alers - Because of You

The smooth motion of the wheels suddenly stopped, and she opened her eyes. The drive from Bronxville to Manhattan had ended much more quickly than she’d anticipated. The driver had pulled up in front of a towering high-rise in the fifties between First and Second avenues. The glowing numbers on the vehicle’s dashboard showed the time. It was 11:16 p.m.

The rear door opened and she placed her hand on the driver’s outstretched palm, as he gently pulled her to her feet. Aziza flashed a warm smile. “Thank you.”

The driver’s dark eyes lingered briefly on the long shapely legs in sheer black hose and the stilettos that made her legs look even longer than they were under the fitted black wool gabardine dress with a generous front slit. “Just call me when you’re ready to leave.”

Aziza smiled. “I will.”

Alexander had arranged for the driver to pick her up and take her back home once she was ready. She’d told him that she hadn’t wanted to come into Manhattan, yet her protests had fallen on deaf ears. Once her brother set his mind to something, it would take a minor miracle for him to change it. Rather than engage in a verbal exchange with Alexander, she’d given in. Besides, what did she have to lose by leaving the house for a couple of hours? Partying with jocks wasn’t something she liked or looked forward to, yet she’d always enjoyed Brandt Wainwright’s company.

The elevator doors opened and Aziza walked into the penthouse with its panoramic views of the East River and bridges linking the island of Manhattan with the other boroughs. A slight smile parted her lips. Everyone was wearing the ubiquitous black. Dimmed recessed lights and dozens of candles provided a sensual backdrop to music coming from concealed speakers. She guessed there had to be at least sixty people milling around the expansive entryway and great room, but then a roar of laughter went up from another area beyond where she stood. Although Brandt had invited her to his home in the past, she’d always declined, deciding it was better not to mix business with pleasure. She walked into the space that took up two top floors of the opulent high-rise.

Removing her shawl, she folded it and draped the cashmere wrap over her left arm. She spied Alexander as he leaned down to hear what an attractive woman with a profusion of braided hair brushing her bare shoulders was saying to him. Whatever it was must have been funny, because he threw back his head and laughed loudly. Aziza smiled, although she couldn’t overhear what they were saying. Her brother, who was chocolate eye candy, and could lay claim to above-average intelligence and a quick wit, never failed to attract the opposite sex.

“How long have you been here?”

Turning, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled up at Brandt Wainwright. The quarterback had become the NFL’s latest heartthrob, appearing on the covers of most men’s and sports magazines. Nicknamed the “Viking,” because of his long ash-blond hair and piercing sky-blue eyes, Brandt garnered attention from legions of women wherever he went. He loved women and they loved him back. Dressed in street clothes, he appeared taller and larger than he did in uniform. Standing six-five and weighing in at two hundred fifty-five pounds, Brandt Wainwright was an imposing figure of rock-hard muscle. Even the black pullover and slacks failed to mask the power in his athletic physique.

“I just walked in.”

Brandt angled his head and kissed her cheek. “That’s good, because I threatened to fire anyone on staff if I didn’t see every guest with a glass or a plate of food.” Raising his hand, he beckoned a young woman balancing a tray with glasses filled with colorful concoctions. Taking a glass, he handed it to Aziza. “I know you like amaretto sours.”

She shifted the tiny silk evening purse to her left hand, their fingers brushing when she accepted the glass. “Thank you.” Aziza took a sip of the cocktail, smiling at her host over the rim of the glass. “It’s perfect.”

Reaching out, Brandt took her upper arm and steered her out of the living room and down a wide hallway to another wing of the penthouse. “Come with me. I want to introduce you to my cousin. I told him about you and your sexual harassment case.”

Aziza stopped. “How did you know about that?” Only Alexander knew about her plan to sue a former employer for sexual harassment.

“Al told me when I asked why you didn’t work for some firm in the city. But, don’t worry about my cousin. He’s one of the best litigators in the city,” he explained quickly. “And, there is no doubt he will be able to help you win your suit.”

“My case aside, if your cousin is an attorney, why did you ask me to represent you?” she asked.

She practically had to shout to be heard over the sound of voices raised in laughter when they entered a room that was as large as some multiplex movie theater. Reclining black leather chairs were lined up theater-style in front of a high-definition wall-mounted screen that was as least seventy inches. A powerful sound system blared music from one of the channels with images of partygoers gyrating to a popular dance tune filling the screen.

Brandt’s expression changed, becoming impassive. “I try not to involve family in my personal business. The attorney I had on retainer before I hired you, who happens to be a very distant cousin, had a habit of talking to the press. I had to remind him that he was my lawyer, not my publicist. But I suppose his obsession for fifteen minutes of fame cost him a client and my friendship. Even though I can’t change the fact that we’re related, I do have the option of not having to deal with him.” He rested a hand on the back of a man in a black mohair jacket, interrupting the conversation between his cousin and one of his teammates. “Excuse me, Donnie, but I need to talk to Jordan for a few minutes.”

It wasn’t until the tall, slender man with short-cropped black hair turned around that Aziza was able to connect the name Wainwright with the man who’d become something of a local celebrity around Harlem.

Smiling, she said, “I never thought I would have the pleasure of meeting the ‘Sheriff of Harlem.’”

A rush of color darkened Jordan Wainwright’s face. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the sobriquet after he’d won a landlord-tenant case that had garnered national attention.

Jordan hesitated for several seconds as the beautiful woman standing less than a foot away shifted her cocktail to her left hand before he extended his. She was so breathtakingly beautiful that he’d found himself at a loss for words. Recovering quickly, a smile parted his lips.

“Jordan Wainwright.”

Aziza grasped the long slender hand that tightened slightly around her fingers before Jordan eased the slight pressure. Her gaze was drawn to his firm mouth when he smiled. His teeth were white and perfectly aligned. She knew people who paid orthodontists thousands of dollars to have teeth like his.

His face was as perfect as his teeth. A lean jaw, strong chin, high cheekbones, sweeping, arching eyebrows and large jewel-like hazel eyes that seemingly didn’t look at her, but through her. She was mesmerized.

“Aziza Fleming.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “So, you’re Al Fleming’s sister.”

She nodded. “That I am.”

Brandt slapped Jordan’s back again. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Jordan, if Aziza needs anything, please make certain she gets it.”

Jordan nodded as he tucked the slender hand into the bend of his elbow. Not only did Aziza Fleming look good, but she also smelled delicious. If he were given three guesses as to what she did for a living, he would’ve struck out. He never would’ve thought she was an attorney.