Because of You. Rochelle AlersЧитать онлайн книгу.
With wide eyes Aziza savored the lingering taste on her tongue. “It’s incredible.” She opened her mouth and then closed it when Jordan popped the remaining piece into his mouth.
“It is delicious,” he agreed, chewing slowly.
“Hey! That was mine.”
Leaning closer, he pressed a kiss to her ear. “There’s plenty more where that came from.” Jordan went completely still when he heard cheers coupled with the distinctive sound of exploding fireworks. He’d become so engrossed with Aziza that he’d lost track of time. He angled his head and slanted his mouth over Aziza’s slightly parted lips. “Happy New Year.”
Chapter 3
Aziza felt the soft brush of Jordan’s mouth on hers. It was more a mingling of champagne and caviar-scented breaths than an actual kiss.
“Happy New Year, Jordan,” she whispered, praying he wouldn’t feel the runaway beating of her heart slamming against her ribs.
There was a tradition that said the person you find yourself with on New Year’s Eve when the clock strikes midnight will be the one you would spend the year with. She didn’t know Jordan Wainwright. And she hadn’t wanted to get to know him that well and didn’t want to know if or whether he was involved with a woman. And even if he wasn’t, she didn’t have time for a man—not when she’d just gotten her life back on track.
Sitting up straight, Jordan smiled, recognizing the expression of surprise freezing Aziza’s features. “Are you all right?”
She blinked. “I’m good. Really.”
Jordan drained his flute. “We should’ve been with the others counting down the seconds.”
“It’s okay. If I hadn’t been here I would’ve been home dressed in my most comfortable jammies watching the ball drop.”
Jordan’s expressive eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Alone?”
A smile crinkled the skin around Aziza’s eyes. “Is that a subtle way of asking me whether I’m involved with someone?”
“I’d like to believe I was being direct,” he countered.
“Well, counselor, the answer to your very direct question is no.” She shifted slightly on the love seat until they were facing each other. “What about you? If you weren’t here, where would you be?”
“Probably in the Caribbean with my brother and his girlfriend.”
It was Aziza’s turn to lift her eyebrows. “What about your girlfriend?”
“My, my, my, counselor. Aren’t you direct.”
“That’s the only way I know how to be, counselor,” Aziza countered with a grin.
“The answer is I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Why not, Jordan? You seem like a nice guy.”
Jordan was hard-pressed not to laugh at Aziza’s crestfallen expression. Did she really feel sorry for him? “Thank you. But it’s been said that nice guys usually finish last.”
There he was again, Aziza mused. She didn’t understand Jordan’s self-deprecation. “I don’t believe that. Nice guys may not choose wisely at times, but that doesn’t mean they always wind up on the losing end.”
“So you say there’s hope for me?”
Picking up her flute, she sipped her champagne, staring at Jordan over the rim. The illumination from the lamp on a side table slanted over his lean face, and in that moment she sucked in her breath. His eyes were now a rich mossy green.
“You don’t need hope, Jordan. You’re the total package.” A rush of color darkened his face with her compliment. “Are you blushing?”
Jordan glanced away. “Men don’t blush.” Reaching for the bottle, he refilled his glass. “What else would you like?” he asked, gesturing to the tray with prosciutto-wrapped breadsticks, stone wheat crackers, oysters, quail eggs, tiger shrimp, sushi, lobster and crabmeat and a variety of cheeses.
Aziza wanted to tell Jordan he was blushing but didn’t want to make him feel more embarrassed than she assumed he was. “It’s my turn to serve you.” She knew she shocked him when she picked up a pair of chopsticks and clamped the sushi and fed it to him. They alternated feeding each other the gourmet treats while drinking champagne to cleanse their palates.
The rich food and three glasses of champagne left Aziza full and languid. Kicking off her heels, she tucked her feet up under her body and closed her eyes. “I think I’m a little tipsy.”
Jordan stood up, removed his jacket, then sat again, cradling her stocking-covered feet between his hands. “You only had three glasses to my five.”
“Only three. Two is usually my limit,” she said without opening her eyes.
“Are you driving?”
“No. I have a driver.”
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Bronxville.” Aziza opened her eyes. Jordan’s jacket had concealed a rock-hard upper body. His neck wasn’t as large as her football player brother’s, or his teammates, but it was obvious he worked out regularly.
“Where do you live?” Her voice was soft, the timbre low, sultry.
“Manhattan.”
“Where in Manhattan?”
“The Upper East Side. My apartment building faces Central Park.”
“Why didn’t you just say that you live on Fifth Avenue?” she asked. A beat passed. “What are you hiding, Jordan?”
His fingers tightened on her instep. “Nothing. What makes you think I’m hiding something?”
“I don’t know. Call it a hunch, woman’s intuition.”
He massaged her instep before moving up to her ankles. “What else does your woman’s intuition tell you about me?”
Aziza tried to will her mind not to think rather than enjoy the sensual fog of premium French champagne and the sexy man rubbing her legs and feet. “I think you’re uncomfortable being a Wainwright. It’s probably why you decided to expose your grandfather as a slumlord and why you decided to work for a small Harlem law firm rather than your family’s real estate company or a prestigious Wall Street firm.”
Jordan’s expression remained impassive. He hadn’t known Aziza Fleming an hour, and she didn’t realize how close she’d come to the truth. “You’re wrong about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m proud to be a Wainwright. The name gives me entrée to places open to a privileged few, while it also allows me to do things for other people with less.”
“Tell me about your family.”
Jordan shook his head. “I’ll leave that for another time.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you about the Wainwrights without revealing my mother’s side of the family. Have you ever heard the Cher classic hit ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves’?” Aziza nodded. “If she’d been singing about the Wainwrights and Johnstons, then it would’ve been miscreants, pimps and thieves.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was, Zee,” he said, shortening her name.
“Where did you go to college?” Aziza asked.
“Harvard, undergraduate and law. After law school I went to work for my father, but after a few years I was bored. I quit and worked as a litigator for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne.”
She