“Damn! I forgot about that,” Noah said under his breath. “Well, maybe you’ll meet her another time. Now, tell me about your summer liaison.”
Leaning back, Jordan stared at objects in the room that were as familiar as the back of his hand: the suede and leather seating grouping, the marble fireplace with the mantelpiece lined with family photographs, the floor-to-ceiling windows with glorious views of Central Park. As a child he’d spent countless hours sitting on the padded window seats watching the change of seasons.
The park had become his personal playground when he’d ice skated at Wollman Rink and walked the 86th Street transverse road to the West Side to visit the American Museum of National History several times a month.
It was at the Museum of the City of New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Natural History, where he’d lost himself in art and history, where he’d escaped the orderly life his mother had created to mold him into someone he hadn’t wanted to be. Christiane Wainwright had wanted him to attend the boarding school where countless Johnston men had received an exemplary education. But it was Jordan’s first memory of his father asserting his authority when he told his wife that he refused to warehouse his son in a drafty New England school where he would act and react like a robot instead of a six-year-old boy. He’d been quick to remind her that their son was a Wainwright, not a Johnston. His parents had finally reached a compromise, and he had been enrolled in a prestigious Upper East Side preparatory school, where all of the students arrived and were picked up in chauffeur-driven limousines.
Life as Jordan knew it changed the year he’d celebrated his tenth birthday. With Noah’s birth he was no longer an only child. Rhett was born less than two years later, and Chanel five years later. He was seventeen when his sister was born, and her birth was a mixture of delight and sadness for Jordan. The joy of having a baby sister had softened him. But because he’d left for college, then enrolled in law school he’d missed seeing her first steps, hearing her talk in sentences and other important milestones during the first seven years of her life.
“Jordan!”
He jumped as if coming out a trance. “What’s up?”
A frown marred Noah’s handsome features. “I asked you about Natasha Parker.”
Jordan closed his eyes. “There’s not much to tell. She needed money for tuition for her last year in culinary school, so I hired her to teach me to cook—”
“Did you learn how to cook?” Noah interrupted, smiling.
He nodded. “I can put together a nice breakfast and grill steaks and fish. We got close, real close, but we both knew it was going to end once she returned to school.”
“Where’s she in school?”
“Rhode Island.”
“Come on, Jordan. It’s not as if Rhode Island is halfway across the country. You could still see her.”
Jordan shook his head. “No, I can’t. She’s married. I didn’t know it at the time, but she and her husband were separated.”
“When did you find out?”
“He was involved in an accident, and that’s when she told me.”
“Were you in love with her?”
The sweep hand on the clock on the mantelpiece made a full revolution before Jordan spoke again. “No. If I was, I would’ve fought to keep her. What’s up with you asking if she had a sister?”
Noah closed his eyes for several seconds, long pale lashes brushing the top of his cheekbones. “I don’t have a particular type when it comes to women.”
Attractive lines fanned out around Jordan’s eyes when he smiled. “I take it you like a little diversity.”
“It’s more than a little, big brother.”
Jordan sat up, leaned over and bumped fists with his brother. He knew instinctually when Noah did decide to marry, the woman he would choose was certain to change the complexion of the family in more ways than one.
The brothers talked for hours about the women they’d dated and those they wished they hadn’t. It was close to ten when Noah retreated to his own apartment and Jordan went into the bathroom to shower before climbing into bed. He was asleep within minutes of his head touching the pillow. He’d promised his mother he would spend the week with her, but chided himself for giving into her plea that she didn’t see him enough. He loved Christiane, but could only take his grandfather in small doses. Hopefully the week would go quickly, and after the first of the year he wouldn’t be obligated to hang out with his family again until the Easter break.
Chapter 2
Aziza Fleming pulled the cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders before settling back against the Town Car’s leather seat. It was New Year’s Eve and she was on her way to a party when she wanted nothing more than to be at home, in front of the television watching the ball drop, while toasting the new year with a glass of champagne.
Instead of stockings, a pair of designer stilettos, a dress that revealed more than it concealed, she would’ve preferred a pair of lounging pajamas and thick cotton socks. However, she’d caved when her brother threatened to come to Westchester and forcibly drag her out of the house to attend a party hosted by his pro ball teammate on New Year’s Eve at an Upper East Side penthouse.
Her brother Alexander Fleming claimed she worked too hard and was alone much too much. But what her football player brother failed to realize or understand was that she was content being alone. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t find a date—if she needed one. It was that she didn’t want to date anyone. She had a career she loved, owned a house in a community she liked and enjoyed decorating it, and most of all she’d learned to love herself.
At thirty-one she was five years older than Al, as most people called him, but he’d appointed himself her protector. Aziza constantly reminded him that she could take care of herself; however, as the only girl with two older brothers and one younger she had grown up very much the tomboy. She could fend for herself, whether it was with words or, on rare occasions, with fists. Her father had insisted she take martial arts training along with his rough-and-tumble sons.
She still fought, but now it was for her clients: women contemplating divorce, seeking custody of their children or pursuing delinquent child support or alimony payments. All of her clients were women, but there was one exception: Brandt Wainwright. The high-profile superstar NFL quarterback, who roomed with her brother whenever they played away games, had hired her to handle his legal affairs. If it had been anyone other than Brandt hosting the New Year’s Eve gathering, she would still be sitting in her family room staring at a wall-mounted flat-screen television—her Christmas present to herself—rather than in the back of a limo.
Aziza closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the supple leather seat. It was minutes after ten, and in less than two hours it would be a new year. She rarely made New Year’s resolutions, and this year was the same. The first and only time she had, it was to marry her high school sweetheart. The man she’d loved had turned into someone and something else within minutes of their exchanging vows.
Lamar Powers believed that wearing his ring and taking his name was a symbol of ownership. What he’d failed to realize was that growing up with three brothers, Aziza had been forced to assert herself. Unfortunately their fairy-tale romance had ended before it had a chance to begin. She’d tried to make a go of her marriage, but it ended after a year.
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