Jordan Wainwright maneuvered onto the newly paved private road leading to his family’s summer estate. Downshifting, he decelerated around a curve and the Wainwright compound came into view. It was easily recognizable by its Victorian style and connecting three-bedroom guesthouse that resembled an intricately constructed wedding cake with an exquisitely two-tiered wraparound porch and turrets. Of the four thousand homes that made up the Chesapeake Ranch Estates, also known locally as the Ranch Club, no two were alike.
Originally, the Ranch Club was a gated community manned by round-the-clock guards, but in the late 1990s a majority vote of property owners mandated removal of the gates. Instead of going to sleepaway camp or visiting with his grandparents like other children, Jordan had spent his summers at the Ranch Club. Though now a grown man, he still joined the rest of his family in Maryland for the mandatory Memorial Day get-together.
Jordan slowed before coming to a complete stop behind his parents’ vintage Mercedes Benz sedan. There were already three other cars in the drive.
“Jordan!”
Smiling, he peered through the windshield to find his sister racing toward him. He’d just stepped out of the low-slung sports car when she launched herself at his chest. Catching her in midair, he swung her around until she pleaded with him to stop.
“How’s my favorite sister?”
Chanel Wainwright rolled her eyes upward. Jordan hadn’t seen her in weeks, although they lived within walking distance of each other in New York City. She lived with their parents and brother Rhett in a Fifth Avenue Beaux Arts mansion overlooking Central Park, and Jordan had recently purchased a charming maisonette at Ninety-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. Jordan knew his distant behavior—and his recent change in attitude toward their grandfather—worried Chanel, but when she’d asked him about it his response was to say it didn’t concern her.
“I’m your only sister.”
Jordan dropped a kiss on the fashionably cut sun-streaked hair she’d tucked behind her ears. He adored his fifteen-year-old sister. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Going on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “Where have you been? Mother has been waiting for you so we can all can sit down and eat together.”
“I made it down and that’s what important, Charlie.” Chanel, tired of everyone teasing her about her name, had told Jordan she preferred Charlie to Chanel.
“Don’t let Mother hear you call me that. She’ll open a vein.”
Jordan, cradling her smaller hand in his, led Chanel around to the rear of the house. He was familiar with Christiane Wainwright’s dining practices: breakfast and the midday meal on the back porch, and dinner in the formal dining room.
“Perhaps we should let her hear it so we can find out if her blood is red or blue.”
“Stop it!” Chanel hissed.
Her blue-green eyes sparkled when she smiled. Jordan could count on his sister to provide a bit of sunshine on what he predicted to be an otherwise boring weekend. Most of the Wainwrights, Christiane in particular, were much too serious.
Jordan stopped short when he saw the one person he hadn’t wanted to see: Wyatt Wainwright. His grandfather’s black eyebrows flickered at the same time his mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. The resemblance between the two men was uncanny, and Jordan knew what he would look like in another forty years. The only difference was eye color. Wyatt’s eyes were the color of a blue sky on a cloudless day and Jordan’s were brown with pinpoints of gray and green, depending upon his mercurial moods.
“Grandfather,” he said softly in acknowledgment.
Wyatt Wainwright inclined his head. Despite his casual attire of navy blue linen gabardine slacks, white shirt, opened at the collar, and white pullover V-neck sweater he was still an imposing figure. His gaze narrowed as he glared at his eldest grandchild. The last time they’d met, months ago, he’d permitted Jordan to say things to him that he never would’ve permitted another human being to utter—not even his own son. But Jordan knew full well he had gotten away with it because Wyatt had plans for him, plans in opposition to what Jordan had in mind for his own future.
“It’s good seeing you, Jordan.”
Jordan wanted to tell his grandfather the feeling wasn’t totally reciprocated, but then decided he didn’t want to ruin the kickoff to the Wainwright summer gatherings. Christiane came to the Ranch Club every weekend in June, then closed up the Fifth Avenue mansion, moved the entire household staff and spent the months of July and August in Maryland.
“It’s nice seeing you, too, Grandfather.”
It was a half-truth, but he’d promised himself that he would make an attempt to be civil to the seventy-eight-year-old widowed tyrant, who could easily pass for a man fifteen years younger. He’d said things to his grandfather that were damning and blatantly disrespectful, but were warranted given the circumstances. They’d seen each other at Christmas, but hadn’t until now exchanged a word.
“Everyone’s in the house waiting for you.”
Jordan’s gaze shifted to the cloth-covered table with china, crystal and silver for six place settings. “Mother knows not to wait for me.”
“It’s not your mother who’s waiting.”
Jordan’s raven eyebrows lifted a fraction. “If it’s not Mother, then who is?”
“It’s your father,” Wyatt said over his shoulder as he turned on his heel and walked through the door leading into the kitchen, his grandson following his lead.
“Bonjour, Master Jordan.”
Jordan gave his parents’ live-in chef a warm smile. “Bonjour, Monsieur Durant.”
His mother had gone through countless cooks until she’d settled on Jean-Paul Durant, who’d recently celebrated his twenty-second year in the Wainwright employ. But it wasn’t the longtime employee that captured Jordan’s attention; it was the petite, young, dark-skinned woman assembling an antipasto tray. She glanced up and he smiled at her, and she returned his smile with a dimpled one of her own.
Taking long strides, Jordan caught up with his grandfather.
Christiane rose from an armchair, a practiced smile pasted on her face. The smile that curved her mouth did not reach her frosty green eyes. “Now that you’re here, we can sit down to eat.”
Jordan knew his mother was piqued, because she hadn’t bothered to greet him. He hadn’t given her a specific time when he would arrive. But more than that, she was still perturbed by the fact that he’d yet to find another position since leaving the high-powered law firm of Trilling, Carlyle and Browne almost a year ago. Despite the fact that he was more than comfortable living off his trust fund, and the savings from his seven-figure salary, Jordan knew his mother still disapproved of his current lifestyle. He’d also disappointed her hopes for a wedding when his long-distance love affair with Debora, a legislative assistant, has soured about the same time.
Jordan’s gaze shifted to his father, who gave a barely perceptible shake of his head to his youngest son. Rhett’s expression spoke volumes. He was bored. Rhett would turn twenty-one the following year, and at that age would be exempt from spending his summers at the Ranch Club, like his twenty-two-year-old brother Noah, who was nowhere to be seen.
Minutes later, everyone sat at the table on the back porch. Edward and Christiane sat opposite each other at the head of the table, Jordan next to Rhett and Chanel on Wyatt’s right. Goblets at Rhett’s and Chanel’s places were filled with chilled lemonade and the adults’ with dry French rosé. Jean-Paul and his assistant brought out the antipasto tray with a basket of bread sticks and focaccia bread.
The weather was perfect for dining alfresco. The temperature was in the low eighties with a warm southerly breeze. Jordan stared under lowered lids at those sitting around the table. Edward and Christiane Wainwright were known as the golden couple amongst those in their social circle. Three of their four offspring had inherited their fair coloring, ash-blond hair and blue or green eyes. The exception was their firstborn, whose dramatic dark looks made him a standout when compared to his siblings.
“Dad, what is it you want to talk to me about?” Jordan asked Edward Wainwright.
Edward gave his son a long, penetrating stare. “As you know I’m turning fifty-five in July and I’m thinking of retiring.” Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him.
“Teddy!” Christiane gasped.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Wyatt shouted.
Chanel blinked back the tears. “Are you sick, Daddy?”
Edward’s hand came down hard on the table at the same time a flush crept up to his hairline. “Will you please let me finish what I was going to say?”
Jordan hid a smile. It wasn’t often his father exhibited a display of temper and he felt a measure of pride for the man who, unfortunately, was never able to come into his own because of his tyrannical father and haughty wife. Edward may have been president of Wainwright Developers, but Jordan knew the real power was in his grandfather’s hands. He’d been present at board meetings where Edward hadn’t been able to give a senior VP a definitive answer without first checking with Wyatt.
“Please continue, Dad.”
Edward nodded. “Thank you, Jordan. I plan to resign as president of Wainwright Developers, but I plan to stay on as a consultant.” He smiled at Chanel. “And to answer your question, sweetheart, no, I’m not sick. I’ve been telling your mother for years that I want to travel.”
“Travel, or play golf?” Christiane mumbled under her breath.
“That, too,” Edward confirmed.
Wyatt cleared his throat, glaring at Edward. It was obvious he hadn’t expected Edward to resign without speaking to him first. “When were you going to tell me?”
Edward seemed to visibly retreat from his father’s intimidating stare. “I thought it best to make the announcement during a family get-together.”
“Who are you going to recommend as your replacement?” Jordan asked Edward. A pregnant silence settled over the table’s occupants following his query.
Reaching for his wineglass, Edward took a sip, held it in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing the vintage rosé. He extended the glass to Jordan.
“I want you to replace me.”
Jordan shook his head. “I can’t, Dad.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?” Wyatt asked.
“Both.”
Edward drained his wineglass, and the chef’s assistant, standing off to the side, came over to refill it. “Why not?”
Five pairs of eyes were trained on Jordan as they awaited his response. “I can’t, because I’ve got other plans.”
Christiane pressed a hand to her throat. “What plans, Jordan?”
“I’ve asked Kyle Chatham, a former colleague from TCB who recently set up a practice in Harlem, to create a position for me.”
Wyatt choked on his wine. Reacting quickly, he coughed into his napkin. “Did you say Harlem?”
Jordan’s revelation had not only shocked his grandfather, but everyone sitting at the table. They stared at him as if he’d announced that he’d come down with bubonic plague. “Yes, I did say Harlem.”
“But…but why on earth would you want to work up there?” Christiane sputtered.
“What’s wrong with working up there, Mother?” he countered.
Wyatt narrowed his gaze. “What’s wrong is you’ll have pimps, hookers and drug dealers for clients.”
Jordan’s expression changed, becoming a mask of stone. “I’m going to try to forget you said that, because if I ever hear you say something even remotely close to what just came out of your mouth I’m going to forget that you’re my grandfather.” His voice was low, lethal.
A flush suffused Edward’s face, adding to the heightened color from quickly downing two glasses of wine. “Jordan, I didn’t raise you to disrespect my father.”
“But it’s okay for him to disrespect me? I don’t think so, Dad. Wyatt is so used to bullying his employees that he believes he can do the same with his family. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not going to put up with it.” Placing his napkin alongside his plate, he stood. “Excuse me, but I just lost my appetite.”
He left the porch and entered the house through the kitchen.
He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he heard Wyatt screaming at the chef’s assistant. It was obvious he was redirecting his rage and frustration on someone who couldn’t fight back.
Jean-Paul exchanged glances with his employer’s son. “I suppose I should see what the fuss is all about.”
The words were barely off his tongue when the young woman rushed into the kitchen, pulling off the bandanna covering her head. Her dark eyes flashed fire. “I’m outta here. I’m here to work, not get abused.”
“Natasha, please,” Jean-Paul pleaded softly.
She rounded on him. “This has nothing to do with you, chef. Will you please call me a taxi so I can get to the nearest bus or train station?”
Slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks, Jordan rocked back on the heels of his imported slip-ons. “Where are you going?”
She turned and stared at him. “New York.”
“Where in New York?” he asked.
“Harlem,” she replied as a slight smile tilted the corners of her generous mouth. “And, if I’m going to be specific, then I should’ve said East Harlem.”
Jordan took a car fob out of the pocket of his trousers. “Forget the train or bus, because I just happen to be going your way.”
With wide eyes, she said, “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. As soon as you get your things together I’ll meet you near the garages.” Smiling, he offered his hand. “By the way, I’m Jordan.”
She hesitated, closed the distance between them and shook his large, well-groomed hand. “Natasha Parker. It’s nice meeting you, Jordan. Give me about fifteen minutes, and I’ll meet you outside.”
***
Ten minutes later Natasha walked out of the guesthouse and made her way around to the four-car garage. Jordan was sitting in a black-on-black convertible two-seater BMW. A baseball cap and dark glasses protected his head and eyes from the hot late-spring sun.
He pressed his head to the headrest, singing along with the music flowing from the automobile’s powerful sound system.
“Let’s go, homeboy. I’m ready to roll.”
Jordan sat up quickly, smiling. “Hey, that was fast.”
She returned his smile. “That’s because I was already ready to get the hell outta Dodge.”
Natasha took a step backward when he opened the driver’s-side door and got out. Reaching for her weekender, he led her around the vehicle, settled her in the passenger seat and then stored her bag in the trunk. His cell phone rang as he slipped behind the wheel. He activated the dashboard’s Bluetooth device.
“Yes?”
“Jordan, dear, where are you?”
Putting the car into gear, he executed a U-turn and maneuvered away from the garages. “I’m in the car, Mother, heading back to New York.”
“Won’t you please come back?”
He accelerated. “No, Mother, and you’re going to have to stop trying to play peacemaker. Wyatt is who he is and I am who I am. The sooner you accept that we’re not going to agree on a number of issues, the better it will be for everyone. I love you, Mother, and I’ll call you in a couple of days when I’m certain I can be more reasonable than I am right now.”
“I love you, too, dear. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Jordan pressed a button, disconnecting the call. He took a quick glance at the woman sitting beside him. Natasha had covered her head with a rose-pink bandanna that matched the tank top she’d paired with black cropped pants. She’d pushed her tiny feet into a pair of sandals with a two-inch wedge heel. He hadn’t realized how tiny she was until he stood next to her. Jordan was six-two and he suspected Natasha was a foot shorter.
“Let me know if you want me to put up the top.”
Natasha raised her arms above her head. “The breeze feels delicious.”
“Spoken like a true chef.”
She glanced at him surreptitiously. “I still have another year before I can claim that title. But that may be delayed if I don’t find another position before the summer. I need to save about three thousand dollars to cover tuition and room and board for the next two semesters.”
“Where are you going to school?”
Natasha closed her eyes and settled back against the leather seat. “Johnson and Wales in Providence, Rhode Island. I have one more year before I can get my bachelor degree.”
“Couldn’t you have found a culinary school in New York City?”
“I did a lot of research before choosing a school and decided on two—the French Culinary Institute and Johnson and Wales. I went with Johnson and Wales because they offered a partial scholarship. If I’d had the forty thousand dollars for a six-month daytime course at FCI I would’ve commuted between Newark and Manhattan.”
“So,” Jordan crooned, “you’re a Jersey girl?”
“I was a Jersey Girl. Now I live with my cousin whenever I’m not in school.” She opened her eyes and stared at the navigational screen. They were traveling in a northwest direction toward Washington, D.C. “I broke the cardinal rule when I let your grandfather get to me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Hired help should think of themselves as invisible. You hear nothing, see nothing and more importantly, you say nothing.”
Jordan gave her a sidelong glance. “Not many people are able to ignore Wyatt Wainwright, especially when he spews his venom.”
“He’s lucky I didn’t drown his old ass when he called me an incompetent bitch.”
“What did you do?”
“I spilled water on the tablecloth. Before I knew it I had the pitcher inches from his head, and he knew exactly what I wanted to do.”
Jordan wanted to tell Natasha that Wyatt probably would’ve respected her more if she had challenged him, because there was nothing Wyatt detested more than weakness in a human being. He’d viewed his son as weak and it was the reason Wyatt refused to relinquish total control of the company to Edward.
“I would’ve paid your tuition just to see my grandfather squealing like a wet cat.”
Natasha laughed, the low, sensual sound floating on the wind. “If I’d known that I would’ve emptied the pitcher and then gone back to refill it.”
“Easy, Natty. Remind me not to cross you,” Jordan teased.
“Don’t worry, Jordan. I promise not to jack you up.”
“I’m not worried, little bit.”
“Do you have something against short people?”
“Do you think I’m biased?”
“I don’t know what to think, wannabe homeboy.”
There was something about Natasha’s sarcasm that rankled Jordan’s nerves. She was no different than Wyatt, or for that fact, his mother. “You have one more time to call me homeboy, Natasha.”
For the second time that day, Natasha’s quick temper got the better of her and again it was directed at a Wainwright. “What are you going to do, Jordan? Put me out on the side of the road?”
Jordan punched a button, raising the top to the convertible, shutting out the sound of blaring music from passing cars. When he’d gotten up earlier that morning he had hoped his day would go well, that he would enjoy the holiday weekend with his family, but he’d been wrong. He had tried to be civil with his grandfather, but failed. Moreover, now it was a woman whom he had offered to help that annoyed him with her unsolicited, off-putting remarks.
“Either you don’t like men, or you’re dealing with the wrong homeboys.”
Natasha’s mouth opened and closed several times before she sputtered, “I…I like men.”
“You could’ve fooled me,” Jordan drawled sarcastically. “Why would I offer to drive you back to New York and then put you out before we got there?”
Pinpoints of heat stung Natasha’s face. Jordan hadn’t realized how close he’d come to the truth. Her relationships with men had not been what she would call stellar. One had used her; another had abused her physically and verbally, while the last man in her life had cheated on her with her best friend.
“I’m sorry, Jordan.”
He took his eyes off the road, and the tenderness in his expression caused her to take a breath, hold it and then let it go when she felt the constriction across her chest.
Reaching across his body, Jordan held out his left hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Jordan Wainwright, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Smiling, she took his hand. “It’s very nice meeting you, Jordan. I’m Natasha Parker.”
Jordan winked at her from behind his sunglasses. “Would you think me presumptuous if I asked you to share dinner with me?”
Natasha felt a warm glow sweep over her. Jordan Wainwright’s looks and manner of speech were nothing like the men in her past. She believed he was nothing more than a poor little rich boy who wanted to hang, to fit in with the have-nots.
Not only were she and Jordan complete physical opposites, they were also socially and economically opposed. Moreover, while he had the luxury of picking and choosing where he wanted to work, she needed a job yesterday. She was willing to do anything—short of selling her body—to earn the money she needed to complete her last year of college.
Jordan was not her type, but she was not ready to write him off completely. He came from money, lots of money, and there was no doubt he had wealthy friends. Maybe some of his friends, or their parents, would need the services of a personal chef for the summer season.
She flashed a demure, dimpled smile. “Of course I don’t think you presumptuous. I’d love to share dinner with you.”
“Where would you like to eat? You have a choice between D.C., Baltimore, Philly or the Big Apple.”
“I prefer the Big Apple.”
“Which cuisine would you prefer—French, Italian, Asian, Caribbean, Indian, Middle Eastern or American?”
“You’re offering me a choice?”
“But of course.”
Jordan just went up several cool points with Natasha. He could very easily become her type. “I’d like French.”
Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the upbeat hip-hop song coming through speakers, Jordan said, “I was hoping you’d say that. Have you ever been to Les Célébrités at the Essex House?”
“Yes. I ordered their veal tenderloin filled with foie gras, truffles and wild mushrooms and thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
Jordan appeared to be searching his memory for other restaurants offering French cuisine.
“What about Café des Artistes?”
“I’ve never been there.” She had always wanted to eat at the restaurant that was a favorite of theater and media personalities.
“Then it’s Café des Artistes.” He handed Natasha his cell phone, asked her to call the restaurant and make a reservation for seven.
The day that had begun with the excitement of Natasha working alongside a former executive chef had gone downhill when she had become the brunt of a rich old man’s rage. Then things had changed again when she had agreed to have dinner with his grandson. She settled back to enjoy the ride and the man who unknowingly had become her knight in shining armor.
Pushing a button on the steering wheel, Jordan increased the volume on the audio system, singing along with the catchy, pumping rhythm. “‘You spin my head right round, right round when you go down, when you go down down.’”
“So, the poor little rich boy likes Flo Rida?”
Jordan continued singing, deciding it was fruitless to try to change the way Natasha viewed him. He had never wanted his family’s wealth to define who he was, yet those who knew him felt he was being pretentious whenever he told them he was no different than they were. It wasn’t easy to convince them, not when he was heir to an empire second only to Prudential Douglas Elliman, the largest real estate conglomerate in the East.
After graduating law school, he’d gone to work for Wainwright Developers, but left after three years because he’d needed something a lot more challenging. Working for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne was challenging and rewarding, and with Kyle Chatham as his mentor, Jordan had come to eat, sleep and breathe law. His love affair with TCB soured after he won a case for a CEO who had mismanaged his company, leaving it bankrupt and its shareholders without a penny. Following Kyle’s lead once again, Jordan had left his job. Now he hoped to find a place in Kyle’s new practice, to make a difference in the world.
“I like Flo Rida, Ludacris and Keyshia Cole,” he finally replied. “I also like Josh Groban, Pink, Lil’ Kim and Barbra Streisand.”
“Okay, Jordan, I get your drift.”
“Do you really, Natty?” he asked. “You look at my family, see how they live and you put us in a box with a label that reads ‘rich and indulged.’ The truth is we’re no different from any other family in America. We have the same problems with sibling rivalry, drugs, alcohol, teenage pregnancies and cheating spouses. The difference is, we have enough money that we’re able to cover up our filth before others can smell the stench.”
Natasha resisted the urge to applaud. “It sounds good, but there’s one other variable that makes us very different from each other.”
“Of course there is. I’m a man and you’re a woman.”
She punched him softly on the shoulder, encountering solid muscle. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What exactly are you talking about, Natty?”
“You have the option of turning down a job you don’t want, and I just quit one I needed.”
“What if I help you out?”
“How, Jordan?”
“I’ll hire you as my personal chef.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I’ve offered, but if you don’t want the position, then let me know now.”
There was the same hard edge in his voice Natasha heard when Jordan had warned Wyatt about his remark about pimps, drug dealers and hookers. He’d made an offer she would be a fool to refuse.
“I accept the offer. When do you want me to start?”
“Tuesday. I never eat breakfast, so—”
“Don’t you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”
“Not for me. I find that if I eat too much it makes me sluggish, so I just have coffee.”
“It looks as if I’m going to have to teach you how to eat,” Natasha said softly.
“I usually make lunch my heavier meal and dinner is usually veggies and fish or chicken,” Jordan said as if Natasha hadn’t interrupted him.
The topic of food segued to music, movies and tabloid gossip. By the time Jordan drove across the state into New York he felt as if he’d known Natasha Parker for months instead of hours. They alternated talking with singing whenever songs they were familiar with came through the roadster’s speakers. What surprised him was that their voices complemented each other. His baritone was a melodious match for her perfect-pitch soprano.
Jordan found a parking space along Central Park West two blocks from Sixty-seventh Street. Taking her hand, they strolled along the streets like so many other couples taking advantage of the warm weather. It was minutes before seven when he escorted her into the famed restaurant with murals of frolicking nymphs.
The manager greeted Jordan by name and directed him and Natasha to a table next a mural of The Swing Girl. He stared at her bowed head as she studied the menu. When she’d removed the bandanna a profusion of twisted hair framed her doll-like face, ending inches above bare shoulders. Natasha claimed a dark, delicate beauty he found mesmerizing.
“Do you see anything you’d like?” he asked after she’d perused the menu.
Natasha smiled at him from across the table. “I like the duck confit and the Chilean sea bass.”
“Do you find yourself analyzing dishes whenever you eat out?”
She dropped her gaze. “I rarely eat out. I can’t afford it.”
I can’t afford it. Interacting with Natasha Parker had shocked Jordan into realizing that he’d taken eating at restaurants for granted. All he had to do was pick up the telephone to make a reservation that permitted access to any restaurant in the city. Had he been that insular and disconnected from the real world?
He’d attended prep schools, a prestigious college and law school, and then went to work for his family-owned company, and from there to a prominent New York City law firm. He hadn’t had to concern himself with repaying student loans or finding an affordable apartment, or put himself on a budget so he would have enough money to last from one paycheck to the next. Natasha had to work, and save every penny in order to have enough money to complete her education.
“That’s going to change.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Over the next three months we will eat out at least one or two days a week.”
Natasha exhaled an audible sigh. “How many days do you want me to cook for you?”
Jordan rested a hand over hers. “Probably no more than four days each week. I’ll give you my weekly schedule in advance, so that should rule out any conflicts.”
“Do you cook at all?”
“No,” he admitted. “I usually order from a local gourmet shop on Madison Avenue.”
“Where do you live?”
“Ninety-eighth and Fifth.”
Natasha’s expression brightened. “We’re practically neighbors. My cousin lives on Third Avenue near 106th Street. I guess you can say it’s small world.”
Jordan didn’t agree with her. In fact, his world as he knew it was expanding. He no longer wanted to work for wealthy clients but the underserved and underrepresented; and he’d found himself enthralled by a little slip of a woman whose spunk and fire made him want to get to know everything about her.
Jordan miraculously found a parking spot in front of the apartment building where Natasha lived with her cousin. He shut off the engine, removed his seat belt and draped his right arm over the back of the passenger seat.
The East Harlem block was pulsing with electricity. People were sitting on benches, kids were riding bikes and tossing balls, and teenagers were packed into cars with open windows. All the radios were tuned to the same station and the street had become an impromptu open-air concert.
“Do you have a cell phone?”
Natasha went completely still. “Yes, I do,” she said haltingly. “Why?”
“I want to give you the numbers where you can reach me.”
Reaching into the leather tote, Natasha pulled out her cell and handed it to Jordan. “Don’t you want my number?”
“No,” he said as he punched his name and numbers in her directory. “When you call me, your number will come up on my caller ID.”
A hint of a smile played around her mouth. “So, if I never call you, then you won’t have my number,” Natasha teased.
Jordan palmed the small phone instead of returning it her. “You’re the one who needs the job, Natty. So, if you decide to play head games then you’ll be the loser.”
“Lighten up, Jordan. I was only teasing you. And of course I need the job.” He handed her the phone and then opened his door. “What are you doing?” she asked. He had one foot on the street and the other in the car. “I’m going to walk you to your apartment.”
“You don’t have to. My cousin lives on the first floor. That’s her apartment with the American flag decal taped to the window.”
Jordan stepped out of the car and peered at the building. The apartment was dark, but he could make out a small square object in the upper-left corner of the window. He rounded the convertible and opened the door for Natasha.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Of course I’ll be all right. Can you please get my bag out of the trunk?” Leaning over, he pulled a lever and the trunk opened smoothly. He took out her bag and handed it to her. “Thank you for the ride and for dinner.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Don’t forget to eat breakfast,” she warned with a smile.
Jordan closed the trunk and folded his arms over his chest as he stared down at the petite woman with whom he’d shared the past eight hours. “Why don’t you come over and fix breakfast for the two of us?”
“What time should I come?”
“What about eleven?”
“That’s not breakfast, Jordan. That’s brunch.”
“Okay. Then we’ll have brunch,” he conceded. “I’ll wait here until you get inside your apartment.”
“Once I’m inside I’ll wave to you.”
He waited for her to walk through the courtyard of a high-rise apartment building complex. Minutes later a light went on in the first-floor apartment and she waved to him. He returned her wave and got into the car, and drove to the garage where he parked the sports car.
He walked the three blocks to his Fifth Avenue prewar, high-rise maisonette. The two-bedroom, three-bath apartment was steps from Central Park and Mount Sinai Hospital, private schools and public transportation.
Instead of entering the building through the opulent, door-manned lobby, he used a side entrance that led directly into his apartment. He deactivated the alarm and set it again.
Jordan emptied his pockets onto a table under the stairs before climbing the staircase to his bedroom. He wasn’t certain why he’d hired Natasha Parker as a personal chef, because he managed to get by eating at restaurants and ordering food from his favorite gourmet market.
There was no way he could rationalize and say he was attempting to apologize for his grandfather’s insult. Wyatt was Wyatt and he was Jordan. The simple fact was that he liked her. Enough to want to see her again.
***
Jordan woke at dawn to heat and humidity. He got out of bed and pushed several buttons on the thermostat for the air conditioner. He planned to do what he did most mornings: go jogging in Central Park. Running along the foot trails, whether summer or winter, was invigorating. Making his way to the bathroom, he splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth and slipped into a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes. The device strapped to his bicep monitored his heart rate, number of steps and miles.
Jogging permitted him to relax, to clear his mind. He equated jogging to going to therapy wherein he mentally relived the prior day’s events. Today it was getting together with his family at the ranch. He knew he could’ve put up with his cantankerous grandfather if Wyatt hadn’t been so critical about where Jordan wanted to practice law. To Jordan, law was law and clients were clients, regardless of whom they were or where they lived.
“Good morning,” he said, breathing heavily, as he passed a woman who lived in his building. She waved with one hand, while holding two fingers to the pulse in her neck. He didn’t break stride as he ran along the 96th Street Transverse Road, turning left to West Drive and onto the 86th Street Transverse Road around the reservoir to Fifth Avenue and then another half mile back to his apartment building.
Jordan once again entered his apartment through the side entrance. His decision to purchase the maisonette rather than the penthouse that was on the market at the same time had been a wise choice, because he valued his privacy. It was a fact that New York City doormen knew as much about the tenants in the buildings they manned as an intelligence agency. Stripping off his clothes, he left them in a wicker hamper in the laundry room. The area held a small kitchen, and what had been a maid’s bedroom and bath, which he used whenever he returned from jogging.
The telephone rang as he walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his lower body. He picked up the receiver from the wall phone in the kitchen.
“Hello.”
“Are you ready for breakfast?”
Jordan glanced at the clock on the microwave. “It’s seven, not eleven, Natasha.”
“You say you feel sluggish if you eat breakfast?” she continued, ignoring him.
“That’s right.”
“Why don’t you go for a walk afterward? In fact, I’ll walk with you.”
Smiling, he didn’t tell Natasha that he’d already jogged a couple of miles.
“Okay. What’s on the menu for lunch and dinner?”
“Hold up, handsome. It’s just breakfast. I thought I wasn’t supposed to begin working for you until Tuesday.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You’re the boss, so you can call the shots,” Natasha countered.
“I’m not your boss, Natty.”
“Not in the traditional sense, but you’re still paying me to cook for you.”
Jordan didn’t want to engage in a diatribe as to the nature of their relationship. Natasha needed money and he wanted to see her, to uncover why he was attracted to the rapier-tongued aspiring chef.
***
“What on earth did you buy?” Jordan asked Natasha as she began emptying shopping bags when she finally arrived. He picked up the receipt, glancing at the total.
“I’m going to prepare several dishes and store them in microwavable containers so you can reheat them. I’ll label each container so you’ll know the contents and cooking time.” Leaning against the countertop, Jordan stared at Natasha. She wore a white peasant blouse over a pair of jeans and a pair of leather clogs that added two inches to her diminutive height. Each time she leaned over to remove something from the bags, her twisted hair moved as if taking on a life of its own.
“Having prepared meals will work well once I go back to work.”
Natasha stopped placing bunches of fresh herbs on the countertop. “When will that be?”
“Not right now, but soon I hope,” Jordan said. Kyle Chatham had told him to call back in a couple of weeks, after he’d had time to consider Jordan’s request to join his firm. A couple of weeks had passed and Jordan still hadn’t called.
Natasha flashed a dimpled smile. She was standing in the middle of the gourmet kitchen of the most incredibly sensual man she’d ever met. Despite his wealth, she found him to be friendly, approachable and unpretentious. He’d offered her a position as his personal chef when he didn’t have to. And she spent the night tossing and turning restlessly because she’d concluded she liked Jordan Wainwright. The liking wasn’t because he’d afforded her the means to make enough money to pay for her last’s year tuition and room and board.
“How would you like to learn to cook?”
Jordan’s unshaven jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“No. Once I return to school you’ll be able to cook for yourself instead of ordering or eating out, which I might add, isn’t that healthy for you.”
Taking a step, he towered above Natasha. The top of her head came to the middle of his chest. “I’m quite healthy, thank you.”
“But you could be healthier.” Tilting her chin, Natasha stared into a pair of luminous green-gray eyes that were mesmerizing.
Nothing on Jordan moved, not even his eyes. “Are you saying you’re going to take care of me?”
She wrinkled her pert nose. “I’m going to teach you how to eat properly and therefore take care of yourself.”
“How long do you think it’ll take me to put together a meal?”
Natasha lowered her gaze. “That will depend on how quick you learn.”
“I’m a very slow learner,” he replied, but Natasha knew he was lying. She sensed it was his quick mind, the ability to retain whatever he read or saw that had made him an outstanding litigator.
“That means you’ll have to stay after school for remediation.”
Throwing back his head, Jordan let loose with a peal of laughter that seemed to come from his diaphragm. “If you throw in detention, then you have yourself a willing student.”
Without warning, Natasha sobered. She was aware where the conversation was going. In another three months she would return to Rhode Island to complete her education and begin her life anew. If Jordan Wainwright wanted to work, pay and play, was she amenable?
Throwing caution to the wind, going on tiptoe, she brushed her mouth over his. “School is now in session.”
Wrapping his arms around her waist, Jordan lifted her off her feet, while deepening the kiss and leaving her mouth burning with an intimacy that promised more. A slight groan escaped him when her arms went around his neck, holding him fast. A haze of passion threatened to swallow them both whole.
“Jordan!”
“What is it, Natty?”
She pulled back. “I can’t. I like you, but…” Natasha’s words died on her lips when Jordan raised his eyebrows. “Can we take this more slowly?” she continued.
A smile spread over Jordan’s face like a ray of sunlight. “Take all the time you need.” He kissed her again, this time on her forehead. “But I’m ready for my first lesson.”
Jordan stood up when he spied Kyle Chatham’s approach. He had arranged to meet his former colleague at his favorite Japanese restaurant. Kyle had asked him to call him back in a couple of weeks, but sensing his friend’s hesitation, Jordan had given the Harlem-based attorney a whole month to think about his request to join his firm.
The two men shook hands while exchanging a rough embrace. “You look incredible, Chat.”
Smiling and flashing straight, white teeth, Kyle patted Jordan’s back. “You’re not looking too bad for a slacker.”
“Sit down, Chat.”
He waited for Kyle to sit, then retook his seat. Jordan hadn’t lied to Kyle Chatham. His former mentor was what women referred to as tall, dark and handsome. An angular face, high, chiseled cheekbones and slanting gold-brown eyes drew women to the attorney like bees to honey. If anything was different about Kyle, it was the noticeable flecks of gray in his cropped black hair.
“I’ve given your proposal to work with me some serious thought, Jordan. Don’t you think a Park Avenue or Wall Street firm would be more suitable for your Ivy League education than the humble undertaking I’ve set up in Harlem?”
“Cut the humble crap, Chat,” Jordan replied. “Besides, there’s no way I’ll ever go back to defending the fat-cat thugs who line their own pockets because of some warped sense of entitlement.”
Kyle laughed softly, then sobered. “It’s very different from what we did at TCB, because our clients are different. They may not have the earning power of those we represented at TCB, but they’re as important to me as someone on retainer.”
“What types of cases do you handle, Chat?”
Kyle angled his head. “We have petty assault, solicitation, burglary, armed robbery, possession with intent to sell and resisting arrest.”
“No murder or manslaughter?”
“No.”
Jordan appeared deep in thought. “Then it should be easy.”
“Yes and no. But I do have a landlord-tenant case that’s a little more complicated.”
“Who’s the landlord?”
There came a beat as Kyle stared directly at Jordan. “It took a lot of digging, but my paralegal discovered it is a Wainwright Developers holding company.”
Leaning back in his chair, Jordan gave Kyle a long, penetrating stare. “Now I know why you were hesitant to bring me on board. Do you actually believe I wouldn’t take on a case that involves my family?”
Kyle rested his elbows on the table, pressing his palms together in a prayerful gesture. “I’d thought about it.”
“What was there to think about, Chat?”
“First of all, you would be faced with a moral dilemma. Do you go after your family? And secondly, would you be impartial enough to talk the talk and walk the walk when it came to defending Harlem residents?”
A muscle in Jordan’s jaw twitched when he clamped his teeth together. “People are people regardless of where they live, Kyle.”
Kyle knew Jordan was angry because he’d called him Kyle rather than Chat. “You just made your first mistake. You got defensive. Remember, whenever I was first chair on a TCB case, my race was never an issue, because the clients trusted me to keep their asses out of jail. It is going to be different with the clients represented by K. E. Chatham Legal Services. Most of them are distrustful of the legal system because historically they’ve not been given a fair shake. It’s going to be up to you to prove them wrong. Every client we take on is treated with the same respect and dignity we offered those at TCB. If you want to work with me, then be prepared to accept whatever I’ll throw at you, and that includes suing your family’s company. Use whatever resources you need to make your granddad and the holding company’s slumlord bastard pay for what they’ve done to the eighty families who live in their hovel.”
Jordan nodded, smiling. “I’ll make it a priority. When do you want me to start?”
“I’m closing the office on Monday to give the staff a four-day weekend, so you can start Tuesday. By the way, what are you doing this weekend?”
“I’d planned to go to Maryland. My mother is hosting a fifty-fifth birthday celebration for my father, and I promised her I would come down.”
He hadn’t been to the Ranch Club since the Memorial Day weekend. Most weekends he and Natasha went out to eat, or either took in a movie or spent time touring Central Park. She came to his apartment several times a week to cook, packaging and labeling portions he could reheat in the microwave. She’d also taught him how to make an omelet and grill chicken and fish. It had only taken four weeks to substitute coffee for herbal tea and fresh-squeezed fruit juices, and his fruit choices included whatever was in season.
Jordan enjoyed an easygoing relationship with Natasha that had been missing with other women with whom he had been involved since Debora had ended their romance, and it had nothing to do with paying her to prepare his meals. The truth was, he was beginning to like her—a lot.
Over sake and sashimi, Jordan brought up the possibility of Kyle making him partner, offering to cover the expense of running the law office for two or more years, while expanding the staff to include a full-time legal researcher and law clerk. Kyle didn’t reject the offer outright, but told Jordan he would have to prove himself first.
There was no doubt he would prove himself worthy of a partnership because he’d learned from one of the best and brightest. At TCB, Kyle had become Jordan’s mentor. Kyle was an excellent teacher and Jordan a rapt student who held on to every word and nuance of a man who, despite their six-year difference, gave him what Edward Wainwright lacked—self-confidence.
The two men reminisced about cases they’d taken to trial, ninety-eight percent of which they’d won. Lingering over entrées of grilled salmon with miso-basil, yasai soba with vegetables in a hot broth, tempura shrimp and vegetables, Jordan and Kyle lapsed into a familiarity that was apparent when they’d worked together as trial attorneys.
Kyle picked up the tab, and Jordan left to hail a taxi. Jordan exited the cab in front of his apartment building, while Kyle continued uptown.
Going in the front door for a change, he nodded to the doorman on duty. “Good evening, Luis.”
“Good evening, Mr. Wainwright. Miss Parker is waiting for you.”
“Thank you.”
Taking long strides, Jordan walked into the lobby to find Natasha sitting on a settee. He’d given her the rest of the week off because she’d cooked enough meals to last until the weekend, and they’d planned to meet later at a jazz club in Greenwish Village, so her showing up at his building was a pleasant surprise.
Natasha stood up when she saw Jordan. He looked different and it took several seconds for her to realize he was wearing a suit. His tailored attire made him appear less approachable, even more formal than usual.
Jordan kissed her hair. “You look very nice tonight.” She wore a white slip dress, ending at her knees, with floral-print ballet-type shoes. Even her hair was styled differently. She’d secured the twists in a ponytail, displaying her rounded face to its best advantage.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Thank you. Do you mind if we don’t go out tonight?”
“No, I don’t. What’s the matter?”
“I’d rather stay in and take it easy.”
Jordan went still. “Are you saying I’m working you too hard?”
“No, Jordan. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Then what is it, Natty?”
“I’m also volunteering at a soup kitchen. I’m not getting paid, but it will look good on my résumé.”
Natasha stared up at the man who paid her to cook for him when he didn’t have to. Instead of coming to his apartment to cook every day, she would prepare enough for two to three days. Her feelings for Jordan had changed and she found herself torn by conflicting emotions. He was gentle, generous and the consummate gentleman. Whenever they were out in public together he treated her as if she were a fairy-tale princess and he her prince, granting her every wish. She saved most of the money he’d given her, except for what she gave her cousin toward rent. In two months the summer would end, and so would her association with Jordan Wainwright. He was the perfect man for the perfect woman. Unfortunately, she wasn’t that woman. However, what she would do was enjoy the short time she had with him.
Going on tiptoe, she kissed his chin. “Remember when I told you we were moving too quickly?” He nodded. “I’m ready now.”
“Are you sure about this?” Jordan’s face was void of expression.
Twin dimples kissed Natasha’s dark-brown cheeks when she smiled. “Yes.”
Jordan unlocked the door to his apartment, then turned and pulled Natasha gently into the circle of his arms.
Lowering his head, he brushed his mouth over hers. He pulled her closer and deepened the kiss until her lips parted under his. The tip of his tongue touched hers tentatively, as if testing her response.
Natasha opened her mouth, losing herself in the man and the moment as she surrendered to a kiss that was tender, sweet. Jordan’s lips were warm, coaxing with an awakening intimacy she had forgotten existed. It had taken her thirty years to straighten out her life, to try to get it right, and meeting Jordan Wainwright was a reminder that not all men were liars, cheaters or thieves.
She didn’t know if he was seeing other women, and it was of no import to her. Jordan could not become a part of her future, as she could not his. They were like ships passing through the night. They were there and then they were gone. She curved her arms under his shoulders, holding him as if he were her lifeline.
Jordan’s heart rate quickened, his breathing deepened and he felt the familiar rush of blood in his penis as it filled with dizzying desire. He wanted Natasha, had wanted her the first time they exchanged a smile in the kitchen in Maryland. Their so-called outings weren’t outings but dates. She always came to meet him and the doorman would hail a taxi to take them to whatever restaurant they’d decided upon beforehand. And they would talk about anything and everything but themselves. They held hands during a movie and cuddled on the grass at the park. He always took her back to her cousin’s co-op, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek or forehead before she opened the door.
His hands circled her waist, lifting her effortlessly off her feet. “Natty!”
Natasha buried her face between his neck and shoulder as her arms went around his neck. She felt the hardness in his groin pressing against her, and she knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
“Jordan.” His name was barely a whisper. “Can we do this?”
He kissed her hair. “Yes, we can.”
Tears pricked the backs of her eyelids. “It will change everything.”
“It will only change us.”
She couldn’t think. Not with his hot breath in her ear and his erection throbbing against her thighs. Her emotions vacillated. The sensible Natasha told her to run as far away from Jordan as she could get, but the not-so-sensible Natty wanted to take her clothes off and lie with a man who had the power to make her dreams come true with the scrawl of his signature on a check.
“I don’t have protection on me.” There. She’d said it. Natty had given Jordan consent to make love to her.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”
A shiver swept over Natasha when she realized what was going to happen. She was going to sleep with a man who was unofficially her boss, a very wealthy man whom she viewed as a stranger. They’d met for the first time a month ago, and she didn’t know any more about the very private Jordan Wainwright than she did before he’d hired her.
Their relationship behind closed doors was the opposite of what they presented in public. She called Jordan to let him know when she was coming over. He would schedule a time when he was available to let her in. Afterward he’d retreat to the health club in the basement to swim and work out, leaving her to work undisturbed. Then there were the times when he joined her in the kitchen whenever she wanted to show him how to make a salad dressing or sauté vegetables.
Natasha gasped when Jordan swung her up in his arms and carried her out of the foyer, across the living room and up half a dozen stairs that led to the master bedroom suite. There was still enough daylight coming through the silk sheers on the floor-to-ceiling windows to make out an enormous bed with an elaborately carved mahogany headboard. The other carefully chosen furnishings in the suite faded as Jordan placed her on the bed, his body following hers down.
Supporting his weight on his elbows, Jordan cradled Natasha’s face. “You just don’t know how difficult it’s been to keep my hands off you.”
Although his face was in the shadows, Natasha could make out his eyes glowing strangely in the muted light. “I—I didn’t know,” she stammered.
“I didn’t want you to know. It was only when we were out in public that I felt it safe to touch you, because I knew nothing would happen.”
She closed her eyes against his penetrating stare. “Are you willing to start something knowing it’s going to end in a couple of months?”
Lowering his head, Jordan placed tiny kisses around her full lips. “Yes, Natty. I’m willing even if it ends tomorrow.”
And so was she. Jordan had promised her tomorrow and this fit perfectly with her future plans. He had also promised to give her enough money to cover the balance on her tuition and room and board, and she could only promise companionship and passion.
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Let it begin.”
Despite the raging desire racing through his body to the point where he feared embarrassing himself, Jordan took his time undressing Natasha. He searched under her left arm for the zipper to her dress. It gave way and he slipped the narrow straps off the shoulders. He felt as if his fingers were all thumbs. There had been a time when he could undress a woman and himself in under sixty seconds, but he wanted this to go slowly, slowly enough that he’d be able to recall everything about her after she left New York to return to Rhode Island.
It was his turn to gasp when he gazed at her tiny, compact body. Her dark brown skin glowed like a chocolate confectionery. She looked and smelled delicious, the scent of coconut wafting in his nose. He tasted the skin on her silken shoulder and exposed throat, then moved down to the small, firm breasts with pert nipples that stood at attention.
“Why didn’t you leave yourself off the menu?” he whispered.
Natasha stared at Jordan, baffled by his query. “What are you talking about?”
Going to his knees, Jordan eased her dress down her hips and legs. “You look like chocolate mousse, taste like toasted coconut and your breasts are miniature cupcakes topped with chocolate kisses.”
She giggled like a girl. “I’ve never been compared to food before.”
“It could be that I have a very discerning palate.” Natasha made a move to sit up, but Jordan stopped her when he placed a hand over her belly. “Don’t move, Natty. I always like an appetizer before my entrée.”
Bending over, he untied the silk bows of her bikini thong, dangling the triangle of silk between his teeth as he slipped out of his suit jacket and tie, removed the gold cuff links from the shirt’s French cuffs before shrugging it off. His gaze met and fused with Natasha’s as he unbuckled his belt and pushed his suit trousers and briefs down his hips. He saw her gaze go to his jutting erection, and he knew Natasha was waiting for him to protect her from an unplanned pregnancy. He wasn’t ready for marriage and definitely didn’t want to become a baby daddy. Moving over to the edge of the bed, he reached into the drawer of the bedside table and removed a condom from the supply he kept on hand.
“Thank you,” Natasha whispered when his sex was sheathed in latex.
She’d chosen badly when it came to men, but she’d never fallen for their pleas to make love to her without using protection because it felt “unnatural.” Unnatural or not, she hadn’t wanted to contract an STD or find herself pregnant when she wasn’t able to take care of herself. When it came time for her to become a mother she wanted to be able to provide for her child with or without a man.
She opened her mouth, legs and arms when Jordan lowered himself over her body, sighing when she felt his weight pressing her down to the firm mattress. Her sighs and moans escalated when his rapacious mouth charted a course that began at her hairline and journeyed south to the rapidly beating pulse in her throat, her armpits, over her breasts, belly and stalled between her outspread thighs. Her attempt to move her hips was thwarted when he cradled her buttocks.
Floating in and out of a sensual fog that threatened to swallow her whole, Natasha pleaded with him to stop. And he did, momentarily, as his erection replaced his tongue when he pushed into her celibate body.
Jordan knew Natasha was small, but he hadn’t expected her to be that small. Not wanting to hurt her, he took his time pulling back and thrusting gently until he was fully sheathed inside her. He’d had the appetizer, and now it was time for the main course.
Everything was magnified in the muted shadows: the scent of their lovemaking mixing with their scented bodies, the soft sounds of sexual pleasure and the differences between the texture of smooth, silken skin and hair-roughed skin.
Heat, chill and waves of ecstasy swept over Natasha as she struggled vainly to keep from crying out from the passion sweeping her to a place where she’d never been. Gasping and her body arching, she felt the first ripple of a long-forgotten orgasm grip her, followed closely by another, longer and stronger than the first. Waves of passion swept over her and she threw her head back, screaming when Jordan’s driving thrusts touched her womb. His groans overlapped hers, his breath coming in long, surrendering gasps when they climaxed simultaneously.
Jordan collapsed on the tiny body under his as he struggled to catch his breath. Natasha Parker had become a tattoo. Her scent was in his nostrils, stamped on his skin and on his tongue. He’d known from the beginning that if he did become intimately involved with Natasha it would be just for the summer. But now that he’d slept with her he wasn’t sure he would be able to let her go.
***
Natasha didn’t go home that night or the following night. She went to bed with Jordan, and woke up with him. She prepared scrumptious breakfasts, snacks and gourmet dinners. They lounged in what had at one time been a maid’s room that Jordan converted into an office/den, where they watched movies, followed by an in-depth discussion of plot and character motivation.
Like all good things, it came to an end when Jordan announced he was going to pick up his car from the garage because he was going to Maryland for the holiday weekend. They had their first disagreement when Natasha refused his offer to drop her off at her cousin’s complex. She told him she would get the doorman to hail a taxi for her, but Jordan was so insistent that she walked out, leaving him staring at her departing figure. He’d started out after her, then stopped and closed the door. The image of his impassive expression lingered with her for days. Natasha knew sleeping with Jordan Wainwright had been a mistake, because it would make it more difficult for her to walk away from him when the time came for her leave.
No matter her deepening feelings for Jordan, she knew she could do it. If she’d found the strength to walk out on her husband, then she was certain she could do the same with her lover.
Jordan sat in the sun-filled office in the three-story nineteenth-century brownstone in Harlem’s Mount Morris Historic District. In the two weeks since he’d joined Kyle’s firm as an associate he’d discovered the Harlem-based law practice was anything but humble. The brownstone had been renovated to include the offices of two of Kyle’s closest friends. Duncan Gilmore’s financial-planning firm occupied the first floor, K. E. Chatham Legal Services the second and Ivan Campbell’s psychotherapy practice took up the entire third floor.
The street-level space was reconfigured to include a gym with showers, a state-of-the-art kitchen, a dining room and a game room, which meant the building employees had everything they needed at their disposal. After the first week Jordan began taking lunch outside the building. It gave him the opportunity to tour the surrounding Harlem community and put together a plan of action to bring down a slumlord.
Jordan returned his attention to the file on his desk bearing the label of the One Hundred Fourteenth Street Tenants’ Association. He’d filed the documents suing Wainwright Developers Group on behalf of the tenants, but knew it would take months before it would appear on the landlord-tenant docket. There had to be another way to humiliate Wyatt’s holding company.
Reaching for the telephone, he punched in the number for the leader of the tenants’ association. The call was answered after the second ring.
“Mr. Mills, I’m Jordan Wainwright from K. E. Chatham Legal Services, and I’m calling to ask how difficult it would be for you to get the members of your tenants’ association together on very short notice.” He’d introduced himself as Wainwright because the tenants weren’t aware that his grandfather owned the buildings with double-digit violations.
“All I have to do is make a phone call,” said the deep baritone on the other end. “What’s up, Mr. Wainwright?”
“I’ve come up with a plan that will not only get the landlord’s attention but also that of the mayor and every city resident.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to try to get you on television.”
“Hot damn! Mr. Wainwright, I like the way you work.”
Jordan smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Mills. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get the word it’s a go.” He ended the call, then dialed the number for Katrina Nichols, an investigative reporter he’d dated briefly back in high school.
A landlord-tenant tug-of-war was an everyday occurrence in the city, but learning that the landlord was Wyatt Wainwright—and that his grandson was representing the tenants—caught Katrina’s attention, and her producer’s. She called Jordan a week later to inform him that she and a camera crew were scheduled to meet him and the members of the tenants’ association on Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard near 114th Street.
Jordan alighted from the taxi to find a small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk by the television van.
Buttoning his suit jacket, he walked into the small eatery where he’d told Mr. Mills to meet him. The cacophony of voices faded when he stood at the entrance. “I’m Jordan Wainwright. Is Mr. Mills here?”
A tall, light-skinned man with red dreadlocks and freckles stepped forward. “You’re not what I expected.”
Jordan’s expression did not change. “And you’re not what I expected. It’s the red hair,” he said in explanation.
Joseph Mills extended his hand to the tall, slender man with the shimmering eyes and sun-browned face. “I’m Joe.”
He shook the proffered hand. “Jordan.”
“Where’s Kyle Chatham?”
“He’ll be here. But he won’t be on camera.”
Throwing back his head, Joe Mills laughed loudly. “You are going to represent us?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me. You come up to Harlem with your fancy suit and fancy talk and expect us to trust—”
“I don’t care what you think, Mr. Mills,” Jordan said through clenched teeth. “And don’t let the fancy suit or fancy talk fool you, Joseph. I haven’t spent the last three weeks going over every piece of paper in your file to have you get in my face because I don’t look the way you want me to look. Now, back the hell up and let me do my job.”
Katrina walked into the tiny coffee shop, a tiny microphone pinned to the lapel of her tangerine-orange linen suit. Her dark hair floated around her pale face in sensual disarray. “Jordan, we’re ready.”
“We’re coming, Katrina. Aren’t we, Mr. Mills?” Jordan ran a hand over his cropped black hair, then walked out into the late-afternoon sun.
A cameraman held up his hand, lowering a finger one by one as Katrina affected her professional visage.
“We’re live in Harlem to call attention to the plight of a group of residents who have taken on a Goliath named Wainwright Developers.”
A soft gasp followed her statement. It was apparent Jordan hadn’t told them it was his grandfather who owned the buildings where they were paying rent to live in squalor.
“Wainwright Developers Group is the second-largest real-estate company in the East. What makes this lawsuit so unique is the man who has offered to represent the tenants. He is Jordan Wainwright, grandson of CEO Wyatt Wainwright.” She shifted closer to Jordan. “Mr. Wainwright, why did you decide to bring a suit against your family’s company on behalf of the One Hundred Fourteenth Street Tenants’ Association?”
“I didn’t bring the suit. The association did. I’m here as their legal counsel.”
“Do you admit they came to you even though they knew you have ties with Wainwright Developers?”
Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have ties with Wainwright Developers. I work for K. E. Chatham Legal Services. When the case came across my desk I accepted it as I would any other case. I want everyone to know that these tenants have not brought a frivolous suit. It’s been more than six months since they have had hot water. They’ve had to heat water to bathe and wash dishes. And they use their ovens, risking carbon monoxide poisoning, to heat their apartments during the winter months.”
He held out his hand to Joseph Mills, who passed him a stack of photographs.
“What you see in these photos is unconscionable. There are missing bathroom tiles and there are holes in the floors of the bathrooms and kitchens where one is able to look into the apartment below. These show rotten window sashes and walls covered with mold. Insect and rodent infestation is pervasive—yet building management demand they pay rent to live in squalor. They’ve called 3-1-1, filed complaints and aside from a few cosmetic repairs, none of the major problems has been corrected.”
He peered directly into the camera. “I’m ashamed to be a Wainwright when I see people living in conditions not fit for human habitation. I promised these tenants that I’m going to personally pay for new windows and provide air-conditioning units for every apartment. I’m also going to underwrite the cost of a new heating system for two buildings. I will spend whatever it takes to make the eighty units habitable. Meanwhile I’m going to sue the hell out of Wainwright Developers Group. I have one more thing to say—shame on you, Wyatt Wainwright!”
Turning on his heels, he huddled with the tenants, then, en masse, they walked into the restaurant to rousing applause from the crowd that had gathered. Katrina had to raise her voice to shout her name and station call letters to be heard over the escalating noise.
It had taken nearly three weeks, but Katrina Nichols’s station aired the exposé in its entirety, including a subsequent attempt by the investigative reporter to interview Wyatt Wainwright, with no success. The news that Wainwright Developers Group was a Harlem slumlord swept through the gentrified community like wildfire. Wyatt had issued explicit instructions to the Wainwright building security to eject reporters from the premises.
Jordan had watched the footage with Kyle on the wall-mounted television in the brownstone’s reception area. He hadn’t regretted his decision to publicly embarrass his grandfather, but Kyle had once warned him that motivation fueled by revenge can force you to take unnecessary risks. He’d taken the risk, and it had paid off.
He and Kyle met with Wyatt, who’d admitted he wasn’t aware of the violations and promised to personally handle the situation. What shocked his grandfather more than being exposed on the local news was Kyle’s revelation that K. E. Chatham Legal Services was now Chatham and Wainwright, PC, Attorneys at Law. His name was on the new brass plate on the wall of the historic brownstone and on the newly designed letterhead. His unorthodox method of winning a case before it appeared on a court docket, and a partnership in the firm, had become the highlight of his professional career.
A soft knock on the door garnered Jordan’s attention. Glancing up, he saw Kyle standing in the doorway to his office. “What’s up, Chat?”
Kyle walked in and sat on a chair next to the exquisite antique mahogany desk Jordan had purchased to celebrate his partnership. He placed the latest edition of the Amsterdam News on the desk. “Tell me now if you plan to go into politics.”
Jordan’s brown eyes widened as he read the weekly’s headline: Wainwright Black Sheep Goes Gangsta! Picking up the paper, he perused the article. The reporter had interviewed Joseph Mills and other officers of the tenants’ association. Joe was quoted as saying that Jordan Wainwright, gangsta sheriff of Harlem, could roll with the best of them.
“Didn’t I tell you that you were gangsta?” Kyle teased.
Jordan flashed a sheepish grin. “I didn’t have a gangsta bone in my body before I met you, Chat. I used to watch you when we were at TCB, and you were the best when it came to intimidating a witness. You were so good that neither the opposing attorney nor the judge was aware of what you were doing.”
“But you were, so that meant it takes one to know one.”
“It’s all good, Chat. It’s all about getting justice for our clients.”
Kyle stared at the young, brash attorney, seeing a little of himself in the man whom he at one time had mentored. He’d been the teacher and Jordan the student, but along the way the student had become as good as or better than the teacher.
“The clients like you and so do the ladies.”
Jordan blushed under his deep summer tan. “I thought we’d settled that.” When he’d started working at the firm the women from Ivan Campbell’s and Duncan Gilmore’s offices would stop by to either wave or to ask if he needed anything. At first he was amused with all the attention, then it became a distraction and he’d begun closing his door.
The closed door was a temporary stopgap, because then he was besieged whenever he ate in the building’s dining room. The only solution was to take his lunch outside the office, though he told himself that was to get to know the neighborhood.
When Kyle was apprised of the situation he took him to task, telling him if he wanted to make partner, then he had to assume a more take-charge stance. He’d made partner and with it came a change in attitude. He was now more assertive and supremely confident.
“When is Natasha leaving to go back to Rhode Island?”
He’d invited Kyle and his fiancée, Ava, over to the apartment for dinner weeks earlier, and Natasha had prepared an exquisite meal. “Next week.”
Kyle leaned closer. “I wouldn’t let it be known that you’re available—or do you intend to carry on a long-distance relationship with her?”
Jordan closed his eyes for several seconds. When he opened them he stared at the solid-gold scales-of-justice cuff links in his shirt’s French cuffs. “I know from past experience that long-distance relationships don’t work, and I’m not certain whether I want the same with Natty.” He smiled. “Now, if Ava has a single friend I’d be willing to go out with her.”
Throwing back his head, Kyle laughed loudly. “Damn! You’re a real homeboy when you want to date Harlem honeys.”
The light went out behind Jordan’s eyes much like someone pulling down a shade. “What’s so funny, Chat? Don’t forget Natasha is an East Harlem honey.”
Kyle sobered quickly as if it suddenly dawned on him that Natasha Parker was African-American, and whenever he saw her and Jordan together he got the impression they were more friends than lovers.
“I’m sorry, Jordan. Somehow I got the impression that you weren’t that close when she told me that you hired her to become your personal chef. And I remember you always saying that you never mix business and pleasure.”
Jordan was never one to kiss and tell. “Natty is a very special lady.”
“Speaking of special,” Kyle said, deftly changing the topic of conversation, “I’m going to host an open house to formally introduce you to some of the community’s businesspeople and politicians. It will give them the opportunity to meet the new sheriff in town.”
Jordan shook his head. “Which one am I—black sheep, sheriff or gangsta?”
The seconds ticked by as Kyle stared at his law partner. “All three, Wainwright.”
The two men laughed until their sides hurt. They were still laughing when Jordan’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller’s name on the display. “Excuse me, Chat, but I have to take this call.” Waiting until Kyle walked out of the office, closing the door behind him, Jordan pushed the Talk button. “Yes, Natty?”
“Can you come home?”
A frown creased his forehead. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Where are you, Natty?”
“I’m on my way to your place. I’ll probably get there before you do. I’ll be in the lobby waiting for you.”
Jordan called his secretary and told her he would be out of the office and if she needed him, then she should call his cell. Reaching for his jacket, he walked out the office and into the warm September afternoon. He walked to the corner of Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard to flag down a passing taxi.
“Yo, gangsta! Wassup? Yeah you, gangsta lawyer. You did real good with yo’ no-good grandpappy!”
Jordan tried not to smile, but he was unsuccessful. A man sitting on a wooden box in front of a corner store had recognized him. And now that his photograph was pasted on the front of the Amsterdam News there was no doubt he would become even more recognizable.
He nodded. “Thanks, man.” A taxi skidded up to the curb and within seconds of getting in and closing the door the driver took off.
“Where to, buddy?”
“Ninety-eighth and Fifth.”
***
Natasha, chewing her lower lip, sat on a high stool in Jordan’s kitchen watching as he poured a liberal amount of cream into a delicate china cup filled with steaming black coffee. She was the aspiring chef, but he consistently brewed the best coffee she’d ever tasted.
“Here’s your coffee.” Jordan placed the cup and saucer on the countertop in front of Natasha.
He didn’t want to tell her, but she looked awful. Her usually neatly twisted hair stuck out at odd angles on her head and the puffiness under her eyes revealed that she’d either been crying or hadn’t slept.
Natasha took several sips of the warm brew before she worked up the nerve to tell Jordan something that would destroy their fragile bond. Although she’d earned the money she needed to complete her education, she and Jordan continued to sleep together. There were no declarations of love or promises of tomorrow. Natasha didn’t want tomorrows but yesterdays—an opportunity to right the wrongs, a chance for a do-over. But there were no do-overs in life. She had to either accept the hand she’d been dealt or not play the game.
Jordan eased the cup from her hands. “Now, tell me what has you so upset?”
Tears welled in Natasha’s eyes, but she blinked them back before they fell. “I got a call last night from my mother-in-law.”
Jordan’s expressive eyebrows shot up. “Your mother-in-law? You’re married?”
“Not really.”
“Either you are or you aren’t, Natasha. Which one is it?”
“I’m married, but I’m also separated.”
“Legally separated?” Jordan asked. He didn’t want to believe he’d been sleeping with another man’s wife.
“No. I met my husband five years ago not knowing he was addicted to drugs. He told me he had sickle cell and there were times when he would get so sick he couldn’t get out of bed for weeks at a time. His friends would come by to look in on him whenever I was at work, but I wasn’t aware they were bringing him what he needed to stay high. There was one woman in particular who not only supplied the drugs but was also sleeping with him. One day I went to the bank to get a blank check to pay my tuition. I had a mini breakdown in the bank when the teller told me that my husband had closed our joint savings account the day before.”
Jordan cradled Natasha to his chest and rested his chin on the top of her head. He listened intently when she told him she went home, packed her clothes and moved in with her parents. It took her another two years of working sixteen-hour days to save what her husband had taken. Her life changed when she was offered a partial scholarship at Johnson and Wales.
“Trey’s mother called to tell me that he was in a horrific car accident earlier this morning with a drunk driver.”
“Was he high, Natty?”
“No.” The single word came out in a sob. “His mother said he’s been clean for more than a year.” She sniffled. “I promised his mother I would come and be with her.”
Easing back, Jordan cupped her chin. “Where is he?”
“He was airlifted to the Robert Wood Johnson hospital.” Natasha touched her fingertips to the corners of her eyes. “I have to go, Jordan, or I’ll miss my train.”
“You shouldn’t have to take a train. Let me call a car to take you to Jersey.”
“No. You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. It’s the least I could do for my personal chef.” He patted her cheek. “Now, go and clean up your face while I call a car service.”
Eyes glistening with unshed tears, Natasha leaned closer and brushed her mouth to his. “Thank you.”
Jordan helped Natasha off the stool. A sixth sense told him that it would be the last time he would see her. He’d helped her and she’d helped him. He left the kitchen and made his way to his home office. It took less than five minutes to arrange for a car to pick up Natasha to take her to New Brunswick, New Jersey. Sitting at the desk, he scrawled a message on a monogrammed thank-you card. He slipped the card into an envelope with several checks, and then sealed it.
He met Natasha as she walked out of the bathroom, handing her the envelope. “The car will be here in ten minutes.”
She stared at the envelope. “What’s this?”
“A thank-you note.”
“I should be the one thanking you, Jordan. You really didn’t need a personal chef.”
Cradling her face, Jordan pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Go handle your business, and if you need anything, then call me.” He kissed her again, this time on the mouth. “‘Your lips like sugar, this candy got me sprung,’” he crooned, mouthing the hook of Flo Rida’s “Sugar.”
Natasha smiled for the first time since her mother-in-law’s phone call. Jordan listened to more hip-hop and R & B than she did. “I’ll let you know when I open my restaurant.”
He winked at her. “You do that.”
“I’m going to say goodbye now.”
“Not goodbye, Natty. Later.”
“Later, Jordan.”
She walked away from Jordan Wyatt Wainwright, feeling the heat from his gaze on her back. The driver had just pulled up in front of the high-rise when she made her way across the lobby. It wasn’t until she was seated in the rear of the limousine that she opened the envelope. Her chin quivered as she read what Jordan had written, then gasped loudly when she saw the checks. Jordan had written: Graduation gift in each of the memos. Natasha closed her eyes. She would save the money for the restaurant she planned to call Jordan’s.
***
Jordan waited until he was certain Natasha was gone, then closed and locked the door to the maisonette. He asked the doorman to hail him a taxi. Within minutes he was seated in the cab on his way back to Harlem, a community that had welcomed him, a community where he felt as if he’d come home.
THE END