Because of You. Rochelle Alers
for his profession. She didn’t sign his checks, so he couldn’t care less what she thought of him.
Raymond was up on his feet, hand extended, when Donald walked into his office, closing the door softly behind him. “Good morning, Ennis.” He shook his hand, then indicated a chair at the conference table. “Please sit down.”
Donald sat while Raymond stood close by, no doubt watching for his reaction when he stared at the half-dozen black-and-white photographs, some shot with a long-range lens. “What do you want?”
“Do you know who he is?” Raymond asked, answering the question with a question.
“Who doesn’t?” It was another question. It was a game the two men played, matching wits. “Only someone dead or living under the proverbial rock wouldn’t recognize Harlem’s hottest slick-talking shyster lawyer.”
Raymond sat, tapping one of the photographers with his finger. “Slick-talking—yes. Shyster—hell, no. This young boy knows his stuff.”
Donald flashed a rare smile. “He’s smart and ballsy. He proved that when he called out his grandpappy for being a slumlord all the while television cameras were rolling.”
Raymond nodded. “It was a risky move, but fortunately for him it worked. Next month my son-in-law will announce he’s challenging Billy Edwards for his state assembly seat and I don’t want anything to jeopardize that.”
Robert Andrews, married to Raymond’s daughter Diane, was CFO of RLH Realty.
“What does his election bid have to do with Jordan Wainwright?” Donald asked.
“There’s more to Wainwright becoming partner in a Harlem law firm than his reputation for helping the so-called little guy. I believe he staged that televised press conference to embarrass his grandfather, because Wyatt Wainwright is using his grandson as a pawn.” Raymond held up his hand. “And before you ask me for what, I’ll tell you. It isn’t enough that Wainwright Developers Group owns most of the prime real estate on the Upper East and West Side, SoHo, Chelsea and Tribeca. Now they’ve set their sights on Harlem. I don’t know how they did it, but they’ve managed to buy the buildings on one-fourteen right from under our noses. I don’t want Robert embroiled in a real estate war where the fallout could be his losing the election.”
“So, you think the grandson is slumming in Harlem to identify potential parcels for his grandfather?”
“I know he is,” Raymond confirmed. “I want you to use all your resources to keep tabs on Jordan Wainwright 24/7. I want you to report back to me where he goes and who he meets until after the election.”
Donald nodded. “Does he live in Harlem?”
“No. He has a duplex on Fifth Avenue, facing Central Park.”
A beat passed. “That means paying off the doormen. And that’s—”
“Don’t worry about the money,” Raymond interrupted, visibly annoyed with the private investigator. “Just do what I pay you to do. If Robert is able to run a campaign free of scandal and goes on to win the election, then maybe you’ll get that apartment in the building you so badly want as a bonus.”
Donald schooled his expression to not reveal the rush of excitement that made him want to jump for joy. He’d made it known to Raymond that he was saving money in order to purchase an apartment in one of his renovated buildings overlooking the East River. The real estate mogul paid him well whenever he had him investigate something or someone, but the jobs had not come as frequently as they had in the past. He would give Raymond Humphries what he wanted, and then in turn Donald Ennis would give his oversexed, young girlfriend what she wanted: an apartment in Manhattan with a view of the river.
Raymond stood up, Donald rising with him. “Ms. Jackson will give you the envelope with all the data you’ll need on Jordan Wainwright. Next year this time I intend to throw a blowout of a victory celebration for my daughter’s husband. Please don’t disappoint me, Ennis. Leave the photos,” he said when Ennis gathered them off the table. “There’s an extra set in the envelope.” The P.I. knew whenever he picked up an envelope it was sealed with his illegible signature scrawled over the flap—a signature impossible to forge.
He was still standing, staring at the space where the P.I. had been, when Minerva entered his office closing the door and the distance between them. A sensual moue parted her lips. “What are you up to, Slick?”
Raymond froze. It’d been a long time since anyone had called him by his childhood nickname. All the kids from the neighborhood had called him Slick until he married Loretta Clarke. Then, he’d become Mr. Humphries.
Running a finger under Min’s jawbone, he gazed into her beautiful eyes. They were now a dark green. “Go home, put on something real sexy and we’ll have lunch in bed.”
“Are you trying to distract me, Ray?”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“What’s the connection between you, that nasty-looking little man and Jordan Wainwright?”
Raymond lowered his hand. “Some time when you cross the line I usually let it go. This time I’m not. Don’t ever mention Jordan Wainwright’s name to me again.”
“Or you’ll what?” Minerva crooned, her mouth inches from her boss’s.
“I’ll step on you like a bug.”
It took a full minute before she realized the man she’d loved without question was serious. She took a backward step, swallowed the acerbic words burning her tongue and turned on her heels. “I think I’m going to work through lunch and then go home—alone.”
“I really don’t care, Miss Jackson,” he flung at her retreating back. “You can stay, or go home for good. Frankly, I don’t give a damn one way or the other. And if you slam the door you’re fired!” The door closed with a barely perceptible click.
When he’d begun sleeping with Minerva Jackson, Raymond knew he had to be careful not to divulge too much during pillow talk. He’d never mentioned Jordan Wainwright to Min and had no intention of ever discussing him with her. There were some topics that were taboo, and Wyatt Wainwright’s grandson was categorically off-limits when it came to his mistress.
Jordan Wainwright was his and his wife’s business.
Chapter 1
Jordan Wainwright turned the collar to his ski jacket up around his neck and ears as sleet pelted his face and exposed head. He chided himself for not accepting the doorman’s offer to hail a taxi to drive him sixteen blocks to where his parents lived in a Fifth Avenue beaux arts mansion overlooking Central Park.
It was Christmas Eve, and he’d promised his mother he would spend the upcoming week with her, while reconnecting with his sister and brothers. Since joining Chatham and Wainwright, PC, Attorneys at Law, he hadn’t had time to do much socializing. The exception was business-related luncheons or dinner meetings with his partner, Kyle Chatham.
Jordan had hit the snooze button on his love life after a whirlwind summer romance ended. Natasha Parker had returned to culinary school and her estranged husband, whose existence the very talented aspiring chef had neglected to disclose. He’d made it a practice not to date married women and those who were on the rebound. And, whenever Jordan ended a romantic liaison, he was usually reluctant to start up a new one, unlike some men who jumped right back into the hunt.
He’d recently celebrated his thirty-third birthday. And although he hadn’t ruled out any plans to settle down, he wasn’t actively looking for someone with whom he could spend the rest of his life. This didn’t mean he hadn’t kept his options open for a casual relationship.
The cell phone attached to his waistband vibrated. Taking a hand from his jacket pocket, he plucked the phone off his belt, punched a button without looking at the display and announced his standard greeting. “This is Jordan.”
“Where