Книга - Tempting The Billionaire

Tempting The Billionaire
Niobia Bryant


An irresistible but forbidden temptation…Betrayed by his fiancée, self-made billionaire Chance Castillo plans to sue his ex for her share of their million-dollar wedding. His unexpected attraction to his beautiful, brilliant new attorney sure takes his mind off his troubles.But Ngozi Johns has an ironclad rule: she never dates a client. Ngozi got where she is by following her own guidelines. Until one hot, steamy night with the gorgeous Dominican changes everything.







An irresistible but forbidden temptation...

Betrayed by his fiancée, self-made billionaire Chance Castillo plans to sue his ex for her share of their million-dollar wedding. His unexpected attraction to his beautiful, brilliant new attorney sure takes his mind off his troubles. But Ngozi Johns has an ironclad rule: she never dates a client. Ngozi got where she is by following her own guidelines. Until one hot, steamy night with the gorgeous Dominican changes everything.


NIOBIA BRYANT is the award-winning and national bestselling author of more than thirty works of romance and commercial mainstream fiction. Twice she has won the RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award for African American/Multicultural Romance. Her most recent book written under the pseudonym of Meesha Mink was listed as one of Library Journal’s Best Books of 2014 in the African American fiction category. Her books have appeared in Ebony, Essence, the New York Post, the Star-Ledger, the Dallas Morning News and many other national publications. Her bestselling book, Message from a Mistress, was adapted to film.

“I am a writer, born and bred. I can’t even fathom what else I would do besides creating stories and telling tales. When it comes to my writing I dabble in many genres, my ideas are unlimited and the ink in my pen is infinite.” —Niobia Bryant

For more on this author, please visit www.niobiabryant.com (http://www.niobiabryant.com).


Also By Niobia Bryant (#ufc1eab50-2df1-5194-ba27-1c7597146c9e)

A Billionaire Affair

Tempting the Billionaire

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Tempting the Billionaire

Niobia Bryant






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08633-2

TEMPTING THE BILLIONAIRE

© 2018 Niobia Bryant

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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“Chance,” she whispered softly, her eyes dropping to his mouth as she licked her own. “Come on, help me out.”

He leaned toward her, feeling drawn into her as he inhaled the warm scent of her perfume. “Help you what?”

Her reaction made him weak. That attraction—an awareness—pulsed between them. It was hard to resist. Passion. Chemistry. Electricity.

“Fight this,” she implored, her eyes soft and filling with heat.

“Nah,” he drawled slowly as he lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Chance,” she sighed, with just a hint of aching in her tone.

He shook his head as he smiled and then pressed his lips against hers.

The tip of her tongue darted out to lick at his bottom lip.

He groaned in hot pleasure, feeling his entire body jolt with an unseen surge of current. This energy created by a connection between them had been stoked for the last two weeks. Taunting and tempting them with a power that could not be ignored.

There was no woman he’d ever wanted so much in his life.


Dear Reader (#ufc1eab50-2df1-5194-ba27-1c7597146c9e),

We return to Passion Grove for the next installment in the series, Tempting the Billionaire. This time, the relationship of Ngozi and Chance is the focus and I am so excited for you all to enjoy their love story. It’s funny that I’m the author and I was rooting for them even as I wrote the book because of their backstories. I hope you feel just as connected to them as I do.

I am truly enjoying this series. The wealth of the characters opens up so many possibilities for romance in exotic locales. The research on ultra-wealthy living was inspiring! Still, Passion Grove is the spot where they fall in love—what better place than a fictional small town centered around a heart-shaped lake with every street named after beautiful flowers?

Best,

Niobia


As always, for my mama/my guardian angel, Letha “Bird” Bryant


Contents

Cover (#u1159e984-d1b1-5a3c-b41e-9491396099ce)

Back Cover Text (#u6f2e841a-d11e-5ffd-826b-c65d94d79322)

About the Author (#u19bcdbcd-bf02-581c-8f5a-7c8480bee554)

Booklist (#u4dce9a56-006b-53dc-b7f2-8eedf785a6f5)

Title Page (#u366b1547-5576-5164-8829-c14692f4b84d)

Copyright (#u69bee80a-3fd7-5833-9a23-6ee26b7d9fbc)

Introduction (#u9bf08636-3b6e-50ec-9c2f-a23867e786ce)

Dear Reader (#u033382f0-2bbb-5e56-9a7f-abc1c4f2af57)

Dedication (#ud5842c0c-6db8-50b4-9f63-d952f2ec5cb2)

Chapter 1 (#uc38186e9-33f8-5a6b-b7e1-95519c7ddc53)

Chapter 2 (#u18ce245d-daf4-5cc6-b845-7dbaf98e9abf)

Chapter 3 (#ua6d08bb1-bda8-580b-94ea-5713bb6978b2)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1 (#ufc1eab50-2df1-5194-ba27-1c7597146c9e)

September 2018 Cabrera, Dominican Republic

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud.

Chance Castillo heard the pounding of his sneakered feet beating against the packed dirt as he ran up the tree-lined path breaking through the dense trees and royal palms. He made his way up the mountains that appeared green and lush against the blue skies when viewed from a distance. He didn’t break his pace until he reached the top. His lean but strong muscular frame was drenched in sweat, and his heart pounded intensely in that way after great exertion—which for him was sex or running.

I’ve had way more of the latter lately.

He pulled his hand towel from the rim of his basketball shorts and wiped the sweat from his face and neck as he sat atop a large moss-covered rock, propping his elbows on his knees. As his pulse began to slowly decelerate, Chance looked around at his tranquil surroundings. He was surrounded by shades of green, from vibrant emerald to the muted tones of sage and olive. The smell of earth and nature was thick. He inhaled deeply, knowing he would miss his morning run from his secluded villa down along the white sand beach of the shoreline of the Atlantic Ocean to the surrounding mountains and cliff side.

His mother, Esmerelda Diaz, had transplanted her love of her beautiful hometown of Cabrera to him. As a kid, he had loved her stories of growing up on a small farm in the hills overlooking the coast in the northern region of the Dominican Republic. Her family members were hardworking farmers of fruits and vegetables whose livelihood depended on their crops. She spoke of days more bad than good. Plenty of struggle. Sometimes just a small meal away from hunger. Money spent on nothing more than bare necessities. Her life was filled with more coastal tranquility than wealth, but her memories were of a small family working hard in humble surroundings and enjoying the simple life they led.

Chance squinted his deep-set chestnut-brown eyes as he looked around at the higher elevation of the small town that was ripe with hills, oceanfront cliffs and mountains as green as emeralds. Fortunately, the town had not yet been overtaken by traffic and congestion like neighboring tourist traps. Still, there were a good number of people from other countries living in the town, experiencing the vivid Latino culture and enjoying the excellent exchange rate of American dollars while retaining their citizenship to their home country.

Chance chuckled. Technically, I am an expat.

He was a United States citizen, and although he had been living in Cabrera for the last eight months, he had every intention of returning to the States. Back to my life.

His brows deepened as he frowned a bit and turned his head to look off in the distance. The sun was setting, and he could just make out the outline of his sprawling two-story beachfront villa. It was the epitome of luxury living, with its private beach and sweeping views of the surrounding mountain ranges, tranquil waters, and azure skies.

It was the best his money could buy.

And seeing the smile on his mother’s face when he purchased it two years prior had been worth every cent. Never had he seen her so proud. It was everything she worked for as an Afro-Dominican single mother with a broken heart and a low-paying job as a nursing assistant who was determined her son not get lost in the shuffle of the tough streets of the Soundview section of the Bronx, New York.

He still shook his head in wonder at the sacrifices the petite beauty had made for him to have a better life. Chance was ten when Esmerelda began working double shifts as a certified nursing assistant to move them out of their apartment in the Soundview projects to a better neighborhood. It meant taking on higher rent and a longer commute to her job, but she felt it was worth the sacrifice to be closer to the fringes of the Upper East Side because she wanted him to attend the elite Manhattan private academy The Dalton School. Although she applied for scholarships, she fought hard to pay his annual tuition and fees while keeping them clothed, fed and with a roof over their heads.

Chance’s heart swelled with love for his mother. He’d never forgotten or taken her sacrifice for granted. It motivated him. Her happiness was his fuel through the tough days adjusting to being the poor kid who felt different from his classmates. He went on to finish at Dalton and graduated from Harvard with a degree in accounting and finance. While making a good living in finance, six years later he became a self-made wealthy man in his own right after selling a project management app for well over $600 million. That, plus the dividends from smart investing, was rocketing him toward billionaire status. He had purchased a home in Alpine, New Jersey, for his mother and ordered her retirement—she gladly agreed.

That was three years ago.

I’m not the poor kid from the Bronx with the two uniforms and the cheap shoes anymore.

In the distance, Chance heard the up-tempo beat of Ozuna and Cardi B’s “La Modelo.” He looked back over his shoulder, and at the top of the hill there was a crown of bright lights. He rose from the boulder and flexed his broad shoulders as he jumped, bringing his knees to his muscled chest with ease before racing up the dirt-packed path of the hill as the darkness claimed the skies.

At the top everything intensified. The music. The smell of richly seasoned foods being cooked in the outdoor kitchen. The bright lights adorning the wooden planks of the large pergola. And the laughter and voices of his extended family all settled around the carved wooden benches, or dancing in the center of the tiled patio. The scent of the fruit of the towering royal palm trees filled the air as the firm trunks seemed gathered around the small farming property to offer privacy.

The three-bedroom villa with its one lone bathroom and barely an acre of land was modest in comparison with his beachfront estate, but it was here among his cousins, with the night pulsing with the sounds of music and laughter, that he felt warmth and comfort.

Mi familia.

He came to a stop, just barely shaded by the darkness, and looked at his petite, dark-haired mother whose brown complexion hinted at the history of a large majority of Dominicans having African ancestry due to the slave trade of the early 1700s. She stood before a rustic wood-fired oven, stirring the ingredients in a cast-iron pot as she moved her hips and shoulders in sync to the music. He chuckled as she sang along with Cardi B’s part of the song and raised the large wooden spoon she held in the air.

Everyone cheered and clapped when she tackled the rap part, as well.

Esmerelda Diaz was his mother and everyone’s beloved. Although only forty-nine, she was the last of the Diaz elders. The baby girl who grew up to lead their descendants.

His mother turned and spotted him standing there. Her dark, doe-shaped eyes lit up as if she didn’t have her own suite on his estate and had not fixed him pescado con coco for lunch. His stomach grumbled at the thought of the snapper fish cooked in coconut sauce.

“Chance!” she exclaimed, waving him over. “Mira. Mira. Mira.”

The nine members of his extended family all looked over to him and waved as they greeted him. His cousin Carlos, a rotund, strong man in his late twenties, came over to press an ice-cold green bottle of Presidente beer in his hand as he slapped him soundly on the back in greeting.

This was the home of Carlos, his wife and four small children. He owned and operated farmlands of just three acres only a few hundred yards from the villa and was proud of his work, like many other Dominican farmers, providing locally grown fruits and vegetables and taking care of his family. Chance respected his cousin’s hard work ethic and enjoyed plenty of his harvest during his time in the country. In kind, he knew his family respected him for the success he had made of his life back in the Estados Unidos.

“Tough day?” Chance asked.

Carlos shrugged one shoulder. “Same as always. And you, primo?” he asked with a playful side-eye and a chuckle before he took a swig of his own beer.

Chance laughed. His days of finance work and the development of his app had never been physically hard, and now that he just served as a consultant to the firm that’d purchased his app, the majority of his time was spent maintaining his toned physique and enjoying the fruits of his labor. Life was good, with his private jet, his estate in Cabrera and his permanent one in Alpine, New Jersey, and the ability to do whatever he wanted, whenever he chose. And during this time of his life, he chose to travel, enjoy fine food and wine, and spare himself nothing.

His days of struggling were over. As were his days of feeling less than for having less than.

“Excuse me, I’m starving,” he said, moving past his younger cousin to reach his mother.

She smiled up at him before turning her attention back to stirring the pot.

“Sancocho de mariscos,” he said in pleasure at the sight of the shellfish stew rich with shrimp, lobster, scallops, garlic, plantains, pumpkin and potatoes.

“Sí,” Esmerelda said, tapping the spoon on the edge of the pot before setting it atop a folded towel on the wooden table next to the stove.

Living in a town directly off the Atlantic Ocean had its privileges. Although Chance was no stranger to traditional Dominican cooking. On her rare days off, his mother would go shopping and spend the day cooking and then freezing meals for him to enjoy while she was at work.

“Como estas?” she asked in rapid Spanish as she reached up to lightly tap the bottom of his chin with her fingertips.

“I’m fine,” he assured her.

She shrugged one shoulder and slightly turned her lips downward as she tilted her head to the side. Translation? She didn’t agree with him, but so be it.

The radio began to blare “Borracho de Amor” by Jose Manuel Calderon, and Chance was thankful. His mother gave a little yelp of pleasure and clapped rapidly at the sound of one of her favorite songs from the past before she grabbed the hand of her nephew Victor and began dancing the traditional bachata.

Chance took a seat at a wooden table and placed his beer on it as he watched his mother, alive and happy among her culture and her family. But as everyone focused on their dance, his attention was on the words of the song. As was common with traditional bachata music that was about heartache, pain and betrayal, it was a song of a man who turned to drinking after the heartache and pain caused by a woman’s scorn. It was said that the tortured emotions displayed in the song fueled bachata dancers to release those emotions through dance.

Chance knew about heartache all too well.

His gut tightened into a knot at the memory of his former fiancée, Helena Guzman, running off with her lover and leaving him at the altar. In the beautiful blond-haired Afro-Cuban attorney he’d thought he found the one woman to spend his life with. She’d even agreed to give up her career as a successful attorney to travel the world with him.

But he’d been wrong. And made a fool of.

His anger at her was just beginning to thaw. His mother referred to her only as “Ese Rubio Diablo.” The blond devil.

Cabrera had helped him to heal.

But now I’m headed home.

This celebration was his family’s farewell to both him and his mother.

The daughter of his best friend since their days at Dalton, Alek Ansah, and his wife, Alessandra, had been born and he’d been appointed her godfather. He’d yet to see her in person; photos and FaceTime had sufficed, but now it was time to press kisses to the cheek of his godchild and do his duty at her upcoming baptism.

In the morning they would board his private plane and fly back to the States. She would return to the house he purchased for her in New Jersey, and he would be back at his estate in a house he’d foolishly thought he would share with his wife and their family one day.

Chance looked over into the shadowed trunks of the trees that surrounded the property as his thoughts went back to the day he was supposed to wed the woman he loved...

“I’m sorry, Chance, but I can’t marry you,” Helena said, standing before him in her custom wedding dress and veil as they stood in the vestibule of the church.

For a moment, Chance just eyed her. His emotions raced one behind the other quickly, almost colliding, like dominoes set up to fall. Confusion. Fear. Pain.

“I am in love with someone else,” she said, her eyes filled with her regret.

Anger.

Visions of her loving and being loved by another man burned him to his core like a branding. The anger spread across his body slowly, seeming to infuse every bit of him as the truth of her betrayal set in.

“How could you do this, Helena?” he asked, turning from her with a slash of his hand through the air, before immediately turning back with his blazing fury.

And his hurt.

That infuriated him further.

“How long?” he asked, his voice stiff.

“Chance,” Helena said.

“Who is he?”

She held up her hands. “That is irrelevant,” she said. “It is over. It is what it is, Chance.”

“Who?” he asked again, unable to look at her.

“My ex, Jason.”

The heat of his anger was soon replaced with the chill of his heart symbolically turning to stone. He stepped back from her, his jaw tightly clenched. “To hell with you,” he said in a low and harsh whisper.

Long after she had gathered her voluminous skirt in her hands and rushed from the church to run down the stairs, straight into the waiting car of her lover, Chance had stood there in the open doorway of the church and fought to come to grips with the explosive end of their whirlwind courtship.

Chance shook his head a bit to clear it of the memory, hating that nearly eight months later it still stung. The betrayal. The hurt. The dishonor.

Damn.

“Baila conmigo,Chance.”

He turned his head to find Sofía, the best friend of Carlos’s wife, extending her hand to him as she danced in place. She was a brown-skinned beauty with bright eyes, a warm smile and a shapely frame that drew the eye of men with ease. They had enjoyed one passionate night together a few months ago after a night of dancing, but both agreed it could be no more than that, with his plans to return to the States. And his desire to not be in another relationship.

Accepting her offer, he rose to his feet and took her hand, pulling her body closer to his as they danced the bachata. “You remember what happened the last time we danced?” he teased her, looking down into her lively eyes.

Sofía gave him a sultry smile before spinning away and then back to him. “I can’t think of a better way to say goodbye,” she said.

Chance couldn’t agree more.

* * *

“Lord, help me get through this day.”

Ngozi Johns cast a quick pleading look up to the fall skies as she zipped up the lightly quilted crimson running jacket she wore with a black long-sleeved T-shirt, leggings and sneakers. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the early morning air was crisp. She inhaled it deeply as she stretched her limbs and bent her frame into a few squats before jogging down the double level of stairs of her parents’ five-bedroom, six-bathroom brick Colonial.

Her sneakered feet easily ate up the distance around the circular drive and down the long paved driveway to reach Azalea Street—like every street in the small but affluent town of Passion Grove, New Jersey, it was named after flowers.

Ngozi picked up the pace, barely noticing the estates she passed with the homes all set back from the street. Or the wrought iron lamppost on each corner breaking up the remaining darkness. Or the lone school in town, Passion Grove Middle School, on Rose Lane. Or the entire heart-shaped lake in the center of the town that residents lounged around in the summer and skated on in the winter.

She waved to local author Lance Millner, who was in the center of the body of water in his fishing boat, as he was every morning. The only time he was to be seen by his Passion Grove neighbors was during his time in the water, tossing his reel into the lake, or the rare occasions he visited the upscale grocery store on Main Street. In the distance, on the other side of the lake, was his large brick eight-bedroom home with curtains shielding the light from entering through any of the numerous windows. He lived alone and rarely had any guests. The man was as successful at being a recluse as he was at being a New York Times bestselling author.

He waved back.

It was a rushed move, hard and jerking, and looked more like he was swatting away a nagging fly than giving a greeting.

Ngozi smiled as she continued her run. With one movement that was as striking as flipping the middle finger, he confirmed his reputation as a lone wolf with no time to waste for anyone. When he did venture from his lakeside estate, his tall figure was always garbed in a field jacket and a boonie hat that shaded his face.

Passion Grove was the perfect place to come to enjoy high-scale living but avoid the bustle, noise and congestion of larger cities. Home to many wealthy young millennials, the town’s population was under two thousand, with fewer than three hundred homes, each on an average of five or more acres. Very unlike Harlem, New York. She had enjoyed living in the city, soaking in the vibrancy of its atmosphere and culture and the beauty of its brownstones and its brown-skinned people—until a year ago. A year to the date, in fact.

When everything changed.

“Damn,” she swore in a soft whisper as she shook her head, hoping to clear it.

Of her sadness. Her guilt.

Ngozi ran harder, wishing it were as easy to outrace her feelings.

It wasn’t.

She came to a stop on the corner of Marigold and Larkspur, pressing her hand to her heaving chest as her heart continued to race, even though she did not. She grimaced as she released a shaky breath. She knew the day would be hard.

It had been only a year.

Ngozi bit her bottom lip and began jogging in place to maintain the speed of her heartbeat before she finally gathered enough strength to push aside her worries and continue her morning run. She needed to finish. She needed to know there was true hope that one day her guilt and remorse would no longer hinder her.

She continued her run, noticing that outside of the echo of her colorful sneakers pounding on the pavement, the chirp of birds and errant barks of dogs occasionally broke the silence. With the town comprising sizable estates that were all set back three hundred or more feet from the streets—per a local ordinance—the noise was at a minimum.

“Good morning, Counselor.”

Ngozi looked over her shoulder to find the town’s police chief standing on the porch of the Victorian home that had once served as the town’s mercantile during the early days of its creation in the 1900s. For the last fifty years, it had served as the police station and was more than sufficient for the small town. She turned, jogging in place as she looked up at the tall and sturdy blond man who looked as if his uniform was a size—maybe two—too small. “Morning, Chief Ransom,” she greeted him as she checked her pulse against the Fitbit. “Care to join me?”

He threw his head back and laughed, almost causing his brown Stetson hat to fall from his head. “No, no, no,” he said, looking at her with a broad smile that caused the slight crinkles at the corners of his brown eyes to deepen. He patted his slightly rounded belly. “My better half loves everything just as it is.”

Eloise, his wife, was as thin as a broomstick. Opposites clearly attracted because it was clear to all that they were deeply in love. The couple resided in the lone apartment in the entire town—the one directly above the police station. It was a perk of accepting the position as chief. It would be absurd to expect a public servant to afford one of the costly estates of Passion Grove—all valued at seven figures or more.

“You have any future clients for me?” Ngozi asked, biting her inner cheek to keep from smiling.

“In Passion Grove?” the chief balked. “No way.”

She shrugged both her shoulders. “Just thought I’d ask,” she said, running backward before she waved and turned to race forward down the street.

As a successful New York criminal defense attorney, Ngozi Johns was familiar with the tristate area’s high-crime places. Passion Grove definitely was not counted among them. The chief had only two part-time deputies to assist him when there was a rare criminal act in the town, and so far that was limited to driving violations, not curbing a dog, jaywalking or the occasional shoplifting from the grocery store or lone upscale boutique by a thrill-seeking, bored housewife.

There were no apartment buildings or office buildings. No public transportation. Only stop signs, no traffic lights. There were strict limitations on commercial activity to maintain the small-town feel. Keeping up its beautiful aesthetic was a priority, with large pots on each street corner filled with plants or colorful perennial floras.

Like the police station, the less than dozen stores lining one side of Main Street were small converted homes that were relics from the town’s incorporation in the early 1900s. She jogged past the gourmet grocery store that delivered, a few high-end boutiques, a dog groomer and the concierge service that supplied luxuries not available in town. Each business was adorned with crisp black awnings. She crossed the street to ignore the temptation of fresh-brewed coffee and fresh-baked goods wafting from La Boulangerie, the bakery whose delicacies were as sinfully delicious as the store was elegantly decorated like a French bistro.

She appreciated the serenity and beauty as she reached the garden that bloomed with colorful fall flowers, and soon was at the elaborate bronze sign welcoming everyone to Passion Grove. She tapped the back of it with gusto before taking a deep breath and starting the run back home.

Ngozi successfully kept her thoughts filled with upcoming depositions or cases. By the time she turned up the drive and spotted her parents’ sprawling home, the sun was blazing in the sky and some of the chill had left the morning air. She felt less gloomy.

Thank you, God.

“Good morning, Ngozi.”

Her heart pounded more from surprise at the sound of her father’s deep voice than the run. She forced a pleasant smile and turned in the foyer to find her tall father, Horace Vincent, with deep brown skin that she’d inherited and low-cut silver hair, standing in the open door to his office. He was still in his silk pajamas, but files were in hand and he eyed her over the rim of his spectacles.

“Good morning, Daddy,” she said, walking across the hardwood floors to press a tender kiss to his cheek. “I just finished my run.”

Horace was a retired corporate and banking attorney who started Vincent and Associates Law over forty years ago. It was one of the top five hundred law firms in the country—a huge accomplishment for an African American man—and Ngozi was proud to be one of the firm’s top criminal trial attorneys.

“Ngozi!”

The urge to wince rose quickly in her, but Ngozi was well practiced in hiding her true feelings from her parents. “Yes, Mama?” she asked, following her father into his office to find her mother leaning against the edge of the massive wooden desk in the center of the room. She was also still in her nightwear, a satin red floor-length gown and matching robe.

Even in her seventies, Valerie “Val” Vincent was the epitome of style, poise and confidence. Her silver bob was sleek and modern. She exercised daily and stuck to a vegan diet to maintain her size-eight figure. Her caramel-brown skin, high cheekbones, intelligent brown eyes and full mouth were beautiful even before her routine application of makeup. She was constantly mistaken for being in her fifties, but was regally proud of every year of her age.

And she was as brilliant as she was beautiful, having cultivated a career as a successful trial attorney before becoming a congresswoman and garnering respect for her political moves.

“I know today is difficult for you, Ngozi,” Val said, her eyes soft and filled with the concern of a mother for her child.

As her soul withered, Ngozi kept her face stoic and her eyes vacant. She never wanted to be the cause for worry in her parents. “I’m fine, Mama,” she lied with ease.

Her parents shared a look.

Ngozi diverted her eyes from them. They landed on the wedding photo sitting on the corner of her father’s desk. She fought not to release a heavy breath. The day she wed Dennis Johns, she had put on a facade as well and played the role of the perfectly happy bride vowing to love the man she’d met in law school.

Until death do us part.

After only four years.

She was a widow at twenty-nine.

She blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

“We want you to know there’s no rush to leave,” her father began.

Ngozi shifted her gaze back to them, giving them both a reassuring smile that was as false as the hair on the head of a cheap doll. It was well practiced.

I’m always pretending.

“When we suggested you move back home after Dennis’s...passing, your mother and I were happy you accepted the offer, and we hope you’ll stay awhile,” Horace continued.

“Of course, Daddy,” she said, widening her smile. “Who wants to leave a mansion with enough staff to make you think you’re on vacation? I ain’t going nowhere.”

They both smiled, her show of humor seeming to bring them relief.

It was a pattern she was all too familiar with.

How would it feel to tell them no?

Her eyes went to the other frame on her father’s desk and landed on the face of her older brother, Haaziq. More death.

She winced, unable to hide what his passing meant for her. Not just the loss of her brother from her life, but the role she accepted as defender of her parents’ happiness. Losing their son, her brother, in an accidental drowning at the tender age of eight had deeply affected their family. Little six-year-old Ngozi, with her thick and coarse hair in long ponytails and glasses, had never wanted to be a hassle or let down her parents because of their grief. She’d always worn a bright smile, learned to pretend everything was perfect and always accepted that whatever they wanted for her was the right course of action.

“Let’s all get ready for work, and I’m sure breakfast will be on the table by the time we’re ready to go and conquer the world,” Val said, lovingly stroking Horace’s chin before rising to come over and squeeze her daughter’s hand.

At the thought of another meal, Ngozi wished she had dipped inside the bakery, enjoyed the eye candy that was Bill the Blond and Buff Baker, and gobbled down one of the decadent treats he baked while resembling Paul Walker.

Bzzzzzz.

Ngozi reached for her iPhone from the small pocket of her jacket. “Excuse me,” she said to her parents before turning and leaving the office.

She smiled genuinely as she answered the call. “The early baby gets the mother’s milk, huh?” she teased, jogging up the wooden staircase with wrought iron railings with a beautiful scroll pattern.

“Right.” Alessandra Dalmount-Ansah laughed. “The early bird has nothing on my baby. Believe that.”

Alessandra was the co-CEO of the billion-dollar conglomerate the Ansah Dalmount Group, along with her husband, Alek Ansah. Ngozi served as her personal attorney, while corporate matters were handled by other attorneys at Vincent and Associates Law. The women had become closer when Ngozi successfully represented Alessandra when she was mistakenly arrested during a drug raid. She’d been in the wrong place at the absolute worst time, trying to save her cousin Marisa Martinez during a major drug binge.

“How’s my godchild?” Ngozi asked, crossing the stylishly decorated family room on the second level to reach one of the three-bedroom suites flanking the room.

“Full. Her latch game is serious.”

They laughed.

The line went quiet just as Ngozi entered her suite and kicked off her sneakers before holding the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she unzipped and removed the lightweight jacket.

“How are you?” Alessandra asked, her concern for her friend clear.

“I’m good,” Ngozi said immediately, as she dropped down onto one of the four leather recliners in the sitting area before the fireplace and the flat-screen television on the wall above it.

Liar, liar.

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

Then she heard a knock.

“Alessandra, can I call you back? Someone’s at my door,” she said, rising to her feet and crossing the room.

“Sure. See you at the baptism Sunday.”

“Absolutely.”

Ngozi ended the call and opened the door. Reeds, her parents’ house manager, stood before her holding a tray with a large bronzed dome cover. She smiled at the man of average height with shortbread complexion, more freckles than stars in the sky and graying brownish-red hair in shoulder-length locks. “One day my mother is going to catch you,” she said as she took the tray from him and removed the lid to reveal buttered grits, bacon, scrambled eggs and toast.

He shrugged and chuckled. “The rest of the staff wouldn’t know what to do without me after all these years.”

“I know that’s right,” Ngozi said with a playful wink.

“Just remember to at least eat the bowl of fruit at breakfast,” Reeds said before he turned and began to whistle some jazzy tune. He stopped in the middle of the family room to glance back. “Or you could just tell your mother you’re not vegan. Your choice.”

Ngozi ignored his advice and stepped back into the room, knocking the door with her hip to push it closed.


Chapter 2 (#ufc1eab50-2df1-5194-ba27-1c7597146c9e)

Alpine, New Jersey

The day of reckoning is here.

Chance splashed his face with water and pressed his hands to his cheeks before wiping the corner of his eyes with his thumb. He stood tall before the sink and eyed his reflection in the large leather-framed mirror above it. He released a heavy breath and studied himself, rubbing his hand over his low-cut fade haircut.

Today he would face his friends for the first time since what was supposed to be his wedding day. With the last bit of pride and bravado he could muster, Chance had stood before all those people and admitted that the wedding was called off. The swell of gasps of shock and whispers had filled the church as he strode down the aisle with nearly every eye locked on his stoic expression. He would admit to no one the embarrassment he felt, and didn’t allow his head to sink one bit until he left the church.

He had instructed Alek to have the wedding planner, Olivia Joy, turn the reception into a party, but he had not attended the event. The idea of being pitied or ridiculed by Helena’s betrayal was too strong for him to swallow. He spent what was supposed to be his wedding night ignoring all attempts at communicating with him as he nursed a bottle of pricey Dos Lunas Grand Reserve tequila, stewed in his anger and envisioned Helena being bedded by her lover.

Early that next morning, with a hangover from hell, he boarded his private jet and flew to Cabrera with no foreseeable plans to return. His consultant work for the same firm that purchased his app could be handled from anywhere in the world with Wi-Fi. All he knew was he had to get away. So he did.

Now I’m back.

He eyed his reflection, hating the nerves and anxiousness he felt.

It took him back to his school days as a poor brown-skinned Latino kid from the Bronx trying his best not to feel less than around students who were predominantly white and absolutely from wealthy families.

He flexed his arms and bent his head toward each of his shoulders, instinctively trying to diminish those feelings from his youth. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled under his breath, removing his towel and drying his body before tossing it over the smoothed edge of the cast concrete in the center of the dark and modern bathroom.

He quickly swiped on his deodorant and lightly sprayed on cologne from one of the ten bottles sitting on a long ebony wood tray in the space between the large tray sinks atop the concrete vanity.

Naked, he strode across the heated marble floors and through the opening in the tinted-glass wall to his loft-style bedroom suite. His motorized open-front closets lined the entire wall behind his king-size Monarch Vi-Spring bed, but the suit he’d already selected was laid across one of the custom chaise longues at the foot of it. His long and thick member swayed across his thighs as he moved to pull on his snug boxers, having to adjust it to comfort before he finished dressing in silk socks, his off-white wool-silk suit and a matching open-neck shirt. The fit against his athletic frame spoke to its custom tailoring and his desire for both quality and style.

Not wanting to run late, he hurriedly selected one of a dozen watches to buckle around his wrist while slipping on shoes that were almost as comfortable as his bed.

Life was good when it came to the creature comforts. The days of squeaky rubber-sole shoes from the dollar store were over.

I hated to walk in ’em,he remembered. Felt like everyone heard me coming.

He rushed through his opulent two-story villa-style mansion, which sat on two gated acres in Alpine, New Jersey, styled in muted tasteful decor with vibrant pops of color that were a testament to his dynamic Latino culture. Chance lived alone in the six-bedroom luxury home, and he usually kept music or his 4K televisions on to break the silence. Hip-hop from the 1990s played from the sound system, and he rapped along to Big Daddy Kane’s “Ain’t No Half-Steppin’” as he grabbed his keys from beside the glass-blown structures of nude women atop the table in the center of the foyer.

Soon he was out the double front doors and behind the wheel of his black-on-black Ferrari 488 Pista, taking I-280 to Passion Grove. He drove the supercar with ease with one hand, effortlessly switching lanes on the interstate as he lightly tapped his fist against his knee to the music playing. The commute was hassle-free because it was Sunday morning, and he was grateful as he finally guided the vehicle down the exit ramp and made his way through the small town. He didn’t think he could find an upscale town more laid-back than Alpine, but Passion Grove proved him wrong.

A city without traffic lights in 2018?

Chance felt bored already. He still found it hard to believe that his fun-loving best friend, Alek—who was born into a billionaire dynasty—chose the small town to live in after jet-setting all over the world.

Real love will make you do unexpected things.

His and Helena’s plans had been to travel the world and explore new adventures after they were wed.

And look how that turned out.

His hand gripped the steering wheel, lightening the color of his skin across his knuckles. He was glad to finally make it to Alek and Alessandra’s, accelerating up the private mile-long paved street leading to the expansive twenty-five-acre estate until he reached the twelve-foot-tall wrought iron gate with the letter D in bronzed scroll in the center.

Alessandra had inherited the estate upon the death of her father, Frances Dalmount, who co-owned the billionaire conglomerate the Ansah Dalmount Group, along with Alek’s father, the late Kwame Ansah. When Alessandra and Alek wed last year, they’d decided to make the Passion Grove estate their main home, while maintaining both his Manhattan and London penthouse apartments, and the vacation estate they built together on their private island in upstate New York.

After getting checked in by security via video surveillance, Chance drove through the open gates and soon was pulling up to the massive stone French Tudor. He hopped out and pressed a tip into the hand of one of the valets his friends were using for the day to park the vehicles.

He jogged up the stairs and accepted a flute of champagne from the tray being held by a servant. “Thank you,” he said with a nod of his head as he entered the foyer through the open double doors.

“Thanks so much.”

Chance paused and turned at the soft voice. He froze with his drink still raised to his mouth as he eyed the woman over the rim of the crystal flute. His heart began to pound, and his breath caught in his throat. Well, damn...

She was beautiful. Tall and shapely with skin as dark and smooth as melted chocolate. Long and loose waves of her beyond-shoulder-length ebony hair framed her oval face with high cheekbones, bright and clear brown doe-like eyes, and a nose bringing forth a regal beauty similar to the women of Somalia. The long-sleeved white lace dress she wore clung to her frame with a V-neck highlighting her small but plump breasts, and a wide skirt above long shapely legs. Her gold accessories gave her skin further sheen.

As she walked past the valet with a soft reserved smile, the wind shifted, causing her hair to drift back from her face as she moved with confident long strides that flexed the toned muscles of her legs and caused the skirt of her dress to flounce around her thighs. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and had no desire to do so. She was a treat, and the very sight of her as she easily jogged up the stairs made him hunger for her.

He smiled like a wolf behind his flute as his eyes dipped to take her in from head to delicious feet displayed in open-toe sandals with tassels that were sexy.

Who is she?

He felt excited with each step that brought her closer to him. When she paused to take her own flute of champagne, his hawk-like eyes locked on how the flesh of her mouth pressed against the crystal, leaving a light stain of her lip gloss on the glass.

Who is she? And does she want to leave with me later?

The prospect of that made his return to the States completely worth it.

“There you are, Chance.”

With regret, he turned from his temptress. “Here I am,” he agreed, genuinely smiling at Alessandra Dalmount-Ansah as she walked up to him, looking beautiful in a white light georgette dress with perfect tailoring.

She grabbed his upper arms lightly as she rose up on the tips of her shoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Welcome home, Chance,” she said with warmth, looking up at him with sympathetic eyes as she raised a hand to lightly tap his chin. “You good?”

He nodded, hating the unease he felt. How much more of this pity will there be today? he wondered, purposefully turning from her to eye the beauty in peach as she stepped inside the foyer.

Her eyes landed on his, and he gave that lingering stare and slow once-over that was nothing but pure appreciation and a desire to know more. Her brows arched a bit and her mouth gaped as she gave him the hint of a smile that was just enough to give him hope.

“Hey, Ngozi,” Alessandra said, moving past Chance to kiss her cheek in welcome.

So, this is Ngozi? Alessandra’s best friend and attorney. Brains and beauty. Just as Alessandra had said to him so many times.

Her eyes left him, and Chance felt the loss, finally taking a sip of the champagne he instantly recognized as Armand de Brignac.

“That’s right, you two have never met,” Alessandra said, reaching for one of Ngozi’s hands and then one of Chance’s. “Chance Castillo, godfather, meet Ngozi Johns, godmother.”

She pressed their hands together.

Their eyes met.

As they clasped hands, Chance stroked the pulse at her wrist with his thumb, enjoying how it pounded. It matched his own.

* * *

Ngozi felt breathless.

Her first sight of Chance Castillo as she stepped inside the house had made her entire body tingle with excitement. He was tall with an athletic frame that could not be denied in his tailored suit. His stance as he stood there eyeing her over the rim of his glass spoke of unleashed power. A man. A strong man built for pleasure. Not just handsome, with his medium-brown complexion and angular features softened by lips and intensified by his deep-set eyes, the shadow of a beard and his low-cut ebony hair...but intriguing. Something about him had instantly drawn her in. Excited her. Made her curious. Forced her to wonder, Who is he?

And now, as Ngozi stood there with her hand seemingly engulfed by his with his thumb gently grazing her pulse, she shivered and sought control of her body. Her pulse. Her heartbeat. Her breaths. The pounding of the sweet fleshy bud nestled between the lips of her core. Damn.

All of it surprised her. Never had she had such an instantaneous reaction to a man before.

Needing to be released from the spell he cast upon her, Ngozi pulled her hand from his and forced a smile that she hoped didn’t look as awkward as it felt. “Nice to finally meet, Mr. Castillo,” she said, proud of her restored cool composure.

It was all a sham, and she deserved an award for the performance.

“Chance,” he offered, sliding the hand she once held into the pocket of his slacks.

“Right this way, y’all,” Alessandra said, leading them across the stately round foyer, past the staircase and down the hall into the family room, where the glass doors were retracted, creating an entertaining space that flowed with people lounging inside or outside on the patio or around the pool.

Alek spotted them and excused himself from a couple he was talking with to cross the room to them. It was similar to watching a politician or other public figure as he spoke to each person who stopped him while still moving toward them. The man was charismatic.

Ngozi took a sip of her champagne as she glanced at Alessandra over the rim. The look in her friend’s eyes as she watched her husband was nothing but love. She’d found her happily-ever-after.

A twinge of pain radiated across her chest, and Ngozi forced herself to smile in spite of it.

“Careful, Ngozi,” Alessandra said, holding out her arm in front of her. “Don’t get in the way of this bro love, girl.”

Ngozi looked on as Chance took a few strides to meet Alek. The men, equally handsome, confident and strong in build, clasped hands and then moved in for a brotherly hug complete with a solid slap of their hand against the other’s back. It barely lasted a moment, but it was clear they were close.

As the men talked quietly to one another, Ngozi eyed Chance’s profile, surprised by her reaction to him. And she still felt a tingle of awareness and a thrill that ruffled her feathers. He smiled at something Alek said, and her stomach clenched as a handsome face was instantly transformed into a beautiful one.

“He looks happy,” Alessandra said softly to herself.

Ngozi glanced over at her, seeing the hope on her face that her words were true. She remembered Alessandra explaining Chance’s absence because he had been left at the altar by his fiancée and was in the Dominican Republic recovering from his heartache. That had been nearly nine months ago.

What woman would leave him behind?

Ngozi had never asked for any more details than Alessandra offered, but that was before she’d seen him. Now a dozen or more questions flew to mind with ease. Her curiosity was piqued.

“I’m going up to get the baby,” Alessandra said. “Be right back.”

Ngozi glanced around the room, raising her flute in toast to those she knew professionally or personally. When her eyes landed back on the men, she found Chance’s eyes on her. She gasped a little. Her pulse raced.

He gave her a wolfish grin—slow and devastating—as he locked his gaze with hers. They made their way toward her, and Ngozi forced herself to look away as she felt a shiver race down her spine.

“I wanted to finally greet you, Ngozi,” Alek said.

She looked up at him with a smile. “I thought I was invisible,” she teased, presenting her cheek for a kiss as she pretended Chance was not standing there, as well.

“Chance told me Alessandra already made the introductions between you two,” Alek said.

She stiffened her back and glanced up at Chance. “Yes, it’s nice to finally put a face to the name,” she said.

“Same here,” he agreed. “Especially since we’re sharing godparent duties.”

“Right, right,” she agreed with a genuine smile. “We’ll rock, paper, scissors for overnight stays.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, biting his bottom lip as if to refrain himself. He shared a brief look with Alek, who then shook his head and chuckled.

And she knew—she just knew—Chance was going to say they could have overnights together.

“Really, fellas?” she asked, eyeing them both like a teacher reprimanding naughty schoolboys.

“What?” they both asked innocently in unison.

Ngozi was surprised to see Alek, normally severe and businesslike, standing before her with mirth in his eyes. “So, we all have that one thing or one person—a vice—that makes us different. Today, Alek Ansah,” she said before turning to face Chance, “I have met yours.”

Chance’s smile broadened as he looked down at her. “And what—or who—makes you different, Ngozi Johns?”

She loved how her name sounded on his lips. “Oh, is there something about me that needs fixing?” she asked, forcing herself not to quiver under his intense stare as she met it with one of her own.

“From what I can see, not one damn thing,” Chance responded with ease, his voice deep and masculine.

“On that note,” Alek said, clearing his throat as he looked from one to the other, “I’ll take my leave.”

And he did, leaving them alone.

“Ngozi!”

At the sound of her name, Ngozi broke their stare and turned to find Marisa Martinez standing beside her. She gave the petite woman with a wild mane of shoulder-length curly hair a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, Marisa,” she said, her eyes taking in the clarity in the woman’s eyes and feeling sweet relief.

The former party girl who lived hard and fast off the allowance she received from the Dalmount dynasty had developed an addiction to alcohol and drugs that put both her and Alessandra’s freedom in jeopardy. As the head of the family, Alessandra felt it her obligation to guide and protect the entire clan made up of her two aunts, Leonora Dalmount and Brunela Martinez, her cousin Victor Dalmount and his bride, Elisabetta, and Marisa, Brunela’s daughter. That sense of duty had led Alessandra to seek out Marisa at a house party and to get caught in the middle of a police drug raid.

Ngozi was called on by her client to represent them both. The charges were dropped, but Alessandra had forced Marisa to either attend the long-term rehab program Ngozi arranged or be disowned.

Marisa chose the former, and six months later, she’d returned drug-free.

“I just wanted to thank you for everything you did to help me,” Marisa said, before lifting up on her toes to give Ngozi an impromptu hug.

“Well, I thank you for not letting my hard work go to waste,” she said, returning the hug. “You look good.”

Marisa released her. “I feel better,” she said, her eyes serious before she forced a smile and walked away with one last squeeze of Ngozi’s hand.

She watched her walk over to join her mother and aunt Leonora by the fireplace. With her work as a criminal attorney who insisted on pro bono work and tough cases, Ngozi was well acquainted with thankful clients.

“I’ve heard you’re one of the best attorneys on the East Coast.”

Him.

Ngozi took a sip of her champagne as she eyed him with an arched brow. “Just the East Coast?” she teased.

He chuckled.

“I’m kidding,” she rushed to say, reaching out to grasp his wrist.

His pulse pounded against her fingertips. She released him.

“La tentadora,” Chance said.

The temptress.

Her entire body flushed with warmth.

Chance was Dominican on his mother’s side, and like many other Afro-Latinos did appear to be what was standardly thought of as such. Much like Laz Alonso, Victor Cruz and Carmelo Anthony.

“Me das demasiado crédito,” she said, loving the surprise that filled his deep brown eyes at her using his native tongue to tell him that he gave her too much credit.

“Ah! ¿Tu hablas español?” he asked.

“Yes, I speak Spanish,” she answered with a nod.

“¿Pero alguna vez te ha susurrado un hombre en español mientras te hace el amor?”

Ngozi gasped in surprise and pleasure and excitement at his question of whether a man had whispered to her in Spanish while making love. She recovered quickly. “No,” she answered him, before easing past his strong build and imposing presence to leave.

“Usted tiene algo que esperar,” Chance said from behind her.

Then you have something to look forward to.

Chance Castillo.

She gave in to her own temptation and glanced back at him over her shoulder. He had turned his attention to greeting Alek’s younger brother, Naim. She pressed her fingertips to her neck as she turned away, admitting regret that his attention was no longer on her.

In truth, she couldn’t remember feeling that affected by a man in a long, long time.

She pursed her lips and released a stream of air, intending to calm herself.

Ngozi stopped a male waiter and set her near-empty flute on the tray. “Thank you,” she said. Her stomach rumbled, and she looked around with a slight frown, hoping no one had heard it. Quickly, she turned and tapped the shoulder of the waiter. “Is there another one like you with a tray of hors d’oeuvres? A sista is hungry.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “The food will be served after the ceremonies.”

Damn. Ngozi checked her platinum watch as he walked away.

She crossed the room and made her way outdoors. During the day, the September air was still pleasant. It was the early mornings and late nights that brought on a chill that reminded her summer was drawing to an end.

As she neared the Olympic-sized pool, she felt an urge to jump in and sink beneath the crystal clear depths to swim to the other end and back. Instead, she settled for slipping off one of her sandals to dip her toes in the water, causing it to ripple outward.

Dennis loved to swim.

She felt sadness, closing her eyes as she remembered his looking back at her over his shoulder before he dived into the deep end of her parents’ pool back in some of the rare moments of free time they had during law school.

She smiled a bit, remembering how happy they were then.

That was a long time ago.

“Excuse me, Ms. Johns.”

She was surprised by the same waiter who took her drink, now standing beside her with a sandwich on his tray.

“Courtesy of Olga, the house manager, per the request of Mr. Castillo,” he said.

Ngozi looked up and bit back a smile at Chance standing in the open doorway, raising his flute to her in a silent toast. Her stomach rumbled again as she bowed her head to him in gratitude. She assumed he had overhead her conversation with the waiter.

“One sec, please,” she said, holding the man’s wrist to keep her balance as she slipped her damp foot back into her sandal.

Once done, she took the sandwich and cloth napkin from him and bit into it. Her little grunt was pure pleasure at the taste of seasoned and warmed roast beef with a gooey cheese and a tasty spread on the bread. “Thank you,” she said to him around the food, with a complete lack of the decorum she had been taught by her parents.

“No problem.”

As he walked away to finish his duties, Ngozi turned her back to the house and enjoyed the view of the manicured lawns to avoid people watching her eat.

“Ngozi.”

Him.

Her body went on high alert. Every pulse point on her pounded. What is wrong with me? Am I in heat?

“Yes?” she said, patting the corners of her mouth with the napkin before turning to face him. Wow. He’s fine.

Chance was nursing his second glass of champagne and squinting from the sun of the late summer season as he eyed her.

“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” she said, offering him the other half of the sandwich still on the saucer.

He eyed it and then her. “My appetite isn’t for food, Ngozi,” he said before taking another deep sip of his drink.

“The only thing I have for you is half of this sandwich, Mr. Castillo,” she said, keeping her voice cool and even.

He chuckled.

“Akwaaba. Akwaaba. Memo o akwaaba.”

They both turned to find LuLu Ansah, Alek’s mother, standing in the open doorway looking resplendent in traditional African white garb with gold embroidery with a matching head wrap that was simply regal. Both the Ansah and Dalmount families surrounded her, with Alek and Alessandra beside her with the baby in Alessandra’s arms. Both she and Alek looked around before they spotted Chance and Ngozi, waving them over.

They rushed to take their place, Ngozi gratefully handing the saucer and the remainder of the sandwich to one of the waiters.

“Welcome. Welcome. We welcome you,” LuLu translated, looking around at everyone gathered with a warm smile that made her eyes twinkle.

Ngozi leaned forward a bit to eye her goddaughter, who was just eight days old. She was beautiful. A perfect blend of Alek and Alessandra, with tightly coiled ebony hair and cheeks that were already round. She couldn’t wait to hear her name. Alessandra had not budged in revealing it early.

“Today we are honored to officially present a new addition to our family. We will have both a religious ceremony to baptize our little beauty to ensure she is favored by God, and then an outdooring, which is a traditional Ghanaian ceremony when a baby is taken outside the home for the first time, given a name and prepared with the love and wisdom we all hope for her. Is that okay with you all?” she asked, looking around at the faces of everyone in attendance with a sweet, loving expression.

People applauded or shouted out their approval.

“And so, we welcome into our world, our community, our village... Aliyah Olivia Ansah,” LuLu said with pride. “May we all pray for her, guide her and love her.”

Alessandra pressed a kiss to Aliyah’s head, and then Alek pressed one to her temple.

She was so loved.

Ngozi was happy for them and couldn’t help but smile.


Chapter 3 (#ufc1eab50-2df1-5194-ba27-1c7597146c9e)

Two weeks later

“Congratulations, Counselor.”

Ngozi finished sliding her files inside her briefcase and then raised her hand to take the one offered by the Brooklyn district attorney Walter Xavier. She had just served him a loss in his attempt to prosecute her client, an ex-FBI agent, for murder. “You didn’t make it easy,” she told him, matching his steady gaze with one of her own.

With one last pump of her hand and cursory nod of his head, the man who was her senior by more than thirty years turned and walked out of the courtroom with several staff members behind him.

Ngozi allowed herself a hint of a smile as she looked down into her briefcase.

“Ayyeeee! Ayyeeee! Ayyeeee!”

“Angel!” Ngozi snapped in a harsh whisper, whirling around to eye her newly appointed personal assistant at her loud cry. She found her arm raised above her head, as if she was about to hit a dance move, which took her aback. A win in the courtroom was not the same as getting “turned up” in the club.

Angel, a twentysomething beauty whose enhanced body made a button-up shirt and slacks look indecent, slowly lowered her hands and smoothed them over her hips.

“Get out,” Ngozi mouthed with a stern look, seeing that other people in the court were openly eyeing them.

“What?” she mouthed back, looking confused as she picked up her fuchsia tote from her seat in the gallery and left the courtroom with a pout.

“Precious Lord,” she mumbled, thankful her client had already been taken back into the holding cell by the court officers.

Ngozi often went above and beyond for her clients, including hiring a former stripper/escort as her personal assistant to meet the requirements of the probation Ngozi was able to secure. At the firm she had her own staff, clerks, paralegals and junior associates, plus an experienced legal secretary. The last thing she needed was a personal assistant—especially one like Angel, who lacked discernment.

Two weeks down, two years to go...

Ngozi gathered the rest of her items and finally left the courtroom. As she made her way through the people milling about the hallway, Angel and her junior associate, Gregor, immediately fell in behind her. Her walk was brisk. She had to get back to the Manhattan office for an appointment with a prospective new client.

She had a rule on no walking and talking outside the offices of Vincent and Associates Law, VAL, so they were quiet. Once they reached the exit on the lobby level, she saw the crowd of reporters and news cameras awaiting her. This was another huge win for her in a controversial case. She felt confident in the navy Armani cap sleeve silk charmeuse blouse, tailored blazer and wide-leg pants she wore. She had self-assuredly and correctly anticipated the win and made sure to be camera ready—which had included an early morning visit from her hairstylist/makeup artist.

“Angel, go mannequin-style and say nothing,” she mumbled to the woman.

“But—”

A stare from Ngozi ended her statement before it even began.

They exited the building and then descended the double level of stairs, with Ngozi in the lead. She stopped on the street and the crowd created a semi-arc around them. “Hello, everyone. I am Ngozi Johns of Vincent and Associates Law. As you know, I am the attorney for Oscar Erscole, who has been successfully exonerated of the charges of murder that were brought against him. After a long and tenuous fight, we are thankful that the jury’s discernment of the facts and the evidence presented in the case has proven what we have always asserted, which is the innocence of Mr. Erscole, who can now rebuild his life, reclaim his character and enjoy his life. Thank you all. Have a good day.”

With one last cordial smile, she turned from them, ignoring the barrage of questions being fired at her as they made their way through the crowd and to their waiting black-on-black SUVs. Ngozi and Angel climbed into the rear of the first one. She pulled her iPhone from her briefcase and began checking her email. “Back to the office, please, Frank,” she said to the driver, working her thumb against the touch screen to scroll.

“Now, Ms. J.?” Angel asked, sounding childlike and not twenty-one years of age.

It wasn’t until the doors were closed and their tinted windows blocked them from view that Ngozi glanced over at Angel and bit the corner of her mouth to keep back her smile. “Now, Angel,” she agreed.

“Ayyeeee! Ayyeeee! Ayyeeee!” Angel said, sticking out her pierced tongue and bouncing around in her seat. “Congrats, boss.”

“Thanks, Angel,” Ngozi said, laughing when she saw the driver, a white middle-aged man who liked the music of Frank Sinatra, stiffen in his seat and eye them in alarm via the rearview mirror.

They continued the rest of the ride in relative silence as Ngozi swiftly responded to emails and took a few calls. When the car pulled to a stop, double-parking on Park Avenue in midtown Manhattan, Ngozi gathered her things back into her briefcase as the driver came around to open the door for her. “Thank you, Frank,” she said, lightly accepting the hand he offered to help her climb from the vehicle and then swiftly crossing the sidewalk with Angel on her heels and the rest of her team just behind her.

They entered the thirty-five-story beaux arts–style building complete with retail and restaurant space on the lower levels and corporate offices on the remaining thirty-three. Everything about the building spoke to its prominence and prestige. After breezing through security with their digital badges, Ngozi and the others traveled up to the twenty-second floor, where Vincent and Law Associates had occupied the entire twenty-two thousand square feet for the last twenty years, housing nearly fifty private offices, a dozen workstations, several conference rooms, a pantry, reception area complete with a waiting space and other areas essential for office work. The offices of the senior partners, including the one her father had vacated upon his retirement, were on half of the floor of the next level up.

Vincent and Associates Law was a force with which to be reckoned. Her father had begun his firm over forty years ago with his expertise in corporate and banking law. Over the years, he acquired smaller firms and attorneys with proven records of success in other specialties to expand and become a goliath in the Northeast and one of the top five hundred law firms in the country.

To know that her father spearheaded such power and prominence made her proud each and every time she walked through the doors. It had been no easy ride for an African American man, and her respect for her father was endless. And she was determined to rightfully earn her spot as a senior partner and claim the office that sat empty awaiting her—when the time was right.





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