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.
It was one of the few goals for her that they shared.
Ngozi moved with an Olivia Pope–like stride as she checked her Piaget watch. The team separated to go to their own offices or workstations in the bright white-on-white interior of the offices. Angel took her seat at a cubicle usually reserved for law interns. “Angel, order lunch. I want it in my office as soon as my meeting is over,” Ngozi said as she continued her stroll across the tiled floors to her glass corner office.
“Champagne or brandy, boss?” her legal assistant, Anne, asked as she neared.
Champagne to celebrate. Brandy to commiserate.
Ngozi bit her cheek to keep from smiling. “Champagne,” she said with a wink, doing a little fist pump before entering her office and waving her hand across the panel on the wall to close the automated glass door etched with her name.
She didn’t have much time to marinate on the win. She took her seat behind her large glass desk and unpacked several files, her tablet and her phone from her suitcase. After checking the online record of messages sent to her by those at the reception desk, she tucked her hair behind her ear and lightly bit the tip of her nail as she stared off, away from her computer monitor, at a beam of sunlight radiating across the floor and the white leather sofa in her conversation area.
Bzzzzzz.
Her eyes went back to the screen.
A Skype call from Reception. She accepted the video option instead of the phone one. The face of Georgia, one of the firm’s six receptionists, filled the screen. “Ms. Johns. Your one o’clock appointment, Mr. Castle of CIS, is here.”
“Thank you, Georgia, send him in,” she said.
Ngozi turned off her monitor and cleared her desk. She glanced through the glass wall of her office and then did a double take.
Him.
All her senses went haywire as she watched the handsome charmer make his way past the workstations in the center of the office with the ease of a well-trained politician. A smile here, a nod there.
And it was clear that a lot of the women—and a few of the men—were eyeing him in appreciation.
Chance Castillo was undeniably handsome, and the navy-and-olive blazer he wore with a navy button-up shirt and dark denim were stylish and sexy without even trying.
She hadn’t seen him since the festivities for their goddaughter, Aliyah.
“What is he up to?” she mumbled aloud as she settled her chin in one hand and drummed the fingernails of the other against the top of her desk.
When Angel jumped up to her feet and leaned over the wall of her cubicle, Ngozi rolled her eyes heavenward. Especially when he paused to talk to her. Soon they both looked down the length of the walkway, at her office.
His smile widened at the sight of her in the distance.
Ngozi raised her hand from the desk and waved briefly at him with a stiff smile before bending her finger to beckon him to her.
By the time he reached her office, there were many pairs of eyes on him.
She pressed the button on her desk to open the door as she rose to her feet. “Very slick of you, using the English version of Castillo, Chance,” she said, extending her hand to him as she would any client—new or old.
“I didn’t want to risk you canceling to avoid me,” he said, taking her hand in his.
It was warm to her touch.
She gently broke the hold, reclaiming her seat. “So, you’re clear on me wanting to avoid you, then?” she asked.
“Damn, you’re smart,” Chance said, walking around her office.
His presence made it seem smaller.
“Um, excuse, Ms. J.”
Both Ngozi and Chance looked over to find Angel standing in the open doorway.
“Yes?” Ngozi asked, noting to herself that the young’un usually avoided work (in other words, coming to her office) at all costs.
“I wondered if you were ready for lunch?” Angel asked Ngozi with her eyes on Chance.
He turned his attention back to the bookshelves lining the wall.
“Yes, I already asked you to order lunch, remember? And is there something wrong with all the communication available between us...from your desk?” Ngozi asked, pointing her finger in that direction.
Angel smiled as she tucked a loose strand of her four bundles of waist-length weave behind her ear. She used to wear her hair in voluminous curls that gave her a hairdo like the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz. Ngozi had requested she wear it straight and pulled back into a ponytail while at work. Thankfully, she acquiesced.
“I also wanted to ask if you or your guest wanted somethin’ to drink?” Angel asked, cutting her appreciating eyes on Chance again.
“No, thank you,” Ngozi said politely, as she jerked her thumb hard a few times toward Angel’s workstation.
With one last look at Chance’s tall figure behind his back, Ngozi’s young assistant reluctantly left them alone, but not before flicking her tongue at him in a move Ngozi knew had been a hit during her former profession. She added a long talk on not flirting with clients on the long mental list of things to school Angel on.
She closed the automated door.
Chance turned to eye it before focusing his attention on her. “She’s...unexpected,” he mused with a slight smile.
That she is.
Some of the partners were still not fully sold on her working there.
“No pictures,” Chance observed, walking up to her desk.
“Too many reminders of death,” she said truthfully, without thinking to censor herself.
“Death?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she muttered, sitting back in her chair as she eyed him. “I’m sure you didn’t set up a fake appointment with me just to survey my office.”
Chance shook his head as he folded his frame into one of the chairs facing her desk. “Fake name. Real appointment. I would like you to represent me,” he explained.
That surprised her, and her face showed it. She reached for a legal pad and one of her favorite extrafine-point pens filling a pink-tinted glass bowl on the corner of her desk. The firm had every technological advance available, but she preferred the feel of a pen on paper when assessing the facts of a new case. “Typically, I handle criminal cases,” she began.
“I know,” Chance said, smiling at her. “Congratulations on your win this morning.”
“Thank you,” she said graciously, wondering if his smile had the same effect on all women the way it did on her. “You saw the news?”
He nodded. “You looked beautiful, Ngozi.”
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
She fought for nonchalance as her heart pounded wildly, seeming to thump in her ears. “And smart,” she added.
“Of course, but beautiful nonetheless, Ngozi.”
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
She shifted her eyes away from his. “What type of trouble are you in?” she asked, seeking a diversion from her reaction to him.
“It’s a civil matter,” Chance told her, raising one leg to rest his ankle on the knee of the opposite one.
Ngozi set her pen down atop the pad. “I’m sure a man of your means already has proper representation for a civil case.”
“I may be interested in moving all my business here to Vincent and Associates Law...if this case is successfully litigated,” he said. “That’s a revenue of seven figures, if you’re wondering.”
She had been.
Ngozi steepled her fingers as she studied him, trying her best to focus on the business at hand and not how the darkness of his low-cut hair and shadowy beard gave him an intense look that happened to be very sexy. The news of the Harvard grad and successful financier inventing a project management app and reportedly selling it for well over $600 million had taken the business and tech sectors by storm, but it was his backstory of claiming success in spite of his humble beginnings that made Ngozi respect his hustle. He retained a small percentage of ownership with the deal and served as a well-paid consultant on top, making several large investments beyond the sale of his app to only increase his wealth and holdings.
Chance Castillo was a man to be admired for his brains. He made smart money moves that even Cardi B could respect.
The senior partners would appreciate bringing his legal interests under the firm’s umbrella, and it would take the assistance of other attorneys more equipped to handle matters outside her expertise...if she won the civil case.
“What is the case about?” she asked, her curiosity piqued as she reclaimed her pen from the pad.
Chance shifted his eyes to the window wall displaying the sun breaking through the heart of midtown Manhattan’s towering buildings. “I’m sure you heard about the end of my engagement last year,” he began.
Her eyes widened a bit at the hardness that suddenly filled the line of his jaw and his voice. Yes, she had heard. The story held almost as much prominence in the news as the sale of his app. Although she had avoided reading about gossip, it was hard to ignore as conversation filler at dinner parties and such.
“She was having an affair the entire time she planned a million-dollar wedding on my dime. The willingness to foot the bill was mine, I admit that,” he said, shifting eyes that lacked the warmth and charm they’d once contained. “But doing so after she ends the engagement to be with another man, that I can’t swallow. Not on top of the cost of the engagement ring, as well.”
Ngozi paused in taking notes. “And the cost of the ring?”
“A million.”
“Would you like that recouped, as well?”
“I wish I could recoup every cent I ever spent on her,” he said, his voice cold and angry.
Ngozi tapped the top of her pen against the pad as she bit the corner of her mouth in thought. “You understand that gifts cannot be recovered.”
He held up his hand. “That’s why I said I wish and not I want. I understand those things are lost to me.”
She nodded. “The name of your ex-fiancée?”
He frowned as if the very thought of her was offensive and distasteful. “Helena Guzman,” he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his blazer to remove a folded sheet of paper to hand to her.
Ngozi accepted it and opened it, finding her contact information. She frowned a bit at her work address, recognizing it instantly. “She works for Kingston Law?”
“She’s a real estate attorney,” he said, rising to his feet and pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he stood before the window. He chuckled. It was bitter. “I assume once she left her meal ticket behind, she put aside her plan to stop working.”
He was angry. Still. It had been nine months or more.
She broke his heart.
Ngozi eyed his profile, feeling bad for him. Gone were the bravado and charm. This was a man dealing badly with heartbreak.
“Are you sure litigation is necessary?” she asked, rising from her desk to come around it.
“Yes.”
She came to stand with him at the window, their reflection showing his stony expression and her glancing up at his profile. “Why the wait, Chance?”
He turned his head to look down at her, seemingly surprised by her sudden closeness. “I was out of the country,” he answered, his eyes vacant.
This Chance was nothing like the man she’d met two weeks ago, or even the one he’d been when he first strolled into her office. Which was the facade?
She gave him a soft smile.
He blinked, and the heat in the depth of his eyes returned, warming her. “With you looking up at me, I could almost believe in—”
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
“Believe in what?” she asked.
He shook his head, softly touched her chin and then turned his focus back to the view splayed out before them. “Will you take the case?” he asked.
Ngozi swallowed over a lump in her throat and put the distance back between them. “Is this about anger over her not marrying you—which is breach of promise to marry and is no longer a viable defense in certain states? Or do you feel you’ve been wronged and would like a cause of action for strictly financial remedy?”
Chance flexed his shoulders. “The latter” was his response.
Ngozi reclaimed her seat, not admitting that she did not believe him. “I think a case of this nature is best presented before a jury. It will be a long way to go, particularly with Ms. Guzman being an attorney herself, but perhaps she will be willing to settle this out of court.”
Chance nodded.
She made several notes on her pad before looking up at him again. “I will need the details of your relationship and its breakup, and any receipts and invoices you have pertaining to the purchase of the ring and the wedding should be provided.”
He nodded once more.
“Chance,” she called to him.
He looked at her.
Their eyes locked.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
“During the length of this case you are going to have to relive what was clearly a very difficult time for you,” she said. “It may become fodder for the news—”
“Again,” he injected.
“Right,” she agreed. “I just want to be sure you want to pursue this.”
He smiled at her. “I’m sure, Ngozi.”
“And you’re sure you want me to represent you?” she asked, ignoring the thrill of her name on his lips.
His smile widened. “I take any business or legal matters very seriously. Even the offer to move my interests to this firm was researched first. I joke and laugh a lot. I love life, I love to have fun, but I never play about my money.”
She stood up and extended her hand. “Then let’s get your money back, Mr. Castillo,” she said with confidence.
He took her hand in his but did not shake it, instead raising it a bit to eye her body. “We should celebrate our future win with dinner and a night of dancing, la tentadora,” he said.
Ngozi visibly shivered, even as she looked to her right through the glass wall of her office and, sure enough, discovered quite a few eyes on them, most widened in surprise and open curiosity. She jerked her hand away and reclaimed her seat as she cleared her throat. “Please make an appointment at the receptionist’s desk for us to review the details of the case,” she said, paying far too much attention to the notepad on her desk. “I will need that information to complete the summons.”
Chance chuckled. “Was I just dismissed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, glancing up at him with a smile.
“Hay más de una forma de atrapar al gato,” he said, turning to walk out of her office with one last look back at her.
His words lingered with her long after he was gone, while she futilely tried to focus on her work.
There is more than one way to catch a cat.
It wasn’t quite the proper saying, but nothing had been lost in translation.
Chance Castillo had made his intention very clear.
Ngozi put her chin in her hand and traced her thumb across the same spot on her chin that he had touched.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
She released a stream of breath through pursed lips.
This was uncharted territory...for the last year, at least.
This attraction. This reaction. This desire.
An awakening.
Ngozi swore as the all-too-familiar pings of guilt and regret nipped at her, seemingly an integral part of her DNA.
Her brother’s death. Her parents’ grief. Her husband’s death.
She pushed aside her thoughts and focused on work, soon getting lost in the minutiae of motions, reviewing court minutes, and at the end of the day celebrating her latest win with a champagne toast from the senior partners.
That evening, behind the wheel of her caldera red Jaguar F-Type coupe, Ngozi put the five-liter V8 engine to good use once she was on I-80 West, headed to Passion Grove. The sky darkened as she passed the township’s welcome sign. She was grateful for the panoramic roof as she made her way toward her parents’ estate. She slowed to a stop and looked out into the distance at the town’s heart-shaped lake. Soon the chill of winter would freeze it over and the townspeople would enjoy ice skating, but tonight the stars reflected against the gentle sway of the water and she found the serenity of it comforting.
Following an impulse, she parked the car on the street and then climbed out to swap her heels for the pair of running sneakers she kept in her trunk. With her key fob in her hand, Ngozi made her way up the street around the brick-paved path surrounding the lake. She took a seat on one of the wrought iron benches, crossing her legs and leaning forward to look out at the water.
Ngozi, come on. Come skate with me.
Ngozi smiled a bit, feeling as if she could see her late husband, Dennis, before her at the edge of the frozen lake, beckoning her with his arm outstretched toward her. It was not a dream, but a memory.
Christmas night.
Maxwell’s “Pretty Wings” was playing via the outdoor surround system that streamed top pop hits around the lake during the winter.
Earlier, right after Christmas dinner, the lake had been crowded with townspeople enjoying snowball fights or ice skating, but now only a few remained as darkness claimed prominence and the temperature slid downward with the absence of the sun. Snow covered the ground, casting the night with an eerie bright glow as the moon and stars reflected down upon the sheen of the ice...
Ngozi had been happy just to watch Dennis effortlessly gliding upon the ice with the skill of an Olympian, but she slid on her ice skates and made her way to him, accepting his hands and stepping onto the ice. They took off together, picking up the speed they needed before gliding across the ice with Dennis in the lead and their hands clasped together.
When he tugged her closer, she yelled out a little until he held her securely in his arms, burying his head against her neck as she flung hers back and smiled up at the moon while they slid for a few dozen feet before easing to a stop...
A tear slid down her cheek, and she reached out as if to touch the all-too-vivid memory of better times.
Bzzzzzz.
She let her hand drop as the vibration of her phone brought her out of her reverie. Blinking and wiping away her tears with one hand, she dug her iPhone out of the pocket of her fitted blazer.
“Yes?” she answered.
“Ngozi?”
Her father.
She closed her eyes and fought to remove the sadness from her tone. “Hey, Dad,” she said and then winced because it sounded too jovial and false to her ears.
“Hey, congrats on the win, baby girl,” Horace said, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “I thought you would be home by now. You didn’t say you had a meeting or event or anything.”
Her interpretation of that: Why are you late?
She was as predictable as a broken clock being right at least two times out of the day. Predictable and perfunctory.
“I’m on the way,” she said, delivering a half-truth.
“Good. Your mother had a council meeting and Reeds is serving up real food for us while she’s gone.”
Ngozi laughed. Her father disdained the vegan lifestyle as much as she did. “Steaks simmered in brown butter with mashed potatoes and two stiff bourbons on ice?” she asked as she rose to her feet and made the small trek back to her car, guided by the lampposts lining the street.
“Absolutely,” he said with a deep chuckle. “Hurry!”
“On my way,” she promised, turning and taking a few steps backward as she gave the lake one last look and released the memory.