Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,58

your attorney I’d suggest you take Jordan’s advice and ask Ciara. Now I’m going to recuse myself.”

The entire table erupted into laughter, Alex joining the others. Pushing away from the table, he stood up. His upper body was silhouetted in the light from the flickering candles and the illumination coming from the atrium. He snapped his napkin with a flourish reminiscent of 18th-century fops. He bowed low to Ciara.

“Milady Ciara. I’ve come to court to plea my case before thee. Could milady please give me some advice as how to proceed with the young damsels with which I find myself besotted.”

Ciara laughed until tears rolled down her face. Alexander Fleming was blessed with enough dramatic flair that he could perform Shakespeare. What she couldn’t fathom was how the man with the gorgeous body and face would have a problem attracting women.

Blotting her moist eyes, she waved him over. “Sit down and talk to me.”

Still in character, Alex sat down gingerly. His teeth shone whitely against his dark face when he smiled at her. “Thank you, milady.”

Placing her elbow on the table, Ciara rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “Do you have a problem attracting women, or holding on to them?” Brandt and Jordan cleared their throats in unison.

Alexander rolled his eyes at them. “I can get the ladies, but something happens after we go out a few times.”

“Can you be a little bit more specific?” Ciara asked.

“It’s as if they have multiple personalities and I no longer recognize the woman I’d initially asked out.”

Brandt shook his head. “I’ve told Al what the problem is. It’s PMS.”

Lowering her arm, Ciara glared at him. “Oh, no you didn’t go there.”

“Did he really say PMS?” Aziza asked.

Brandt held up his hands in a defensive move. “What’s wrong with PMS? You ladies do tend to have mood swings during that time of the month.”

“Sorry, cuz,” Jordan drawled. “I can’t agree with you on that because Zee is always the same.”

“How’s that, cuz?”

Jordan winked at his wife. “Snarky.”

Brandt and Alexander pounded the table. “Careful, cousin. ‘Snarky’ will get you remanded to the sofa for three months.”

“I ain’t scared,” Jordan drawled recklessly.

Aziza placed her hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “That’s all right, darling. When I come up pregnant in the three months you’re remanded to the sofa, you’ll be the one on daytime television. The laugh will be on you when Maury announces, ‘You are not the father!’”

This time when everyone laughed, Jordan didn’t join in. Resting a hand over his heart, he bowed his head. “Your honor, I’d like to withdraw that last statement.”

“What’s up with the bad acting?” Brandt asked. “First we have foppish Vicomte de Valmont from Les Liaisons Dangereuses, followed by a remorseful Perry Mason. Man up!” he drawled, repeating what Ciara had said earlier.

“Hear, hear!” Aziza and Ciara intoned, raising their glasses.

Ciara was drawn into the warmth and camaraderie of the Flemings and Wainwrights. Although united through blood and marriage, they were friends as well.

When it came to family there was just her and her mother. Phyllis was an only child and she, too, an only child. Her grandparents were gone and Ciara knew of a few distant cousins, but it had been years since they’d gotten together. When she spoke to her mother again she would suggest contacting their Ohio relatives.

Contacting relatives on her father’s side of the family was not an option, because the Dennisons had disapproved of William marrying Phyllis. They’d refused to attend the wedding or acknowledge the birth of their granddaughter. The adage “out of sight, out of mind” fit them to the letter. Ciara was certain their disapproval was a factor in William marrying another woman when he hadn’t divorced his first wife—it was the second wife the Dennisons approved of and fawned over.

Ciara peered at Alexander Fleming over the rim of her wineglass. She found it hard to believe he was still single. She’d discovered when the conversation segued to a more serious topic that he was twenty-seven, had never married and hadn’t fathered any children.

She’d also discovered that Brandt had become Alex’s mentor. He’d talked to him about the pitfalls of what he’d referred to as the precarious triangle: alcohol, drugs and groupies—things to be avoided at all costs if he wanted a successful football career.

“I know you’re out this season,” Alexander stated, “but what about next year, Brandt? Do you plan on coming back?”

Clasping his hands together, Brandt rested them on his head, a habit he’d recently acquired because he