Man of Fate

by Rochelle Alers

  * * *

  Kyle alternated between pacing the floor and reading the sports pages of the Daily News, which someone had left on a chair in the E.R. waiting room. He didn’t know why he’d followed Ava Warrick to the hospital except maybe to reassure himself that she would be all right. He realized his actions had come from his father’s endless preaching that men were placed on the earth to protect women, something he’d never forgotten.

  Elwin Chatham should’ve been a preacher instead of a railroad chef. Whenever he was home his booming voice echoed throughout the apartment as he lectured his three children about making bad choices that could result in them either going to prison or to an early grave.

  Kyle had always thought his father talked just to hear himself talk. But his warnings were realized when at fourteen, Kyle, hanging out with the wrong crowd, landed in a juvenile detention center. The single episode was a wake-up call that Elwin hadn’t been just beating his gums, but wanted the best for his children. And as the eldest, Kyle was expected to set a good example.

  “Mr. Chatham?”

  Kyle’s head came up when he heard someone call his name. Rising to his feet, he saw a tall, gangly doctor with a mop of light brown hair falling over his forehead standing a few away. “Yes, I’m Mr. Chatham.”

  The doctor extended his hand. “I’m Dr. LaMarca, and I’ve just completed my examination of Ms. Warrick.”

  Kyle took the proffered hand. “How is she?”

  Bright-blue eyes met his warm brown ones. “I’m recommending that we keep her overnight for further tests.”

  A frown settled on Kyle’s face. “What type of tests are you talking about?”

  “Ms. Warrick has suffered a concussion—”

  “It’s only a concussion?” he asked, interrupting the doctor.

  Dr. LaMarca nodded. “Yes. In order to rule out any other neurological damage I’ve ordered Ms. Warrick to undergo a CT scan.”

  His frown deepened. “You suspect her injury may be more serious?”

  “Mr. Chatham, I’m requesting the scan to err on the side of caution. I’ve seen patients who’ve been diagnosed with a mild concussion end of up with something a lot more serious because the examining doctor failed to order a brain scan.”

  “When are you going to do the scan?”

  “Not until tomorrow morning. The only neurosurgeon on staff at the present time is in surgery. Ms. Warrick will stay overnight, and will be released if the scan comes back negative for neurological injury.”

  “Did you tell her that she has to remain overnight?” Kyle asked.

  A deep flush crept up the doctor’s neck to his hairline. “Yes, I did. Unfortunately Ms. Warrick wasn’t receptive to the idea until I outlined the seriousness of her injury.”

  Kyle’s eyebrows lifted. “Injury? She got hit in the face with an air bag.”

  A wave of doubt had crept into Kyle’s mind when he’d thought that perhaps Ava Warrick was trying to make something more of a simple fender-bender. After all, she was the one who’d mentioned New York’s no-fault insurance law. He quickly changed his mind when he recalled her reluctance to seek medical assistance. He was the one who’d insisted she go to the hospital.

  “When you see her face it looks like she has been hit with a baseball bat.”

  “May I see her?”

  The doctor nodded. “I’m hoping you can convince her that she should stay and have the scan.”

  Kyle followed the doctor across the waiting room, where mothers sat cradling their sick children and a group of teenagers huddled together, talking and awaiting news of their friend who’d come in bleeding from a gunshot wound.

  He made his way down a corridor to an area where curtains cordoned off a row of stretchers into examining rooms.

  Dr. LaMarca stopped and swept back a curtain. Ava Warrick sat on a chair, eyes closed and hands clasped in her lap. The right side of her face was bruised and swollen, and Kyle doubted whether she had complete vision in her left eye.

  Moving quickly, he went to his knees and took her hands. They were ice-cold. “I’m sorry, Ava.” Now he knew why the doctor had recommended a brain scan.

  Ava opened her eyes when she felt the warmth of the hands cradling hers. It took her a full minute before she recognized the man hunkered in front of her. He was the one whose car she had rear-ended.

  “I want to go home, Mr….” Her voice trailed off when she realized she didn’t know his name.

  “My name is Kyle Chatham, and no, you can’t go home tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “The doctor wants you to have a CT scan.”

  Ava blinked slowly. “Why?”

  “To make sure there isn’t another problem.”

  She closed her eyes. “The only problem I have right now is a mother of a headache.”

  “You have more than a headache. You suffered a concussion.”

  Her eyes opened again. “What I have is a slight concussion.”

  “What you have is an injury to the brain which interferes with your cerebral functioning. Simple or severe—it’s still the same thing.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a doctor.”

  “No. I’m a lawyer.”

  “I guess you’re going to sue me for dinging your little car.”

  “My little car happens to be a classic Jaguar XKE.”

  Ava shook her head then chided herself for not remembering how much it hurt just to move her head. “That means nothing to me.”

  Rising to his feet, Kyle glared at her. “Of course it doesn’t mean anything to you, because if it did then you wouldn’t have been trying to run the light.”

  Resting her fingers on her forehead, Ava gently massaged her temples. “I wasn’t running the light, Kyle. It was still green.”

  “It had just changed to yellow.”

  She lowered her hands. “I’m not going to argue with you. I’m going home.”

  Kyle knew he had to act quickly, or Ava would walk out of the hospital. “If you leave here I will sue you.”

  Ava went completely still, not wanting to believe she was being threatened. Her chin lifted and she stared up into the steady gaze of a man who, up until an hour ago, she hadn’t known. Everything about him reeked of power: his voice, his body language. She stared at the shirt with French cuffs that bore his monogram. The silver buckle on the black alligator belt around his slender waist was also monogrammed.

  “You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

  A hint of a smile tilted the corners of Kyle’s mouth. “Hell, yeah, I would if you decide to walk out of here.”

  “What’s with you?” Ava asked. Her fingers curled into tight fists. “My insurance company will pay for the damage to your little classic car, and I give you my word that I’m not going to…” Her words trailed off again, this time as a rush of bile filled the back of her throat.

  Clapping both hands over her mouth, she scrambled off the chair as Kyle reached for a plastic kidney-shaped bowl and pushed it under her chin. Vomiting left Ava gasping for air, her eyes filled with moisture and her throat raw and burning.

  Reaching into the pocket of his suit trousers, Kyle handed her a handkerchief and watched as she touched it to her mouth. “Do you still think you’re ready to go home?”

  “No,” she moaned.

  He eased her off the chair and helped her onto the stretcher. “Lie down, Ava. I’m going to get you some water.”

  For the first time since meeting Kyle Chatham, Ava didn’t have a comeback. She lay on the stretcher, closed her eyes and awaited his return. The E.R. doctor who’d examined her had suggested a scan to rule out bleeding in the brain, and she’d refused his recommendation. Her vision was blurred, she’d passed out and now she was vomiting—all of the symptoms associated with a concussion.

  She didn’t want to believe an air bag could cause such a serious injury. But when she thought about the air-bag warnings about infants or young children riding in the front seat leading to serious injury or deat
h, she knew the doctor’s recommendation was best. Ava had become a patient in the very same hospital as the client she’d been rushing to see.

  Kyle returned with a bottle of water he’d gotten from a vending machine and handed it to Ava. The bruising and swelling in her face did little to detract from her attractiveness. Despite all that had happened to her, not a strand of her hair was out of place. He watched as she put the bottle to her mouth and took furtive swallows.

  “Is there anyone you want me to call to let them know where you are?” he asked Ava.

  She lowered the bottle. “Yes.” Ava gave him the telephone number to the Upper West Side family services center. “When the answering service picks up please tell them to contact Dr. Mitchell and let her know that someone will have to cover my caseload and that I’ll be out for a couple of days.”

  Kyle stopped writing on the piece of paper he’d torn from a pad advertising a drug for hypertension. “It’s going to take more than a couple of days for your bruises and swelling to go away. What if I tell them you’ll return once you get medical clearance?”

  “Tell them whatever you think is best, counselor.”

  Smiling, he winked at her. “Thank you. Who else do you want me to call?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What about your folks?”

  “My mother lives in D.C. and my dad in North Carolina, so there’s no need to call and upset them.”

  “What about your husband or boyfriend?”

  The seconds ticked off before Ava said, “I don’t have a husband or a boyfriend.”

  “My mechanic towed your car to his garage. If you still want your friend to take care of the repairs then I’ll give you the name and address of the garage so he can come and pick it up.”

  Ava closed her eyes again when pain shot through the left side of her face. “Your mechanic can take care of the repairs. He can’t rip me off too much because the insurance adjusters won’t approve it.”

  Kyle leaned forward and glared at her. “My mechanic happens to be my cousin and he’s not going to jeopardize his business or reputation by ripping off a customer.”

  Ava returned the hostile stare with one of her own. “I’ve lived in this city long enough to know everyone has some sort of a hustle. And I’m willing to throw shyster lawyers into the mix.”

  Throwing back his head, Kyle laughed. “I can assure you, Ms. Warrick, that I’m not one of those so-called shysters.”

  “But you do have a very successful practice.”

  He sobered quickly. “Are you stating a fact or asking a question?”

  “Both. Struggling attorneys don’t wear custom-made shirts or monogrammed accessories.”

  “I’ll admit to having my shirts custom-made, but the belt is a gift from former colleagues who surprised me when they learned that I was leaving to start up my own practice.”

  “Where is your law firm?”

  “Right here in good old Harlem, USA.”

  “Where did you work before?”

  “I worked for a major Park Avenue law firm.”

  Ava whistled. “That’s pretty expensive real estate. Do you—” Whatever she was going to say was preempted when Dr. LaMarca returned.

  “We have a bed for you, Ms. Warrick. An orderly will be here in a few minutes to take you to your room. If there’s anything of value in your purse I suggest you give it to your boyfriend for safekeeping.”

  She opened her mouth to inform the doctor that Kyle Chatham was not her boyfriend but a stranger—a stranger she’d entrusted with her brand-new car and information about where she worked. She’d had to trust him since her family was too far away to be of any help. Her younger brother was aboard a navy submarine somewhere, while her older brother was a warden at a maximum-security prison in Texas. Her sister, Aisha, was at home in Maryland awaiting the birth of her first child.

  “When do you think I’ll be discharged?” she asked the doctor.

  He smiled and a network of tiny lines fanned out around his eyes. “I’ve scheduled the CT scan for eleven. If it comes back negative, then you can expect to be discharged by noon.”

  “I’ll get here around eleven-thirty in case they finish early,” Kyle volunteered.

  Reluctantly she handed Kyle her leather handbag with her keys, cell phone and wallet. She’d left most of her cash and credit cards at home when she’d gotten the call from the answering service. The curtains parted and an orderly came in pushing a wheelchair.

  Kyle usurped the orderly’s responsibility by reaching over and lifting Ava effortlessly off the stretcher and onto the chair. He dropped a kiss on the top of her fragrant hair. Smiling, he winked at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

  Ava flashed a sexy smile. “Thank you, Kyle.”

  The last thing Ava remembered when she closed her eyes after getting into bed was Kyle calling her sweetheart. She knew he’d done it because the E.R. doctor believed they were involved. They were involved, all right, but it wasn’t romantically.

  She’d had two long-term relationships and each had ended badly.

  Her first love had been a fellow college student, and their relationship ended within days of graduation. Ava had waited six years before giving her heart to a man she thought was her soul mate, but in the end he’d become her worst nightmare.

  That long-term relationship had ended badly when her former lover began stalking her. It had taken a restraining order from the police to stop the harassing telephone calls and to prevent him from showing up at her office unannounced. It was only when she changed jobs and moved from her Lower East Side apartment to Morningside Heights that she was able to put Will Marshall behind her.

  Six months ago when she’d celebrated her thirty-fourth birthday, she’d vowed to remain a single woman for the rest of her life rather than deal with another immature, insecure brother.

  Kyle’s endearment lingered on the fringes of her mind until Ava succumbed to a numbing sleep that kept the blinding pain at bay, at least temporarily.

  CHAPTER 2

  Kyle maneuvered into the carriage house that was attached to his brownstone. Along the street were townhouses, carriage houses and Georgian-style brownstones that made up the neighborhood known as Strivers’ Row. Originally, he’d bought the property as an investment and for the tax write-off, but then changed his mind. He’d decided not to rent the expansive triplex, but to live in it himself. He was still ambivalent about whether he would eventually rent the one-bedroom rental duplex with a downstairs basement.

  Working with Duncan Gilmore, his friend and investment adviser, Kyle’s net worth had soared and when the Strivers’ Row townhouse was put on the market, he’d met with the real estate agent, checkbook in hand. When the real estate agent showed him the property, she’d suggested that he live in one section of the townhouse and use the other part for his private practice. Kyle knew the beautifully renovated six-bedroom, six-bathroom, three-story townhouse was much too large for one person but he’d come to value his privacy and didn’t want clients to know where he lived. Having worked for a prestigious corporate law firm had its advantages and disadvantages, the former being a generous six-figure salary and year-end bonuses. But it also meant having little time for himself.

  Three years later, he and his childhood friends—Duncan and Ivan—bought another Harlem property, this one in the historic Mount Morris neighborhood.

  Kyle deactivated the security system and walked into a small area between the kitchen, pantry and the first-floor deck. Kicking off his slip-ons, he left them on a mat and walked into the kitchen to put the gift-wrapped box containing a slice of wedding cake, a souvenir from Micah and Tessa’s wedding, on the refrigerator shelf. After placing Ava’s handbag on the granite countertop, he checked the wall phone. The display read: No Missed Calls. It wasn’t often someone called his house, except for family members. No news was good news.

  He had a habit of calling his parents on Sunday evenings for an update on what was going on in th
e family. The calls were actually not to hear the latest family gossip but to reassure his mother that he was alive and well.

  Frances Chatham had been the most concerned when he revealed he was leaving his position with the corporate law firm to set up his own practice. She went on about his decision to give up a position that she and her contemporaries had struggled for so that he could have his piece of the American dream. What Kyle had to remind his mother was that he was a child of the Civil Rights Movement and had realized the American dream. He could choose where he wanted to practice law, and working to help those who couldn’t afford the high-price, high-profile lawyers had always been a lifelong dream, and like the late Johnnie Cochran, Kyle wanted to champion and defend the underserved.

  Throwing his suit jacket over his shoulder, he climbed the staircase to his bedroom. He wanted to take a shower and wash away the antiseptic smell associated with hospitals. Kyle hadn’t wanted to think about Ava Warrick because he couldn’t understand why he’d insinuated himself into the situation. Without thinking he’d slipped into the role of counselor with the intent of protecting his client.

  Perhaps his eagerness stemmed from the fact that she had a brand-new car and he didn’t want to leave her on the street waiting for her friend to come from Brooklyn. And if she wasn’t able to contact her friend then she’d be at the mercy of any tow truck company out to make a quick buck. He’d gleaned from her driver’s license that she lived on the Upper West Side, putting her three stops from his 135th subway station.

  Walking into the master bedroom, he drew the silk drapes over the French doors leading to a Juliet balcony. Solar lamps lit up the backyard around an expansive deck surrounded by a flower garden with a stone fountain. Summer was already here and Kyle hadn’t been outdoors to enjoy the warmer weather. All of his waking hours were spent working on a criminal case in which his client was implicated in the armed robbery of a bodega. Despite the D.A.’s overwhelming evidence against the teenager, Kyle believed the boy when he said he was innocent.