Emptying his pockets of loose change, a money clip and a small leather case with his driver’s license and credit cards, he left them on the side table in an adjoining dressing room. He switched on the cell phone he’d turned off before entering the hospital. Seconds later it chimed a distinctive tone to let him know he’d missed a call. Scrolling through the features he groaned when he recognized the number. Kendra Alexander had called him three times.
Kyle had dated Kendra for a month, then told her that they had to stop seeing each other when she began to show signs of being emotionally unstable. His suggestion that she seek professional therapy was followed by a barrage of expletives he hadn’t known existed, followed by inconsolable sobbing.
He’d referred her to his friend Ivan, a therapist, who after a psychological evaluation referred her to a psychiatrist since she needed medication to control a bipolar disorder. Even on medication, Kyle knew he wasn’t ready to deal with Kendra. If she’d been his wife then he would’ve taken care of her, but he already had to deal with his clients, who often had psychological, physical and emotional problems. Everyone who was referred to him was in crisis, and most of the time they didn’t have enough money for the initial consultation fee. He could count on one hand those he had on retainer.
Before he even set up his practice, he knew the kinds of problems he would encounter in a community like Harlem with its widening gap between the haves and have-nots. Brownstones that had once sold for five and six figures now sold for millions.
Punching in the PIN for his voice mail, he listened to the messages from Kendra: “Hi-eee, this is Ken. Call me.” Shaking his head, Kyle smiled, wondering why a woman as feminine as Kendra would refer to herself with a masculine name. “Call me, Kyle, when you get this message.” His smile grew wider. “I have a surprise for you, so pul-lease call me back.” He was tempted not to listen to the last message because he really didn’t want to deal with anymore surprises—at least not for twenty-four hours. Becoming a knight in shining armor for Ava Warrick was enough. “I can’t wait for you to call me back, so I’m going to tell you that I’m pregnant and I’m getting married next weekend. I know it is short notice, but I’d love for you to come to the wedding. It’s going to be at my sister’s house in Staten Island, so I hope you can make it.”
Kyle’s smile grew even wider. Although he wouldn’t attend the wedding, he planned to send a gift card.
Remembering Ava’s request to call her job, he reached for the number on the slip of paper he’d put into the breast pocket of his shirt. It took less than a minute to call the answering service and relay Ava’s message, making certain the operator understood that Ava wouldn’t return to work until she received medical clearance. He plugged the cell phone into a charger, stripped off his clothes, leaving them on a padded bench, then made his way into the marbled master bath with its heated steam shower, double sinks and tumbled marble floor.
He brushed his teeth, showered and after drying his body returned to the bedroom and fell across the crisp sheets. Although he’d closed his eyes, Kyle could still see Ava Warrick’s bruised and swollen face. It was a long time before the image faded and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
Ava returned to her room to find a strange man staring at the flickering images on an overhead television screen. He’d turned on the television, but the volume was turned down. It took her seconds to realize the man was Kyle Chatham. She hadn’t recognized him in a pair of faded jeans, running shoes and a navy-blue golf shirt.
She’d had a CT scan, followed by a consultation with a neurosurgeon who’d reassured her that the pictures of her brain showed no evidence of bleeding or swelling. His recommendation: rest. The doctor cautioned her to avoid aspirin, as it increased the risk of bleeding. He’d also given her a referral to a neurosurgeon whose office was in her neighborhood.
“Are you going to need the chair?” the orderly asked Ava as she tried to stand.
“No,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I think I’m good.”
Kyle stood up when he heard Ava’s voice. When he’d gotten up that morning he’d tried remembering if she had a trace of a southern accent. He recalled her saying her mother lived in D.C. and her father in North Carolina, which meant she had southern roots. The bruises on her face were darker, almost purple, but some of the swelling had gone down.
Picking up her handbag, he closed the distance between them and cupped her elbow. “Good morning.”
Ava attempted what passed for a smile, but even the slightest gesture made her face ache. “Good morning, Kyle.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, you remember my name?”
“Yes, I do.”
Not only had she remembered his name but also his face. He hadn’t shaved and the stubble on his jaw enhanced his blatant masculinity. She wanted to tell Kyle that what she wanted to forget was the image staring back at her when she stared into the mirror earlier that morning. The skin around her left eye was frightfully swollen and a hideous bruise running from her eyebrow to her jaw made her look as if she’d been hit by a professional boxer.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Ava studied the man, who, despite her hitting his car, had come to her rescue. He’d assumed responsibility for towing her car and seeing that she’d received medical treatment.
“A lot better than I look.”
“The bruises and swelling will go away in a few days,” he said, reassuringly.
“That’s what the doctor said.”
“What else did he say?” Kyle asked.
“I’m going to have to rest, because healing is going to take time.”
“What about your headaches?”
“I can take either acetaminophen or ibuprofen, but no aspirin. That’s Tylenol, Advil or Motrin,” Ava explained when Kyle gave her a puzzled look.
“Do you have any at your place?”
“Yes.”
Kyle tightened his hold on her arm. “I believe you’ll have to settle your account before you’re officially discharged.”
Ava closed her eyes again when a sharp pain settled over her left eye. “I’m ready.” She was ready to go home, take a shower and get into her own bed.
Leaning heavily against Kyle for support, she followed him into the elevator. It was another twenty minutes before she settled the bill and found herself outside the hospital. Reaching into her bag, she took out a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on.
“I’m parked around the corner,” Kyle said. He tightened his hold on her waist. “Take your time, Ava,” he cautioned softly.
“If I walk any slower I’ll be standing still,” she countered.
“You’re supposed to take it easy,” he retorted. “The doctor’s recommendation indicated that someone should check on you for at least twenty-four hours, and you may need to be awakened every two hours to make sure you’re conscious. Do you have a neighbor or friend who can do that?”
“No. What I’ll do is set my clock.”
“What if you don’t hear the clock?”
“Then I guess I won’t wake up.”
Kyle glared down at her. “That’s not funny.”
“Neither is having a concussion. I can’t remember the last time I was sick. I managed to get through high school without missing a day of classes.”
“I guess that’s why you’re such a stubborn patient.”
Ava knew she was in no shape to engage in any verbal sparring with Kyle Chatham so she gritted her teeth and swallowed the sarcasm poised on the tip of her tongue. Even though she’d rear-ended him, Kyle was partially to blame because he’d slowed down too quickly. The sunglasses did little to block out the brilliant summer sunlight which only intensified her headache. It was only when he settled her in the low-slung sports car that she was able to close her eyes.
“How far downtown do you live?”
She opened her eyes and stared through the windshield. “I’m on Riverside Drive between 112th and 113th.”<
br />
“I’ll try to avoid the potholes.”
Ava smiled, but it resembled a grimace. “Thank you.” Those were the last two words she said as she closed her eyes again and settled back against the leather seat that smelled brand-new.
Whenever he stopped for a red light, Kyle glanced furtively at his passenger. He didn’t know what to make of Ava Warrick. As she was being discharged, he’d learned that she was thirty-four, single and a certified social worker. She worked for an agency that provided social and psychiatric services to women and their children.
He knew she was trying to put up a brave front, but whenever she thought his attention was elsewhere, he saw her clench her teeth or ball her fingers into a fist. Her comment about making it through high school without an absence spoke volumes: she set unrealistic goals for herself.
Kyle wanted to tell her that he’d “been there, done that,” working eighty-plus hours a week. When he was lead counsel on a case once, he’d locked himself in his office for thirty-six hours straight, leaving only to shower in the executive restroom and to change his clothes. His secretary ordered in for him, and when the day came for the trial he was running on pure adrenaline.
He won the case and the next day he flew down to the Caribbean, checked into a hotel room and slept around the clock. The billable fees and the firm’s share from the suit earned him a six-figure bonus but the accolades weren’t enough to make up for the stress and burnout.
He drove across 135th Street then turned south onto Broadway. Students from Columbia University filled the streets along with neighborhood residents taking advantage of the warm summer weather. Ava still hadn’t stirred when he maneuvered onto Riverside Drive, thankful to find a parking space along the tree-lined street overlooking the Hudson River.
Reaching over, Kyle shook Ava gently. “We’re here.”
Ava awoke, her eyelids fluttering wildly. “That was quick.”
“Nothing but the best from the Chatham car service,” he said jokingly.
“I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble.”
“Don’t apologize. Accidents happen.”
“I know, but I want to make it up to you.”
Shifting on her seat, Ava stared at the man beside her. When she’d come to New York from Washington, D.C., as a college freshman, her roommate had warned her that New Yorkers were known for minding their own business. If it didn’t concern you then don’t get involved. Kyle Chatham had broken that rule.
But the World Trade Center tragedy and the city’s campaign of See Something, Say Something changed a lot of New Yorkers. People had a different attitude. After living in the city for the past sixteen years, Ava still didn’t feel she was a part of the pulsing metropolis.
Kyle smiled, the gesture so sensuous, Ava found herself catching her breath. “Thank you will be enough.”
“No, Kyle, thank you is not enough for what you’ve done for me. You could’ve left me to fend for myself, but you didn’t.”
“I would’ve done the same for anyone.”
“Even a man?”
“Well, maybe not.”
“So, you did it because I’m a woman?”
The seconds ticked off. “Yes,” Kyle confirmed. “It’s because you are a woman. Do you see that as a problem?”
“Not in the least. It’s refreshing to know that there are still good black men around.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you. I take it you haven’t met too many you can call ‘good black men.’”
“I don’t know what it is about me, but I seem to attract the worst.”
Kyle winked at her. “Don’t beat up on yourself, Ava, because dudes go through the same thing.”
“You have it better than most women. You have a wider pool to select.”
“That, Miss Warrick, is debatable. Which building is yours?” he asked, changing the topic.
“It’s the one closest to 112th.”
The co-op apartments in the pre-war, high-rise building facing the river had spectacular views of the river and New Jersey. The building had retained its original architectural details and had a canopy-covered entrance with a full-time doorman. Ava had thought she was blessed when a former Columbia University professor offered to sublet his apartment for two years when he and his wife accepted teaching positions in Saudi Arabia. She sat, waiting for Kyle to come around and help her out of the car. He opened the passenger-side door, extended his hand and pulled her gently to her feet. His arm went around her waist as he led her across the street to the entrance of her apartment building.
The expression on the doorman’s face was shock. “I was in an accident last night,” she explained.
The doorman’s gaze went from Ava to the tall man supporting her body. “Are you all right, Miss Warrick?”
“I’m sure I will be in a few days, Max. Thank you for asking.”
“If you need anything, please call me.”
“Thank you.”
If you need anything, please call me, Kyle mused. Max was staring at Ava as if she were a frothy concoction he wanted to devour. He knew firsthand that New York City doormen knew as much about their building’s tenants as the FBI. They were aware of who came and went, which magazines they subscribed to and who had a problem making their mortgage payments and maintenance fees. The reason he’d sold his condo to buy the townhouse was because his doormen knew too much of his business. The straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back was when one of the nighttime doormen called his then-current girlfriend by a former girlfriend’s name. Unfortunately the name was the same as her best friend’s, and she’d accused him of creeping. Despite having dated a lot of women he’d never cheated on any of them.
He led Ava into the vestibule and across a richly appointed lobby to a bank of elevators. The doors to one car opened, they walked in and Ava pushed a button. The doors closed, the elevator rose smoothly, quickly and stopped at the fifteenth floor.
Kyle went completely still when the doors opened. He stared at wall-to-wall glass and a curving staircase leading to an upper floor. He knew he would’ve kept his condo if it had been a duplex with these panoramic views of the city.
Ava walked out of the elevator and dropped her handbag on a side table in the foyer. “I’ve been apartment-sitting for the past year,” she said over her shoulder.
He stared at her hips in the fitted jeans as she crossed the parquet floor to draw the drapes. The night before, he’d deliberately ignored her lush body in the revealing jeans and T-shirt because her injuries took precedence. But now he was able to stare at her—all of her, finding everything about Ava undeniably feminine. She wasn’t tall or short, heavy or too slim, but her full breasts and hips categorized her as a curvy woman.
“Where did you live before?”
Ava turned and gave him a long, penetrating stare. “I shared an apartment in the East Village.”
“Was your ex-roommate a man?”
“How did you know?”
“If it’d been a woman you wouldn’t have hesitated.”
Ava sat down on a tapestry-covered armchair, resting her feet on a matching footstool. “You’re really perceptive.”
Kyle approached her and sat on a silk-upholstered Louis XV bergère. “It comes with being an attorney.”
Pressing the back of her head to the chair, Ava closed her eyes. “Are you a good attorney?”
“That’s something you would have to ask my clients.”
She opened her eyes and smiled. “My, my, my, aren’t you modest?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Most lawyers I know are brash, aggressive and pretentious.”
Kyle bit back a smile. “You’re tarring lawyers with a pretty broad brush.”
“You don’t deny that you’re an arrogant lot?”
“I can’t speak for all of us, Ava. But on the other hand, the same can be said for social workers.”
“What about us, Kyle?”
“You’re a bunch of bleeding-
heart liberals who believe they have all the answers to the world’s social ills.”
“Try sensitive, compassionate and benevolent.”
Looping one leg over the opposite knee, Kyle stared at the toe of his running shoe. He’d forgotten to add feisty. Bruised and obviously still in pain there was still a lot of fight in the sexy social worker. “Perhaps we can debate the merits of our professions over dinner or drinks—whichever you prefer.”
Ava recognized the silent expectation in the deep-set, slanting, catlike warm-brown eyes. Unable to tear her gaze away from Kyle’s chiseled cheekbones and close-cropped black hair with a sprinkling of gray, she wanted him to leave so she could get into bed. But she also wanted him to stay because it’d been a long time since she’d had the opportunity to talk to a man who wasn’t involved with the women or children on her caseload.
“Are you asking me out, Kyle Chatham?” He flashed the sensual smile she found so endearing.
“What does it sound like, Ava Warrick?”
She smiled through the dull throbbing in her head. “It sounds like a date.”
“Then it is. You were the one who said you wanted to make it up to me, and you can if you have dinner with me. Of course, when you’re feeling better,” he added.
Ava massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Okay.”
Pushing to his feet, Kyle walked over to Ava and cradled her chin in his hand. “Don’t bother setting your clock. I’ll call you.”
“There’s no need for you to do that.”
“Yes, there is,” he countered. “Someone’s supposed to check on you every two hours for the next twenty-four. Either you give me your number or I’ll hang out here until tomorrow.”
“Haven’t you done enough for me?”
“I just want to make certain you won’t renege on your promise to make it up to me.”
Ava swiped at his hand. “I never would’ve said so if I didn’t mean it.”
Man of Fate Page 3
