Man of Fate

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 death, 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 the 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.

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.”

“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.