Man of Fate

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.”

“That’s why I intend to keep you honest.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t. It’s not too often that lawyer and honest are uttered in the same breath.”

“See, Ava, that’s why we have to talk.” Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, Kyle took out his cell phone. “Come now, give me the number to this place and your cell.” He programmed her name and both numbers, then leaned over and helped her stand. “Come and lock the door. I’ll talk to you in a couple of hours.”

She walked Kyle to the door, opened it and then closed it behind him. Ava tried putting what had happened over the past twelve hours into perspective but everything seemed to merge before coming apart like a thousand pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She knew she had to rest and wait for the pieces to come together.

It took twice as long as it normally did for her to shower and ready herself for bed, and instead of climbing the staircase to the second-floor bedroom, she selected one off the alcove near the kitchen. Carrying a cordless extension, she got into bed, pulled a sheet and lightweight blanket over her body and closed her eyes.

The incessant ringing of the telephone penetrated the comfort of her deep sleep, forcing Ava to open her eyes. The shades in the room were drawn, making it impossible for her to discern the time of day. Patting the mattress, her fingers curved around the receiver. She managed to find the Talk button after several attempts.

“Hello.” Her voice, still heavy from sleep, had dropped an octave.

“Ava, it’s Kyle.”

A dreamy smile parted her lips. His deep voice came through the earpiece like watered silk. “How are you?”

“I’m good, Kyle.”

“You sound sleepy. Did I wake you up?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Good?” she asked.

“Yes. That’s means you’re conscious.”

“I was sleeping, not unconscious, Kyle.”

“Thank goodness for that. Do you want me to call you again in another two hours?”

Ava sighed softly. “Call me again in four hours.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m very sure, counselor.” She smiled when his laugh caressed her ear. “Thank you for checking up on me.”

“You’re very welcome. I’ll talk to you later.”

A click signaled that Kyle had hung up. Ava lay staring up at the shadows on the ceiling. She didn’t know why the lawyer had taken an interest in her well-being, and she didn’t want to believe he had an ulterior motive. When it came to men, her batting average hovered close to triple zeros.

It’d been more than a year since her last date and two years since a man had shared her bed. The only thing she’d missed when she’d ended her relationship with Will Marshall was the intimacy. The lovemaking between them ran the gamut from hot to cold depending on their interaction, yet there had never been a time when they got into bed together that they didn’t cuddle. Waking up, limbs entwined, was the perfect way to begin a day.

Ava knew she would’ve continued to cohabitate with her live-in lover if he hadn’t felt the need to monitor every aspect of her life. After a while she felt as if she were a parolee having to check in with her parole officer. In the end she had to leave Will or she would have fared no better than the victimized women she counseled.

She didn’t want to repeat her mother’s mistakes. Alice Warrick had fallen in love with and married a man to whom she’d surrendered her will. Charles Warrick made every decision for his wife and children until their youngest left home to go to college. A week later, Alice served her husband with divorce papers, citing emotional abuse and lack of communication. Alice’s decision to take control of her life was the impetus for Ava to leave her job as an elementary school teacher and go into social work.

The pounding in her forehead intensified, and Ava knew she had to get up and take some Tylenol. She’d predicted that she’d be out of work for a couple of days. But with this severe pain that made it nearly impossible to think clearly, she knew it would be longer. The note the neurosurgeon had given her said she’d be unable to return to work until she was medically cleared.

Ava went into the bathroom and after swallowing two Tylenol capsules with a full glass of water, she returned to the bedroom to lie across the bed. The medication worked quickly and when she closed her eyes she forgot about the pain and the incredibly handsome man who’d unknowingly become her knight in shining armor.

Chapter 3

Kyle walked out of his brownstone and into a blanketing fog so thick it was virtually impossible to see more than a few feet in front of him. The humidity intensified the different odors of the big city—the smell of fuel from passing cars and buses was magnified in the thick air.

In the past he’d taken the subway downtown to his office, but the days of taking the iron horse to work was relegated to the past. The brownstone where he’d set up his office was less than a mile away, and he usually made the walk from 139th Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard to 121st Street and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard in under half an hour.

On the days he jogged, he made it in ten minutes. The closet in his private office was filled with suits, slacks, shirts, jackets, ties and underwear. An adjoining full bathroom was stocked with his favorite cologne and grooming supplies.

Lately Kyle found himself spending more hours at the brownstone than he did at home. His caseload had doubled after he’d won a high-profile case—the accidental shooting death of a teenage girl by a bank guard trying to prevent a robbery. Kyle brought a suit against the bank and the security company for negligence because the retired police officer had failed to go for his mandated firearms training update.

He’d expected a long and drawn-out litigation until he’d uncovered information that the guard, who wore glasses, hadn’t had an eye exam in more than five years. Rather than go through a lengthy trial, the case ended with a multimillion-dollar settlement to the parents of the dead child, who was a musical prodigy. The case was closely followed by the local dailies. Rarely a week went by when Kyle’s name or photo didn’t appear in the New York Amsterdam News, and winning the case turned him into a local celebrity.

He’d gotten out of bed before his alarm went off because of the disturbing dream he’d had about losing a case in which his young client ended up serving a long prison term. After several attempts, he got out of bed, went into his den and watched a video of last year’s Super Bowl and the 2008 World Series highlights.

Kyle made it to the corner and flagged down a passing taxi. He didn’t mind walking in the rain or snow, but not fog. There was something about not being able to see where he was going that was unnerving. Settling into the back seat, he gave the cabbie the address and the cross streets. The weather made it impossible for motorists to go more than a few feet before having to stop for a red light. The cabbie signaled then maneuvered around a bus, tires spinning and slipping on the oil-slick roadway.

“Slow down, my man,” Kyle called out from the rear of the cab. “I’m not in that much of a hurry.”

Every Monday he went into the office two hours before his staff arrived to review open cases before their weekly staff meeting. He’d started up his practice sharing a full-and a part-time receptionist and the cost of a cleaning service with Ivan and Duncan. Then he’d added a full-time paralegal, an office manager, a legal secretary and recently, a part-time paralegal who’d once worked as a court stenographer. A former colleague had asked to join the firm as a partner because he, too, had tired of the heavy workload at corporate law firms, but Kyle told him that he would have to get back to him. Jordan Wainwright was a highly skilled litigator, but the question was, did he have the sensitivity to work well with the residents of the Harlem community?

The cabbie executed another maneuver, prompting Kyle to knock on the partition. “Hey, brother, your tip depends on you getting me to where I want to go looking the same as I did when I got in this taxi.” Thankfully the driver got the message and slowed down. Kyle didn’t want a repeat of Saturday night’s visit to the hospital.

As promised, he called Ava four hours later, knowing her sleepy, husky voice would send shivers up his spine. There was something about her that had him thinking what his grandmother referred to as “impure thoughts.” Impure or not, Ava Warrick had him thinking about her when he least expected to.

Reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out his cell phone and punched speed dial. The telephone rang three times before he heard her voice.

“Hello.”

Kyle smiled. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“Where are you, Kyle?”

“Why?”

“I’m asking because I’m looking out the window and the fog is so heavy I can’t see across the river.”

“I’m in a cab on my way to work.”

“Why so early?”

“I always go in early on Mondays. How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m much better than yesterday,” Ava admitted. “I just have to be careful that I don’t bend over. When I do it feels as if all of the blood in my body is rushing to my head.”

“Don’t try to do too much too soon.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Kyle frowned. The last thing he wanted to be was her father. “I don’t mean to sound like your—”

“You could never be my father, Kyle,” Ava snapped, interrupting him.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

There came a beat before Ava said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Apology accepted. What are you doing for dinner?”

“I plan to eat leftovers.”

“Forget about the leftovers. I’ll bring dinner.”

“You don’t have to, Kyle.”

He smiled. “But I want to. What don’t you eat?”

There came another pause. “I don’t like yellow squash,” Ava admitted.

Kyle laughed. “I’ll be certain to leave it off the menu. Expect me sometime after six.”

“I’ll be here waiting.”

I’ll be here waiting. Ava’s promise was etched in his mind even after he ended the call. Kyle knew he wanted to see her again as much to see if she was all right as to assuage his curiosity about a woman who piqued his interest in a way no one had in a very long time.

She wasn’t as beautiful as some of the women he’d dated, yet she claimed her own special beauty that he found irresistible. She was outspoken, a trait he admired in a woman, and she was intelligent, something that was requisite for any woman with whom he found himself involved.

“You can let me out here,” Kyle instructed the driver. He handed him a bill, exited the cab and sprinted the short distance to the brownstone. The three-story structure had come with twelve rooms, nine of them bedrooms, as well as four bathrooms and multiple fireplaces.

Kyle, Ivan and Duncan had hired an architect to reconfigure the nineteenth-century landmark structure from personal to business use. They’d added an elevator and the vestibule was expanded into a waiting area with comfortable leather furniture, wall-mounted flat-screen televisions and potted plants. During the winter months a fire roared around the clock in the huge fireplaces.

Duncan’s financial planning firm occupied the first floor, Kyle’s law practice the second and Ivan’s psychotherapy practice was on the third. The street-level space was transformed to include a gym with showers, a modern state-of-the-art kitchen, a dining room and a game room.

Kyle climbed the stairs to the entrance, unlocked the front door and disarmed the alarm. Closing the stained-glass doors behind him, he reset the alarm and took the stairs to the second floor instead of the elevator. He was seated behind his desk, perusing a case file when his legal secretary stuck her head through the partially opened door.

“Good morning, Kyle.”

He glanced up, smiling. Cherise Robinson’s neatly braided sandy-brown hair framed a light brown face with an abundance of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Her cheeks were bright red, which meant she’d spent some time in the sun.

Cherise had come highly recommended by an elderly neighborhood attorney who’d suffered a mild stroke. On the advice of his wife and doctor, the attorney had decided to retire. Kyle hired the man’s legal secretary, paralegal and office manager. Not only had the three worked together for many years, but they knew the ins and outs of a legal practice.

“Good morning, Cherise.”

“What time is this morning’s staff meeting?”

He glanced at the clock on the credenza. It was eight-fifty. “Is everyone here?” Although usually easygoing, Kyle was finicky when it came to being punctual. He allowed for the occasional bus or subway delays, but not the mundane excuses of oversleeping or broken alarm clocks. He paid his employees well and expected nothing short of perfection from them.

“All present and accounted for.”

“Tell them we’re meeting at nine-thirty.”

She nodded. “I’ll let everyone know.”

Kyle returned his attention to the file in front of him. He’d spent the past ninety minutes reading and rereading all the notes on the case of a nineteen-year-old boy charged with robbing and assaulting the owner of a local bodega. The owner of the store had identified his client in a lineup as the one who’d hit him across the face with a gun, fracturing his jaw and knocking out teeth, before jumping the counter and taking several hundred dollars from the cash register. His client, despite having protested his innocence, had had an argument with the store owner the day before, telling him he was going to “come back and get him.”

Although he had witnesses who said his client was with them during the time of the robbery, the A.D.A. claimed the pictures from a closed-circuit camera put his client at the scene. Initially, the hard-nosed assistant district attorney refused to grant bail until Kyle insisted that his client didn’t pose a flight risk. Unfortunately his client’s witnesses weren’t model citizens, all having priors for petty crimes.

Kyle knew there was something his client was withholding from him, but so far he hadn’t been able to crack the hard shell the teenager had affected so as not to appear “soft” to his “boyz.” It wouldn’t matter whether he was hard or soft once he was sent upstate to a prison with men who’d been incarcerated more years than he’d been alive.

There was something about the teenager that reminded Kyle of himself when he’d run with the wrong crowd. Elwin’s “you’ll come to no good end” echoed in his mind. The difference was that at fourteen he was a juvenile and therefore he’d been given a second chance. But if he didn’t find something to prove Rashaun Hayden’s innocence, then the boy would become another one of the growing number of young men warehoused in state prisons.

A slight frown creased his forehead. Leaning over, he punched the speaker button on the telephone console. “Cherise, please get in touch with A.D.A. Clarkson and tell him I need a set of photos from the Hayden robbery.”

“I’m on it, Kyle.”

“Thank you, Cherise.”

Kyle had glanced at the grainy photos, but thought they needed closer examination. He closed the file. The trial was scheduled to begin in another month, but four weeks wasn’t enough time to prepare a case when most of the evidence pointed to Rashaun’s guilt.

He went through the other files, reading the updates until Cherise returned to tell him that everyone had gathered in the conference room. “I’ll be right in.”

Pushing to his feet, Kyle gathered the files, walked out of his office and into the conference room where he held meetings and met with clients and their family members. A gleaming cherrywood table and eight leather-covered chairs sat in the middle of the large room. One wall of built-in shelves was stacked with law books and journals. A trio of tall windows occupied another wall, while the remaining two were brick, one with a large working fireplace. An assortment of breakfast breads, fresh fruit, pitchers of freshly squeezed juice and carafes of coffee and hot water for tea filled a corner table.