Man OF Fate

Man of Fate
Rochelle Alers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The BEST MEN series

You met Tessa, Faith and Simone—the Whitfields of New York and owners of Signature Bridals—in the WHITFIELD BRIDES series. Now meet three lifelong friends who fulfill their boyhood dream and purchase a Harlem brownstone for their business ventures.

Kyle Chatham, Duncan Gilmore and Ivan Campbell have worked tirelessly to overcome obstacles and achieve professional success, oftentimes at the expense of their personal lives. However, each will meet an extraordinary woman who just might make him reconsider what it means to be the best man.

In Man of Fate, high-profile attorney Kyle Chatham’s classic sports car is rear-ended by Ava Warrick, a social worker who doesn’t think much of lawyers and deeply mistrusts men. Ava expects the handsome attorney to sue her, not come to her rescue after she sustains a head injury in the accident. But Kyle knows he has to prove to Ava that he is nothing like the men in her past—a challenge he is prepared to take on and win.

Financial planner Duncan Gilmore’s life is as predictable as the numbers on his spreadsheets. After losing his fiancée in the World Trade Center tragedy, he has finally begun dating again. In Man of Fortune, Duncan meets Tamara Wolcott—a beautiful and brilliant E.R. doctor with a bad attitude. As their relationship grows, Tamara begins to feel that she is just a replacement for his late fiancée. But Duncan knows that he has to put aside his pride if he’s going to convince Tamara to be part of his life.

After the death of his identical twin years ago, psychotherapist Ivan Campbell is a “love ’em and leave ’em” guy who is afraid of commitment. But all of that changes in Man of Fantasy when he meets Nayo Goddard at an art gallery, where she is showing her collection of black-and-white photographs. Not only has she gotten Ivan to open up his heart to love again, she is also seeing another man. Ivan knows that he must prove that he is the best man for her, or risk losing her forever.

Yours in romance,

Rochelle Alers

A wise man will hear, and will increase learning;

and a man of understanding shall attain

unto wise counsels.

—Proverbs 1:5

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 1

Kyle Chatham downshifted, maneuvering into an E-ZPass lane on the Robert F. Kennedy Triborough Bridge. Several cars ahead of him, traffic came to a standstill as a car stalled at the toll booth, eliciting a cacophony of horns and profanity-laced invectives from other motorists on the toll plaza.

A smile spread across Kyle’s lips as he listened to the bawdy comments and watched as drivers flipped each other the bird. This was his city and he’d expected no less from New Yorkers. His motto when it came to his hometown was Either Love It or Leave It. His relatives from down South couldn’t understand how he could live in a place that was so noisy and filled with throngs trying to navigate through crowded sidewalks and city streets. Even the brusque and sometimes rude manners of New Yorkers—who usually go about their business without even making eye contact or greeting others with a polite “good mornin’” or “evenin’”—takes some getting used to. He had lost track of the number of times he had to explain to visitors that New Yorkers didn’t have time to dawdle or chitchat because they would never get where they were going. One thing he couldn’t explain was the colorful language peppered with four-letter words that was uniquely a part of New York.

Kyle loved the city, and if someone offered him tens of millions of tax-free dollars to move, he would turn them down without batting an eyelash. He was Harlem—born and raised—and at thirty-eight years old, he still lived there.

There had been a time when he’d worked an average of eighty hours a week for a prestigious New York law firm handling high-profile cases ranging from corporate fraud to capital murder before he realized he was dangerously close to being burned out. He’d given Trilling, Carlyle and Browne—affectionately nicknamed TCB for “taking care of business”—ten years of his life, but had finally decided that if he had to work that hard, then it would be for Kyle Elwin Chatham.

Although he’d spent hours in his Park Avenue office overlooking the Waldorf Astoria and Grand Central Station, Kyle still found time to unwind with a very active social life. He dated, had a few long-term relationships and always set aside time to hang out with his closest friends, Duncan Gilmore and Ivan Campbell. The three had grown up together in the same public housing complex and they’d never lost touch with each other.

Faced with the most important decision he’d had to make, he tendered his resignation and spent the entire summer in Sag Harbor, Long Island, at a bed and breakfast, lying on the beach during the day and partying at night.

A fling with a local divorcée capped off what had become quite a memorable summer. He’d returned to his Harlem brownstone reinvigorated and ready to start practicing law again—this time for himself.

A year ago, he’d contacted Duncan and Ivan, offering to go in with them on the purchase of the brownstone. They planned to renovate the building and use it as professional office space for Kyle’s law practice, Duncan’s financial-planning services and Ivan’s psychotherapy practice. Eight months later they toasted one another with champagne after the brass plate bearing their names and titles were affixed to the front of the three-story brownstone in Harlem’s Mount Morris Historic District.

Traffic in his lane had come to a complete standstill. Either someone was in the wrong lane, had engine trouble or had run out of gas. Kyle reached over and pushed the volume button on the dashboard of his sports car and started singing at the top of his lungs. Not only did he know the lyrics to every Stevie Wonder song, but he also did a very good imitation of the blind singer-songwriter.

“Sing it, gorgeous!” a woman called out from the open window of a sport utility vehicle in the next lane.

Nodding, Kyle winked at her as he continued to sing. “Superwoman” and “Living for the City” were his favorites. His musical taste was eclectic, running the gamut from blues and classic jazz to R&B, and he had to thank his father and uncles for that. Every time there was a family gathering, the Chatham men engaged in their favorite pastime: comparing the latest additions to their growing music libraries.

Kyle had surprised his father one Christmas with an MP3 player with selections he had converted from his father’s record collection and cassettes. Elwin Chatham—a highly decorated Vietnam vet—sat stunned as his eyes filled with tears after he plugged the MP3 player into a tuner to hear the music of his youth.

The honking increased as Kyle glanced up at the rearview mirror to gauge if he had enough room to maneuver around the vehicle in front of him to get into another lane. It took a full three minutes before he was able to make it through another toll booth and onto the roadway that would take him into Manhattan.

It was a warm Saturday night in June and the sidewalks and roadways in East Harlem were as crowded as if it were Monday-morning rush hour. Neither the bumper-to-bumper crosstown traffic nor the pedestrians ambling across the wide avenues, oblivious to the traffic lights, could dispel Kyle’s good mood. He’d spent the evening in Mount Vernon, a guest at the wedding of Micah and Tessa Whitfield-Sanborn.

As a graduate of Brooklyn Law School, Kyle had been a mentor to NYPD Lieutenant Micah Sanborn when he attended law school as a part-time student. Micah had graduated at the top of his class, passed the bar on his first attempt and went on to work as a Kings County assistant district attorney. Kyle had offered Micah a position in his private practice, but the former police officer declined, saying he didn’t have the temperament to work in the private sector.

No one was more surprised than Kyle when he received the wedding invitation, since Micah never seemed to be serious about any woman, certainly nothing that would lead to marriage. But when he was introduced to Tessa Whitfield he knew why Micah was marrying the wedding planner. Tessa was intelligent, elegant and stunningly beautiful.

Tessa had everything Kyle was looking for in the women he’d dated over the years. As a teenager and in his early twenties, it had been sex. But as he matured he realized sex was only one aspect of a satisfying relationship. It was important, but not as important as communicating with each other out of bed.

He never took a date with him to a wedding because he didn’t want to send the wrong message. He wasn’t anti-marriage or commitment-phobic. It was just that he hadn’t found that certain someone, a woman who complemented him.

Kyle was ambitious, generous and fun-loving, but he was also moody, possessive and, at times, irritable and tactless. He was waiting for the time when he’d be able to balance his career and personal life, and he was close to achieving that.

Thankfully there was no pressure to have grandchildren. Between his younger sister and brother, Elwin and Frances Chatham had two grandsons and two granddaughters. Life was good, and he intended to enjoy it to the fullest.

Ava Warrick didn’t know what else could go wrong. Her week had begun badly when she’d overslept—something she rarely did. She’d missed an important meeting with the mental health agency’s medical director, and now it was her weekend to be on-call and she’d gotten a call from a social worker at Harlem Hospital that one of her clients had been admitted to their psychiatric unit.

“Don’t you dare stop!” she screamed at the driver in the convertible sports car in front of her own. He’d slowed within seconds of the light changing from green to yellow. “Dammit!” Ava hissed between clenched teeth.

Her attempt to go around the two-seater was thwarted when a Cadillac Escalade came out of nowhere and she was forced to hit the brakes, but not soon enough to avoid slamming into the rear of the sports car. The driver’s-side air bag in her car deployed and she sat dazed and unable to see beyond the fabric pressed against her face.

Kyle put his Jaguar in Park, shut off the engine and got out. It wasn’t often that he took the antique convertible out of the garage except when he had to travel outside the city, but he knew without looking that it had sustained some rear-end damage. He’d invested a lot of money in the Jaguar XKE with ground-up restoration. His skilled mechanic had installed a new tan-leather interior, totally rebuilt the engine and outfitted it with new Dayton Wire Wheels.

The car’s body gleamed with a new coat of sapphire-blue paint, making it better than it was the day it was built. He’d lost count of the times people had offered to buy the convertible from him, but Kyle had waited too long for a vehicle that suited his temperament and lifestyle to turn around and sell it.

He approached the driver’s-side window of the car that had hit him and found a woman, her face pressed against the air bag. His concern for his vehicle shifted to the driver. “Are you all right?”

“Open the door,” came her muffled reply.

Kyle pulled on the door handle, stepping back when the driver managed to slip from behind the wheel unassisted. The young woman swayed slightly but righted herself before he could reach out to steady her.

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” he asked.

Ava pressed her back to the door of her brand-new Maxima. She hadn’t had the car a week, and now she was in an accident. She’d driven her last car, a twelve-year-old Maxima with more than one hundred thousand miles on it, into the ground without a single mishap.

Within seconds the pain in her head was replaced by a blinding rage that made it almost impossible for her to speak. “I…I know how fast I was going. You were the one slowing down to a crawl at least twenty feet before the light changed. If you can’t drive on city streets, then you should keep the hell off the road.”

Kyle’s eyes widened as he glared at the woman who seemed to blame him for causing the accident. “Hel-lo, you were the one who hit me, not the other way around.”

“I wouldn’t have hit you if you didn’t drive like—” Her words stopped when she felt a rush of bile in the back of her throat.

“Yo, man, I saw the whole thing. If you need a witness, then I’m it.”

Kyle turned to find an emaciated-looking man holding up the front of his pants with one hand while he’d extended the other, seemingly for a handout. “Beat it!”

The panhandler lowered his hand. “Damn, brother, there’s no need to go mad hard. I’m just trying to help out.”

“Help out somewhere else.” Walking back to his car, Kyle surveyed the damage. Except for a dent in the fender, his vehicle hadn’t sustained any serious damage. But the right side of the Maxima’s front bumper rested on the roadway. Reaching for the cell phone in the breast pocket of his shirt, he dialed two numbers: one to report the accident to the police and the other to his mechanic.

Ava’s gaze narrowed when she stared as the tall, slender man approached her. “I’ll pay for the damage to your car.”

“It’s too late, miss. I just called the police.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“Look, miss—”

“Miss Warrick,” Ava said. “It’s Ava Warrick. And as I said, I would’ve paid out-of-pocket for the damage to your car.”

Kyle lifted his eyebrows. “What about your car? It has a lot more damage than mine.”

“I have a friend who owns a body shop,” she said.

“You should’ve said that before I made the phone call.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to call the police,” Ava countered.

“That’s because I didn’t have to,” Kyle retorted nastily. “After all, you did hit my car.”

Ava knew she wasn’t going to be able to drive her vehicle. She rounded the car, opened the passenger-side door, reached into the glove compartment for the vehicle’s registration and insurance information and sat down to wait for New York’s finest. She didn’t know if the pain in her head was anxiety from the accident or the impact of the air bag.

“Where’s your friend’s shop?”

Her head came up, and she found herself staring up into the dark face of the most handsome man she’d seen in years. To say he was tall, dark and handsome was an understatement. He claimed an angular face with high, chiseled cheekbones. There wasn’t enough light to discern the color of his deep-set, slanting eyes. He had a strong nose with slightly flared nostrils and a firm mouth with a full lower lip. Her gaze moved from his square chin up to his close-cropped hair and reversed itself to wander slowly down the front of a crisp white shirt with French cuffs and a pair of tailored trousers and imported leather footwear.

“It’s in Flatbush.”

“Start dialing, Miss Warrick, because Flatbush is not around the corner.” Kyle hoped her friend would come from Brooklyn before they were able to settle the accident report. Otherwise, she might become another police statistic if some criminal decided to rip her off despite the neighborhood’s rapid gentrification.

Moving as if she were in a trance, Ava searched into her cavernous leather bag for her cell phone. She scrolled through the directory for her friend’s number, but before she could depress the button her vision blurred. Then without warning everything faded to black.

Kyle reacted quickly as Ava slumped against the leather seat. Reaching over, he righted her, but her body was as limp as an overcooked noodle. Her car had collided with his, yet he hadn’t thought about whether she had injured herself.

The possibility that Ava might have sustained a serious injury took precedence over the damage to either of their cars and he knew she had to get to a hospital right away. Reaching over, he touched her cheek, which was moist. He glanced down at her chest to see if she was still breathing, and noted thankfully that she was.

“Ava,” he said, calling her name softly. “Come on, beautiful, wake up. That’s it. Talk to me.”

Kyle was afraid she’d suffered a concussion and he remembered reading somewhere that people with head injuries shouldn’t be allowed to go to sleep. He exhaled an audible sigh when her eyelids fluttered wildly.

Ava tried focusing on the face inches from her own. “What happened?”

“You must have passed out for a few seconds,” Kyle explained.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I don’t know what hurts more—my head or my face.”

“You probably had your seat too close to the steering wheel.”

Opening her hand, Ava stared at her cell phone as if she’d never seen it. “You were going to call your friend, but there’s no time for that,” Kyle continued.

She blinked as if coming out of a trance. “What are you talking about?”

He saw flashing lights from a police cruiser coming in their direction. “The police are on their way and when they get here I’m going to have them call for an ambulance.”

Ava sat up straighter, but more pain shot through her head, bringing with it another wave of dizziness. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Yes, you do. When my mechanic gets here I’m going to have him tow your car to his garage, and I’ll follow the ambulance in my car.”

When Ava had gotten into her car she hadn’t thought that instead of going to visit a patient she would become one. “It’s just a headache.”

Kyle’s expression was grim. “It has to be more than a headache if you passed out.”

Any attempt at smiling brought more stabbing pain for Ava. “Do you want me to go to the hospital because you’re afraid I’m going to sue you? After all, New York has a no-fault insurance.”

Hard-pressed not to laugh, Kyle gave the woman a long, penetrating stare. He hadn’t lied when he’d said she was beautiful, because she was. Not beautiful in the traditional sense, but stunning nonetheless.

Ava Warrick’s short, fashionably styled hair and her skin were her best assets. Her dark brown complexion was the color of milk chocolate, its flawlessness reminding him of whipped mousse. He forced himself not to look below her neck where a scoop-neck T-shirt revealed a hint of cleavage and generous hips in fitted jeans.

“Not in the least.”

Time seemed to go by in slow motion even though it was only minutes until the mechanic arrived with a tow truck, followed by the police cruiser. Kyle instructed the mechanic to tow Ava’s car, then told the police officers that Ava needed to be transported to a hospital. A female officer, who looked young enough to have been a recent police-academy graduate, called for an ambulance while her partner completed the accident report.

Ava’s protests that she didn’t need medical assistance were ignored when the ambulance arrived and the paramedics assisted her inside and closed the door. She lay down on the gurney, gritting her teeth each time the vehicle hit a bump in the roadway. If she hadn’t needed a doctor before, she clearly did now. By the time the ambulance driver had maneuvered into the area leading to the emergency room and the gurney was lowered to the ground, the nausea and pain vanished as she slipped into a comforting blackness.

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 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.

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.

The office manager had gotten the staff to donate a few dollars each week to have breakfast in the office to offset the exorbitant prices for specialty coffees and sweet breads until Kyle instructed her to take the money out of the office petty cash.

He filled a cup with coffee, adding a dollop of cream, and carried it to the table, which had been covered with place mats to protect its surface. Sitting down, he stared at his staff. Kyle marveled at the fact that he’d inherited an intelligent, experienced group of people who came to work on time and utilized their skills to grow the practice. With the exception of Cherise, who’d recently celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday, everyone else was older than him.

He opened a file. “We’re going to start with Hector Lonzo’s hit-and-run.” Kyle looked at Mercedes Quiñones, the full-time bilingual paralegal. “Did you get Mr. Lonzo’s wife’s statement?”

Mercedes nodded. She’d recently cut her curly black hair, much to the chagrin of her husband of twenty-eight years, because she claimed long graying hair made her look older. “I spoke to her late Friday night. I have everything on tape, and I just have to translate it.”

Kyle smiled. “Good.”

It took less than an hour to go over the case-file updates, and when everyone stood up to leave the room Kyle asked Cherise to stay. “I need you to send a bouquet of flowers to someone.” He scrawled Ava’s name and address on a sheet of paper, handing it to her.

Her reddish eyebrows lifted. “What kind of flowers do you want?”

He thought for a moment. “See if they have peach-colored roses. If not, then pink. The message should read: Hope you are feeling better, and my name.”

“How many roses do you want to send, Kyle?”

“Two dozen and I’d like them delivered before this evening.”

“I’m on it.”

A hint of a smile parted Kyle’s lips at Cherise’s trademark rejoinder. “I know you are,” he said.

She blushed furiously then turned and walked out of the room. Kyle knew he’d embarrassed her but he hadn’t meant to. When he’d bragged to Duncan and Ivan that his employees were superior to theirs it had begun an undeclared cold war among the childhood friends. Kyle felt closer to Ivan and Duncan than to his career-army-officer brother Kenneth, with whom he seldom spoke. Although Kenneth was stationed stateside, it was his sister-in-law who sent Kyle Christmas cards with updated pictures of his school-age nephews. His sister Sandra had a special place in his heart. She’d recently moved to Arizona with her husband and toddlers, and never failed to e-mail pictures of her adorable little girls.

He’d poured his second cup of coffee when Duncan Gilmore walked in. Duncan was the most complex of the trio. An even six feet, he cut an incredibly handsome figure in his Brioni suit and accessories. However, all of the sartorial splendor couldn’t disguise the sadness in Duncan’s beautifully modulated voice and occasionally too-bright smile. Women of all races and ethnic groups were drawn to his olive coloring, chiseled features and close-cropped curly black hair.

His friend had suffered a series of losses, beginning with his single mother, who died from a blood clot in her lung the year Duncan turned fourteen, to losing his fiancée on September eleventh. Having never known his father, Duncan had gone to live with a schoolteacher aunt in Brooklyn who had recognized his mathematical genius and encouraged him to work beyond his potential. He graduated with honors from Brooklyn Technical High School, then enrolled in Baruch College for a degree in business. He had returned to college five years later to earn an MBA from Pace University.

It’d been eight years since Duncan had lost the love of his life, and he had yet to form a lasting relationship with any of the women he dated. He had been the least commitment-shy of the three, but that had changed.

Kyle was shocked when Duncan had announced after his fiancée’s death that he intended never to marry or father children. Ivan went from being a friend to being a therapist, but Duncan had refused to listen to him. They’d allowed their friend to grieve in private, and nearly eight years later he was still grieving.

The two men bumped fists, a gesture they used when greeting each other. “What’s up, DG?” Kyle asked Duncan.

“That’s what I came to ask you,” Duncan countered. “How was the wedding?”

Kyle smiled. “It was spectacular. The bride was beautiful, the groom handsome and the bridal attendants were luscious-looking.”

“Did you meet anyone?” Duncan asked, smiling.

“The bride’s sister was really gorgeous, but unfortunately I didn’t know at the time I was trying to hit on her that she was already taken.”

“I guess you win some and you lose some.”

“It’s okay, because she’s what I consider geographically undesirable. The lady lives in White Plains.”

Duncan whistled softly. “Westchester County roads can be a bitch. Some of their parkways flood quickly and the one time I tried driving along one of the local roads in the snow I almost wrecked a rental car.”

Attractive lines fanned out around Kyle’s eyes when his smile widened. “I don’t have a problem dating Big Apple sisters or those from the other boroughs.” Duncan nodded, but didn’t say anything. “What are you doing for the Fourth?” This year the Fourth of July fell on a Saturday and Kyle planned to close his office that Friday and not reopen until Tuesday to give his employees a four-day holiday weekend.

Duncan picked a stray raisin off the table and popped it into his mouth. “Right now I’m open, but Ivan mentioned something about having a cookout at his place.”

Ivan owned a brownstone in the Mount Morris Historic District two blocks from their offices. “If he doesn’t want to do it, then I will,” Kyle volunteered. “I haven’t sat outside or used the grill since last year.”

Resting a hand on Kyle’s shoulder over a starched white shirt, Duncan leaned closer. “Please tell Ivan you’ll do it. If I have to eat another hockey puck masquerading as a hamburger I’m going to go ape-shit and hurt Dr. Ivan Campbell. The man can’t cook for nothing!”

“Hear! Hear!” Kyle intoned, bumping fists with Duncan. “That settles it. We’ll hang out at my place.”

Duncan flashed a wide smile. “Thanks, buddy. You just saved a thirty-year friendship.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to meet a client in a few minutes. We’ll talk later.”

Kyle waited for the financial planner to leave before gathering his files and returning to his office. There was something Mercedes had said that made him believe Rashaun Hayden was covering for someone, someone who might have threatened him if he decided to snitch. The street code of “snitches get stitches” prompted many defendants to take the rap for someone else.

The elder Haydens had emptied their bank account to hire private legal counsel for their only child, feeling that a public defender wouldn’t fight to keep their son out of jail. Kyle was charging them half his hourly fee because he believed Rashaun was innocent. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed the Hayden residence. Rashaun answered after the second ring.

“Hey, this is Ras.”

“It’s ‘Hello,’ Rashaun. How do you expect a jury to believe you when you come across like that?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. C. I thought you was one of my boys.”

Kyle wanted to ask the teenager if he cut English classes, because he invariably screwed up his verb tenses. “The name is Chatham, not C, and, Rashaun, I need to see you.”

“When, Mr. Chatham?”

“I want you to ask either your mother or father to call me so I can set up an appointment.”

“Do I have to come?”

“Yes, Rashaun, you have to come.”

“What do you want to talk about, Mr. Chatham?”

Kyle leaned back in his executive chair. There was a thread of anxiousness in his client’s voice that hadn’t been there before. “You’ll find out when we all meet.”

“Have you found out who really jacked up that lying bitch?”

“I want you to listen real good, Rashaun, because I’m only going to say this once. Clean up your mouth or I’ll have the judge revoke your bail and you’ll find yourself back in Rikers at the mercy of some inmate who’d be happy to make you his bitch before he passes you around to his buddies for cigarettes.”

There was complete silence on the other end of the line. Kyle knew he had gotten through to the cocky young man who believed doing a “bid” would enhance his street cred. What Rashaun failed to understand was that going to prison was not a walk in the park. He was facing a sentence of ten to fifteen years, with the possibility of parole in eight years. And a lot could happen to him in eight years.

“Now that I have your attention, please let your parents know I called and that I want them to contact me as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Mr. Chatham.”

“Thank you, Rashaun.”

Kyle ended the call, annoyed that he had to go there with the young man. He didn’t know where Rashaun had gotten the idea that going to prison was a badge of honor. Kyle had grown up with boys who’d gone to prison, only to return either hardened or broken men. Some were never able to assimilate afterwards and become a part of society, shut out from certain jobs because of their criminal backgrounds.

The intercom rang and he pushed the speaker button. “Yes, Cherise?”

“I ordered the flowers. They’ll be delivered to Miss Warrick before three today.”

“Good.” Kyle made another call to the owner of one of his favorite neighborhood restaurants.

“Good morning. This is Leroi’s”

“Good morning, Pearl. This is Kyle Chatham. Is your husband available to come to the phone?”

“Sure, Kyle. Leroi’s right here.”

“What’s shaking, brother?” said a deep, booming voice.

“I need a favor.”

“Name it,” Leroi said without hesitating.

“I want to buy a steak from you.”

“Buy a steak or you want me to cook a steak?”

Kyle knew Leroi probably thought he was losing his mind. “I want to buy two uncooked strip steaks from you. I’d prefer if they were aged.” He usually ordered his steaks directly from Peter Luger’s butcher shop, but the dry-aged strip and porterhouse steaks in his freezer were frozen solid. He’d suggested to Duncan they have the cookout at his place because it’d been a while since he’d entertained outdoors and he wanted to broil those steaks before they developed freezer burn.

“How large do you want them?” Leroi asked?

“Not too large.” Kyle planned to make steak au poivre.

“I have a few aged ones weighing approximately sixteen and twenty ounces.”

“Don’t you have anything smaller?”

“Nope. It sounds like a lot of meat, but it won’t be after you broil it.”

“Wrap up two for me, and I’ll pick them up around five.”

“I can have someone run it over to you, Kyle.”

“You don’t have to do that, Leroi.”

“Yeah, I do. After all, you helped me out when you got that fraud to drop her lawsuit when she claimed she found bugs in her salad. I’m sending the steaks and think of them as a gift from me and the missus.”

“Only this time, Leroi.”

“No problem, brother.”

Kyle hung up. Normally he wouldn’t accept a gift or gifts from his clients, but he knew it was useless to argue with Leroi, and he needed a premium cut of thawed beef.

The morning and afternoon passed quickly for Kyle. He stopped long enough to order a Caesar salad with grilled chicken from a nearby deli. Mrs. Hayden returned his call, and he set up an appointment to meet with her, her son and husband the following week.

Tonight his focus was on seeing Ava again. He stopped at a local grocer to pick up what he needed to go with his steak dinner, and then he hailed a taxi to take him to Morningside Heights.

A different doorman was on duty when he stepped out of the taxi. He gave the man his name, waiting while he called Ava’s apartment. “Miss Warrick is expecting you, Mr. Chatham.”

The doors to an elevator opened as he approached and Kyle stepped inside and punched the button for the fifteenth floor. When the doors opened and he saw Ava Warrick standing there waiting for him, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her or how fast his heart was beating.

Chapter 4

Ava gave Kyle a dazzling smile. “What on earth did you bring?” she asked, pointing at the shopping bags he held in each hand.

Kyle winked at her. “Dinner.”

It’d been a little more than twenty-four hours since he’d last seen Ava, and she’d changed dramatically. Her hair was a mass of tiny curls that hugged her head like a cap. She wore a pair of black cropped pants that showed off her shapely legs, black ballet-type flats and a white sleeveless V-neck blouse that displayed toned arms and shoulders. There was still a hint of swelling along the left side of her face and the angry bruise was changing color from deep purple to a sickly greenish-yellow.

Ava reached for one of the bags, but Kyle tightened his grip on the handles. “I’ve got this.”

She flashed an attractive moue. “Oh, it’s like that?”

Lowering her head, he pressed his mouth to her uninjured cheek. “Yes, it is. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Follow me.” Ava led the way through a hallway and into one of the two kitchens in the duplex.

Kyle walked into a kitchen designed for cooking and entertaining. Hollyberry-red cabinetry was a shocking contrast to stainless-steel appliances and neutral-colored walls, granite gray-and-black countertops and backsplashes resembling a mosaic. There was a built-in microwave/convection oven, sub-zero fridge, a wine cellar and a side-by-side commercial refrigerator.

“I love your kitchen.” He was unable to disguise the surprise in his voice.

Folding her arms under her breasts, Ava leaned a hip against the countertop. “I wish I could claim it as mine. I’ll live here until next summer. After that I’ll have to look for another apartment. I’ve been thinking about buying a co-op but I’m not certain where I’d like to live.”

Kyle took off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of a stool. Removing his cufflinks, he rolled back his cuffs and began emptying the canvas bags. “Where are the owners?”

“They’re involved in a project in Saudi Arabia. Professor Servinsky lived in this apartment with his first wife for more than twenty years before she passed away in her sleep. After several years he began dating his neighbor, who was also a widow. He didn’t want to give up his apartment and it was the same with her, so they renovated, turning the two into a duplex. There are three bedrooms on this floor and three upstairs. Each also has a small bedroom off the kitchen, commonly known as the maid’s room. Mrs. Servinsky removed the wall between two upstairs bedrooms and set it up as a solarium.”

“Where do they sleep?”

“They sleep down here and entertain upstairs.”

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“Upstairs. I’ll show you around later,” Ava promised. “Would you like some help?”

Kyle gave her a sidelong glance as he emptied plastic bags of cucumbers, bell peppers, a lemon, tomatoes, scallions and baking potatoes into the sink. The contents of the other bag yielded small containers of fresh mint, garlic, feta cheese and bottles of olive oil and red wine. Her gaze widened when he unwrapped strip steaks with a liberal amount of marbling.

“No. I want you to sit and do absolutely nothing. How do you like your steak?”

“Well done.” The seconds ticked off as she watched Kyle navigate his way around the kitchen as if it were something he did often, opening cabinets for bowls and platters and a drawer with an assortment of knives.

Unable to tolerate complete silence, Ava got up and turned on the radio positioned under a cabinet. The melodious sound of Whitney Houston singing “You Give Good Love” filled the kitchen.

Shifting, she stared at the width of Kyle’s broad shoulders under the white shirt. “I want to thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

The flowers had been delivered to the apartment when she’d been on the telephone with her supervisor. Earlier that morning she’d scanned the doctor’s note and faxed it to her office. Within an hour she was inundated by a number of telephone calls from her coworkers asking if she was okay or if she needed them to do something for her. The outpouring of support was somewhat unexpected because the atmosphere in the agency had been somewhat strained under the current administration. Threats of resignations were rampant, and Ava was seriously considering looking for another position at the end of the year. She’d had another offer to work for a private agency, but hadn’t wanted to leave the city-funded agency and the disenfranchised clients who came with a myriad of social and mental-health issues.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I’m glad you like them.”

She approached Kyle, watching as he manipulated the pullout kitchen faucet, rinsing the vegetables. The heat from his body and the subtle scent of his cologne wafted into her nose. He looked and smelled good.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

Kyle gave Ava a quick glance. “Before my dad retired, he worked as a chef for the railroad. My mother loved when he was home because she didn’t have to cook. Once we were tall enough to look over the stove he taught his children.”

“At what age did you learn?” Ava asked.

“I had to be eight or nine. My younger brother flat-out refused, while my sister and I became proficient enough so that we could put together an entire meal by the time we were teens. Are you an only child?” Kyle asked, deftly switching the topic from himself to Ava.

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