Man of Fate. Rochelle Alers
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