Man of Fate. Rochelle AlersЧитать онлайн книгу.
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