Man of Fate. Rochelle Alers

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      “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.

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