Man of Fate

by Rochelle Alers

  “What about profits?” Jordan asked.

  “I didn’t go into private practice to concern myself with bottom-line profit margins.”

  A hint of a smile parted Jordan’s firm lips. “How many employees do you have?”

  “Four. Three are full-time and one part-time.”

  “What are their positions?”

  “What are you getting at, Jordan?”

  “Please answer the question, Chat.”

  “I have a full-time legal secretary, office manager and paralegal. I also have a part-time paralegal for evening hours. I share a receptionist and cleaning service with two friends who each own a third of the building.”

  “How would you like to hire a full-time legal researcher and law clerk?”

  Kyle shook his head. Carrying two mortgages—one on his home and the other on his business—had taken a sizeable bite out of his savings. “I’d love to, but it would strain my budget.”

  Jordan leaned closer. “Make me partner, Chat, and I’ll cover business expenses for the next two years. If you want I’ll make it three.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Kyle studied the thirty-two-year-old attorney who’d come to him asking to be a partner when he could’ve set up his own law firm. “What’s this all about, Jordan? Why me and not some other firm? Better yet, why don’t you set up your own firm? Who are you pissed at?” he asked when Jordan compressed his lips into a thin, hard line.

  Pushing back his chair, Jordan reached into the pocket of his suit trousers and threw a large bill on the table. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “Sit down!” The two words came out with the impact of the crack of a whip. The younger man complied. “What are you doing, Jordan?” Kyle’s voice was lower, softer. “You graduate Harvard Law, and instead of joining your family business you go to work for TCB. You leave them, then come to me for a position. What gives? Who are you trying to punish?”

  Jordan’s expression grew hard and resentful as his long, slender, groomed fingers curled into tight fists. “My grandfather,” he said after a pregnant pause.

  “Does it have anything to do with African-Amercans?” he asked perceptively.

  “Yes.”

  Kyle was hard-pressed not to laugh. “You’re pissed off with your grandfather, so to punish him you leave a plum position with Trilling, Carlyle and Browne, where last I heard you were rumored to become a junior partner, to come uptown to work with a struggling law firm whose focus is to protect the legal rights of the disenfranchised and underserved people of color?”

  “I didn’t have to come to you.”

  “But you did,” Kyle argued softly. “I don’t want to know why you’re at odds with your grandfather, but if you’re serious about working for me then you’re hired. However, I’m not going to make you partner until you prove yourself. I’m going to give you the landlord-tenant case. Use whatever resources you need to make your granddad and the holding company’s bastard slumlord pay for what they’ve done to the eighty families who live in their hovel.”

  “When do you want me to start?” The warmth of Jordan’s smile echoed in his voice.

  “I’m closing the office on Monday to give the employees a four-day weekend, so it will have to be Tuesday. What are you doing this coming weekend?”

  “My mother asked me to come down to Maryland for the holiday. Why?”

  “My friend is hosting a cookout at his place on Saturday. If you decide to come, then you’ll get to meet the people you’ll be working with in a more relaxed setting.”

  “I’d love to come, but my mother is hosting a fifty-fifth birthday celebration for my dad at our summer place.”

  Every Fourth of July weekend Christiane Wainwright closed up the Fifth Avenue maisonette and relocated her household, including the household staff, to the family compound at Chesapeake Ranch Estates, Maryland. When she’d called him to tell him about the family gathering, Jordan’s first impulse was to decline because Wyatt Wainwright would also be there. But then, his mother was not to blame for her father-in-law’s treachery. Taking on and winning the landlord-tenant case would do little to affect Wainwright Developers Group’s bottom line, but the negative publicity attendant on a family member suing the conglomerate on behalf of low-income tenants would be publicly embarrassing to a man who’d spent more than half a century building and maintaining the real-estate giant.

  Kyle smiled. “Hopefully you’ll be available for the next one.”

  Jordan returned the smile. “I’ll make certain to be available.”

  The two men reminisced about the cases they’d taken to trial, ninety-eight percent of which they’d won. Lingering over entrées of grilled salmon with miso basil, yasai soba with vegetables in a hot broth, tempura shrimp and vegetables and sake, Kyle and Jordan lapsed into the familiarity that had been apparent when they’d worked together as litigators.

  Kyle picked up the tab, and Jordan left to hail a taxi to take them uptown. Jordan exited the cab on Fifth Avenue at Ninety-Eighth Street while Kyle continued on to West One Hundred Thirty-Ninth Street.

  Walking into his kitchen, he checked his voice mail. There was one message from his sister, another from his mother asking if she was going to see him over the holiday weekend. Kyle called his mother, promising to drive up to Tarrytown to spend Monday with her.

  Jordan had accused him of daydreaming about a woman, and his newest employee was right. When he least expected it, Kyle’s thoughts drifted to Ava, her bruised face, soft curly hair, beautifully modulated voice and her lush, womanly body.

  Whenever he met a woman it was never his intent to think of her as an object of sex. If he wanted sex, then he could always pick up a stranger and go at it. Although he’d dated a lot of women, he hadn’t slept with a lot of women. Sleeping with a woman went beyond a physical commitment—it was also an emotional commitment.

  There was something about Ava Warrick that made him want to commit to her, emotionally and physically. What Kyle liked about her was that she wasn’t easy. He’d learned from experience that if a woman opened her legs to him within days of their meeting, then she would open her legs to any man who gave her attention or offered her a compliment. Any woman willing to jump into bed with him after their first, second or even third date, he walked away from. Although he enjoyed being a bachelor and what the status offered, Kyle unconsciously viewed every woman as a potential wife.

  He’d told Ava that he would call her once the details for the cookout were confirmed, but decided to text her instead. Retrieving his cell phone, he typed in the time he would pick her up on Saturday. Ivan had asked everyone to arrive around two in the afternoon, but Kyle knew he had to get there earlier to fire up the grill and make certain he had what he needed to make the outdoor gathering a success.

  An hour later, he sat in his den watching the Yankees play the Seattle Mariners. Whenever his dad was home from the railroad, he’d made it a practice to take Kyle and Kenneth to Yankee Stadium. Kyle had become a rabid sports fan when he’d added football and basketball as spectator sports. He, Ivan and Duncan usually reserved Sundays and Monday nights during football season for hanging out at one another’s homes to view the games.

  Kyle hadn’t realized he’d dozed off until the chiming of the phone startled him into awareness. Reaching for the cordless instrument, he mumbled a sleepy greeting.

  “What are you wearing, handsome?”

  He sat straighter. “Who’s this?”

  “I’ll give you one guess.”

  “Ava?”

  “Yes, it’s Ava. Do you have so many women calling your home that you don’t recognize my voice?”

  Now Kyle was fully alert. “No, but you’re the only one with a southern accent. And I don’t have that many women calling to ask what I’m wearing, because the ones who do are usually sleeping with me.”

  “I don’t have an accent.”

  He noticed she hadn’t responded to the possibility that they could possibly share a bed. “Ye
ah, you do. You say y’all instead of you all.”

  “Everyone says y’all.”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s because you’re unique, Mr. Chatham.”

  He smiled. “You think so?”

  “No, you think so,” she teased, laughing softly. “I’m calling you to respond to your text. I’ll be ready at twelve. Do you want me to bring anything?”

  “No.”

  “What about dessert?”

  Kyle’s smile grew wider, although Ava couldn’t see it. “What are you suggesting?”

  Her soft laugh came through the earpiece. “Don’t tell me you have a sweet tooth.”

  “I have more than one sweet tooth. It’s more like thirty-two.”

  “Have you ever had red-velvet whoopie pies?”

  “No. What are they?”

  “Whoopie pies are two fluffy cookies with a cream filling.”

  Kyle smiled. “Oh, now I know what they are.”

  “I was thinking of making some, but instead of a chocolate cookie I’ll make a red-velvet version with a cream-cheese filling.”

  “It sounds yummy. How many do you plan to make?”

  “That all depends on how many people are coming to the cookout.”

  “I don’t think there will be more than thirty.”

  “Good,” Ava said. “I’ll make enough so each person can get at least two.”

  “How large will they be?”

  “I’ll make them about an inch in diameter.”

  “No, you didn’t say an inch. I could eat at least a dozen by myself.”

  “A dozen will give you more than half your daily caloric intake.”

  He laughed. “That means I’ll just have to work out more often.”

  “How do you keep so slim?” Ava asked him.

  “I usually walk to work. There’s also a gym on the street level of the building where I have my office.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It is,” Kyle confirmed. “When I pick you up on Saturday I’ll give you a tour. It’s two blocks from Ivan’s house.”

  “Getting back to the cookies, I’ll make a special batch for you and if you complain about an expanding waistline or cavities I’m not going to entertain it.”

  “Won’t matter,” he drawled, “because I have an excellent dental plan.”

  “On that note I’m going to hang up. Good night, Kyle.”

  He held the receiver to his ear, then said, “Good night, Ava.”

  The distinct click indicated she’d hung up. Depressing a button, Kyle replaced the phone in the cradle. Reaching for the television remote, he turned the TV off. Ava had shocked him when she’d asked what he was wearing and in doing so had revealed another facet of her complex personality.

  Ava Warrick was a tease—a beautiful, sexy tease.

  * * *

  Ava opened the door and waited for Kyle to exit the elevator. A bright smile curved her mouth when she saw him. It’d been four days since they’d been together and she noticed things about him that weren’t so apparent before. Despite the elegant cut of his suits, she preferred seeing him dressed down. A stark-white golf shirt and faded jeans displayed his toned, slim body to its best advantage. A faded denim baseball cap with a New York Yankees’ logo covered his head.

  Kyle approached Ava, arms extended, and he wasn’t disappointed when she went willingly into his embrace. “Hey, you,” he crooned in her ear.

  Raising her chin, Ava smiled up at him. “Hey, you, back.”

  Cradling her chin in his hand, he stared at her face. There was no sign of bruising or swelling. She’d applied a light cover of makeup to her flawless complexion. “You look beautiful.”

  A rush of heat stung Ava’s cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “Where are the cookies?”

  “I’m on to you, Kyle Chatham. You tell me I’m beautiful to soften me up then ask about cookies in the same breath.”

  Kyle tightened his hold on her body as he pulled her gently into the apartment and closed the door. He pressed her back to the door. “I could’ve asked what you are wearing under that very cute dress.” She’d selected a sunny-yellow, jungle-print sundress that exposed her arms, shoulders and back. Spaghetti straps crisscrossing her back revealed she wasn’t wearing a bra, and he averted his gaze so as not to stare at the soft swell of breasts rising and falling above the V-neck bodice.

  Ava flashed a sensual pout. “I’ll give you one guess.”

  “That’s not fair. I’d allow you more than one guess.”

  Going on tiptoe, she brushed a kiss over his smooth jaw. “That’s where we differ, Kyle. One guess, one chance.”

  “Hey,” he crooned softly, “what happened to the Ava who’s sensitive, compassionate and benevolent?”

  “That Ava is for clients, and you’re not one of my clients.”

  “What do I have to do to become a client?” Kyle asked, pressing his groin to hers.

  She gasped audibly. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what, sweetheart?”

  “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

  “I just called you sweetheart.” Kyle pressed even closer as the flesh between his legs stirred restlessly.

  “What are you doing, Kyle?”

  Cradling her face between his hands, he held her immobile. “As a social worker I’m certain you’re familiar with nonverbal communication.”

  A slight smile softened her full lips. “I am, but what is it we’re doing?”

  Kyle wiggled his eyebrows. “We are, as the kids say, con-va-sate-in.”

  Throwing back her head, Ava laughed until tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “You are really crazy.”

  He wanted to tell Ava he was indeed a little crazy, and about her. He’d known her for a week, and already he felt closer to her than he had with other women with whom he’d had extended relationships. Kyle knew he couldn’t continue to press his body to Ava’s without dire consequences. Taking a step back, he released her.

  “We’d better leave now if I’m going to give you a tour of the office before we head over to Ivan’s place.”

  Closing her eyes, Ava breathed in and out steadily, hoping to slow down her runaway pulse. Although Kyle had put some distance between them, she still could feel his heat, the solid wall of his chest and thighs. Everything about the man who’d unexpectedly come into her life was shockingly memorable. Even when they were apart she still remembered everything about him: the way he held his head when deep in thought, the shape of his large, well-groomed hands, the lingering scent of his very masculine cologne that was the perfect complement to his body’s natural scent, and his voice—low and sensuously hypnotic. Pushing off the door, she walked to the kitchen to retrieve a large airtight container with the whoopie pies.

  “The doctor cleared me to return to work,” she told Kyle, who stood at the sink with a glass of water.

  “He said you’re okay?”

  “Yes. He took another scan with a state-of-the-art imaging machine and he said there’s no evidence of an aneurysm. I was so relieved that I went to the market to shop for the ingredients I needed for the cookies.”

  “How many did you make?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I think about twelve dozen.”

  Kyle raised his eyebrows. “You think?”

  “Give or take a few.”

  She’d been so excited about getting a clean bill of health that she’d spent hours baking dozens of cookies, then filling them with softened cream cheese and marshmallow cream. A call from her local pharmacy had wakened her Friday morning with a reminder to pick up her three-month supply of contraceptives. Despite not being sexually active, Ava took the low-dose birth control pill to control a heavier than normal flow.

  She’d got out of bed, showered and left the house before nine for the first time in days, stopping to pick up her prescription, eating a leisurely breakfast in her favorite neighborhood coffee shop and riding the bus downtown to purchase yarn and a supply of fat q
uarters for quilting from a craft boutique she’d discovered by accident when strolling along the Upper East Side.

  Ava returned to the apartment to find that the cleaning service had left everything immaculate, and she settled down to piece together a pram pillow for her unborn niece. Aisha had declared vehemently she didn’t want to know her baby’s sex, but had changed her mind when Ava promised to knit or crochet blankets, sweaters, hats, and piece a handmade quilt for her niece or nephew.

  Aisha, the consummate style diva, wanted only the best for her baby and that included having her color-coordinated. Ava knitted and crocheted the requisite pink for girls, but the quilted crib and pram blankets were soft shades reminiscent of cantaloupe and honeydew.

  Kyle set the glass on the countertop. “How many did you make for me?”

  “Not too many.” She pointed to a small black-and-white shopping bag on the countertop next to the sink. “That’s yours.”

  He peered into the bag and smiled. A clear plastic container tied with a black satin bow was filled with round, red cream-filled cookies. “You are something else. Thank you.”

  Ava inclined her head. “You’re welcome.” Turning, she opened the refrigerator. “You’re going to have to carry this one.”

  Kyle removed the large container, decorated with a striped red-white-and-blue ribbon, from the refrigerator, setting it down on the table. “How did you lift this?”

  “It’s not that heavy.”

  “It’s heavy enough, especially for a woman.”

  Ava rolled her eyes upward. “Maybe it’s too heavy for someone who’s anorexic, but not for yours truly.”

  “You think you’re fat?” Kyle asked, surprised.

  “No,” she replied, “but I’m not skin and bones, either.”

  He closed the distance between them. “I think I can speak for most men when I say that no man wants a woman with bones sticking out all over her body. I like your body just the way it is. I also like your face, the color of your skin and your hair. In other words, I like you, Ava Warrick.”

  Ava felt a shiver go through her when she looked into the slanting, catlike, warm brown eyes, searching for a hint of guile. Men had told her things they thought she wanted to hear because they wanted her in their beds, or they wanted to take advantage of her vulnerability whenever she told them she’d just gotten out of a less-than-healthy relationship.