Читать книгу Man of Fate - Rochelle Alers - Страница 8

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.