Man of Fate. Rochelle Alers

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?