Man of Fate. Rochelle Alers

she began to show signs of being emotionally unstable. His suggestion that she seek professional therapy was followed by a barrage of expletives he hadn’t known existed, followed by inconsolable sobbing.

      He’d referred her to his friend Ivan, a therapist, who after a psychological evaluation referred her to a psychiatrist since she needed medication to control a bipolar disorder. Even on medication, Kyle knew he wasn’t ready to deal with Kendra. If she’d been his wife then he would’ve taken care of her, but he already had to deal with his clients, who often had psychological, physical and emotional problems. Everyone who was referred to him was in crisis, and most of the time they didn’t have enough money for the initial consultation fee. He could count on one hand those he had on retainer.

      Before he even set up his practice, he knew the kinds of problems he would encounter in a community like Harlem with its widening gap between the haves and have-nots. Brownstones that had once sold for five and six figures now sold for millions.

      Punching in the PIN for his voice mail, he listened to the messages from Kendra: “Hi-eee, this is Ken. Call me.” Shaking his head, Kyle smiled, wondering why a woman as feminine as Kendra would refer to herself with a masculine name. “Call me, Kyle, when you get this message.” His smile grew wider. “I have a surprise for you, so pul-lease call me back.” He was tempted not to listen to the last message because he really didn’t want to deal with anymore surprises—at least not for twenty-four hours. Becoming a knight in shining armor for Ava Warrick was enough. “I can’t wait for you to call me back, so I’m going to tell you that I’m pregnant and I’m getting married next weekend. I know it is short notice, but I’d love for you to come to the wedding. It’s going to be at my sister’s house in Staten Island, so I hope you can make it.”

      Kyle’s smile grew even wider. Although he wouldn’t attend the wedding, he planned to send a gift card.

      Remembering Ava’s request to call her job, he reached for the number on the slip of paper he’d put into the breast pocket of his shirt. It took less than a minute to call the answering service and relay Ava’s message, making certain the operator understood that Ava wouldn’t return to work until she received medical clearance. He plugged the cell phone into a charger, stripped off his clothes, leaving them on a padded bench, then made his way into the marbled master bath with its heated steam shower, double sinks and tumbled marble floor.

      He brushed his teeth, showered and after drying his body returned to the bedroom and fell across the crisp sheets. Although he’d closed his eyes, Kyle could still see Ava Warrick’s bruised and swollen face. It was a long time before the image faded and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

      Ava returned to her room to find a strange man staring at the flickering images on an overhead television screen. He’d turned on the television, but the volume was turned down. It took her seconds to realize the man was Kyle Chatham. She hadn’t recognized him in a pair of faded jeans, running shoes and a navy-blue golf shirt.

      She’d had a CT scan, followed by a consultation with a neurosurgeon who’d reassured her that the pictures of her brain showed no evidence of bleeding or swelling. His recommendation: rest. The doctor cautioned her to avoid aspirin, as it increased the risk of bleeding. He’d also given her a referral to a neurosurgeon whose office was in her neighborhood.

      “Are you going to need the chair?” the orderly asked Ava as she tried to stand.

      “No,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I think I’m good.”

      Kyle stood up when he heard Ava’s voice. When he’d gotten up that morning he’d tried remembering if she had a trace of a southern accent. He recalled her saying her mother lived in D.C. and her father in North Carolina, which meant she had southern roots. The bruises on her face were darker, almost purple, but some of the swelling had gone down.

      Picking up her handbag, he closed the distance between them and cupped her elbow. “Good morning.”

      Ava attempted what passed for a smile, but even the slightest gesture made her face ache. “Good morning, Kyle.”

      His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, you remember my name?”

      “Yes, I do.”

      Not only had she remembered his name but also his face. He hadn’t shaved and the stubble on his jaw enhanced his blatant masculinity. She wanted to tell Kyle that what she wanted to forget was the image staring back at her when she stared into the mirror earlier that morning. The skin around her left eye was frightfully swollen and a hideous bruise running from her eyebrow to her jaw made her look as if she’d been hit by a professional boxer.

      “How are you feeling?” he asked.

      Ava studied the man, who, despite her hitting his car, had come to her rescue. He’d assumed responsibility for towing her car and seeing that she’d received medical treatment.

      “A lot better than I look.”

      “The bruises and swelling will go away in a few days,” he said, reassuringly.

      “That’s what the doctor said.”

      “What else did he say?” Kyle asked.

      “I’m going to have to rest, because healing is going to take time.”

      “What about your headaches?”

      “I can take either acetaminophen or ibuprofen, but no aspirin. That’s Tylenol, Advil or Motrin,” Ava explained when Kyle gave her a puzzled look.

      “Do you have any at your place?”

      “Yes.”

      Kyle tightened his hold on her arm. “I believe you’ll have to settle your account before you’re officially discharged.”

      Ava closed her eyes again when a sharp pain settled over her left eye. “I’m ready.” She was ready to go home, take a shower and get into her own bed.

      Leaning heavily against Kyle for support, she followed him into the elevator. It was another twenty minutes before she settled the bill and found herself outside the hospital. Reaching into her bag, she took out a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on.

      “I’m parked around the corner,” Kyle said. He tightened his hold on her waist. “Take your time, Ava,” he cautioned softly.

      “If I walk any slower I’ll be standing still,” she countered.

      “You’re supposed to take it easy,” he retorted. “The doctor’s recommendation indicated that someone should check on you for at least twenty-four hours, and you may need to be awakened every two hours to make sure you’re conscious. Do you have a neighbor or friend who can do that?”

      “No. What I’ll do is set my clock.”

      “What if you don’t hear the clock?”

      “Then I guess I won’t wake up.”

      Kyle glared down at her. “That’s not funny.”

      “Neither is having a concussion. I can’t remember the last time I was sick. I managed to get through high school without missing a day of classes.”

      “I guess that’s why you’re such a stubborn patient.”

      Ava knew she was in no shape to engage in any verbal sparring with Kyle Chatham so she gritted her teeth and swallowed the sarcasm poised on the tip of her tongue. Even though she’d rear-ended him, Kyle was partially to blame because he’d slowed down too quickly. The sunglasses did little to block out the brilliant summer sunlight which only intensified her headache. It was only when he settled her in the low-slung sports car that she was able to close her eyes.

      “How far downtown do you live?”

      She opened her eyes and stared through the windshield. “I’m on Riverside Drive between 112th and 113th.”

      “I’ll try to avoid the potholes.”

      Ava smiled, but it resembled