Man of Fate

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Ava gave Kyle a dazzling smile. “What on earth did you bring?” she asked, pointing at the shopping bags he held in each hand.

Kyle winked at her. “Dinner.”

It’d been a little more than twenty-four hours since he’d last seen Ava, and she’d changed dramatically. Her hair was a mass of tiny curls that hugged her head like a cap. She wore a pair of black cropped pants that showed off her shapely legs, black ballet-type flats and a white sleeveless V-neck blouse that displayed toned arms and shoulders. There was still a hint of swelling along the left side of her face and the angry bruise was changing color from deep purple to a sickly greenish-yellow.

Ava reached for one of the bags, but Kyle tightened his grip on the handles. “I’ve got this.”

She flashed an attractive moue. “Oh, it’s like that?”

Lowering her head, he pressed his mouth to her uninjured cheek. “Yes, it is. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Follow me.” Ava led the way through a hallway and into one of the two kitchens in the duplex.

Kyle walked into a kitchen designed for cooking and entertaining. Hollyberry-red cabinetry was a shocking contrast to stainless-steel appliances and neutral-colored walls, granite gray-and-black countertops and backsplashes resembling a mosaic. There was a built-in microwave/convection oven, sub-zero fridge, a wine cellar and a side-by-side commercial refrigerator.

“I love your kitchen.” He was unable to disguise the surprise in his voice.

Folding her arms under her breasts, Ava leaned a hip against the countertop. “I wish I could claim it as mine. I’ll live here until next summer. After that I’ll have to look for another apartment. I’ve been thinking about buying a co-op but I’m not certain where I’d like to live.”

Kyle took off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of a stool. Removing his cufflinks, he rolled back his cuffs and began emptying the canvas bags. “Where are the owners?”

“They’re involved in a project in Saudi Arabia. Professor Servinsky lived in this apartment with his first wife for more than twenty years before she passed away in her sleep. After several years he began dating his neighbor, who was also a widow. He didn’t want to give up his apartment and it was the same with her, so they renovated, turning the two into a duplex. There are three bedrooms on this floor and three upstairs. Each also has a small bedroom off the kitchen, commonly known as the maid’s room. Mrs. Servinsky removed the wall between two upstairs bedrooms and set it up as a solarium.”

“Where do they sleep?”

“They sleep down here and entertain upstairs.”

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“Upstairs. I’ll show you around later,” Ava promised. “Would you like some help?”

Kyle gave her a sidelong glance as he emptied plastic bags of cucumbers, bell peppers, a lemon, tomatoes, scallions and baking potatoes into the sink. The contents of the other bag yielded small containers of fresh mint, garlic, feta cheese and bottles of olive oil and red wine. Her gaze widened when he unwrapped strip steaks with a liberal amount of marbling.

“No. I want you to sit and do absolutely nothing. How do you like your steak?”

“Well done.” The seconds ticked off as she watched Kyle navigate his way around the kitchen as if it were something he did often, opening cabinets for bowls and platters and a drawer with an assortment of knives.

Unable to tolerate complete silence, Ava got up and turned on the radio positioned under a cabinet. The melodious sound of Whitney Houston singing “You Give Good Love” filled the kitchen.

Shifting, she stared at the width of Kyle’s broad shoulders under the white shirt. “I want to thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

The flowers had been delivered to the apartment when she’d been on the telephone with her supervisor. Earlier that morning she’d scanned the doctor’s note and faxed it to her office. Within an hour she was inundated by a number of telephone calls from her coworkers asking if she was okay or if she needed them to do something for her. The outpouring of support was somewhat unexpected because the atmosphere in the agency had been somewhat strained under the current administration. Threats of resignations were rampant, and Ava was seriously considering looking for another position at the end of the year. She’d had another offer to work for a private agency, but hadn’t wanted to leave the city-funded agency and the disenfranchised clients who came with a myriad of social and mental-health issues.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I’m glad you like them.”

She approached Kyle, watching as he manipulated the pullout kitchen faucet, rinsing the vegetables. The heat from his body and the subtle scent of his cologne wafted into her nose. He looked and smelled good.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

Kyle gave Ava a quick glance. “Before my dad retired, he worked as a chef for the railroad. My mother loved when he was home because she didn’t have to cook. Once we were tall enough to look over the stove he taught his children.”

“At what age did you learn?” Ava asked.

“I had to be eight or nine. My younger brother flat-out refused, while my sister and I became proficient enough so that we could put together an entire meal by the time we were teens. Are you an only child?” Kyle asked, deftly switching the topic from himself to Ava.