“What do you want from me, Vivian?”

Rafael looked up, his black eyes gleaming in the soft light.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, unsure what else to say.

“That’s a cop-out.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I don’t think so.” Rafael withdrew his hands from hers, only to wrap them around her elbows. Then he pulled Vivian toward him until her face was mere inches from his own. “I think you knew exactly what you wanted when you came back in here.” He pulled her a little closer. “It’s the same thing I’ve been wanting since I felt you pressed against me on that damn bike tonight.”

Vivian’s heart nearly exploded in her chest, it was beating so fast. But she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. Because Rafael was right. Damn the rules of professional conduct, damn staying uninvolved, damn the fact that they were from two different worlds. Vivian knew what she wanted…and to hell with the consequences.

Dear Reader,

I’m so excited to be a part of Harlequin’s sixtieth anniversary celebration, especially since they’ve been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. My mother—who has been reading Harlequin romances since she had to cross into Canada to get them—handed me my first book when I was in fifth grade. I devoured it in one afternoon, and was well and truly hooked. Over the next few weeks, I read all of the other Harlequin books on her shelf and was completely thrilled when the next month rolled around—and a whole new crop of books came available.

This is my third book for Harlequin and, as I write this letter, I can’t help remembering the ten-year-old I was and the Diana Palmer novel that opened my eyes to a whole new world of happily ever after. How could that young girl possibly have imagined that twenty-two years later she’d be writing love stories for that very same publisher?

A Christmas Present is a story of love and redemption, preconceptions and unexpected surprises. I really enjoyed creating a novel that concentrated on the themes of the holiday season—family, forgiveness, hope and second chances. Rafael and Vivian have a long way to travel to get to their happy ending, but I think the trek is a heartwarming one, and I hope you feel the same.

Thank you so much for letting my vision of Christmas into your hearts. I love to hear from readers via my Web site, www.tracywolff.com or on my blog, www.sizzlingpens.blogspot.com. I hope you enjoy reading A Christmas Present as much as I enjoyed writing it. Drop me a note and let me know what you think.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Tracy Wolff

The Christmas Present
Tracy Wolff

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls’ lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her lifelong love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes romances when she’s not chasing after her three young sons.

To Emily Sylvan Kim,

for your friendship, guidance and always

available shoulder to cry on.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

VIVIAN WENTWORTH WALKED down Ellis Street as fast as her four-inch stilettos could carry her. Head up, eyes alert, she clutched her leather briefcase in one hand, while the other—tucked into the front pocket of her coat—was wrapped securely around a small canister of pepper spray. She ignored the catcalls and crude comments that came from seemingly all directions, cursing her boss, and the judge who had kept her late at court, with every rapid step she took.

“Hey, lady. Are you lost?”

Ignoring the tough-looking teenager who stank of alcohol and sweat was extremely difficult, particularly when he had planted himself directly in her path. But ignore him she did, shifting her body a little to the left to keep from brushing up against the dark-haired youth as she passed.

This whole thing was a bad idea. A really horrendously bad idea. She’d known it right away, but Richard had been immovable. The firm needed to take on more pro bono cases, needed to raise its profile for community service in a city that took activism to a whole new level. Why she’d been selected as the guinea pig for the new program, she didn’t know. But Richard had insisted—they had to take this specific case, had to help this specific shelter, and she, specifically, was the one who had to do it.

She sighed in disgust. She had nothing against pro bono cases, having taken on quite a few in the six years since she had passed the bar. Nor did she hold a grudge against homeless boys accused of murder.

But she wasn’t a defense attorney. She was a divorce attorney with a very full plate, and most of her past pro bono cases had been for local women’s shelters, helping their residents escape abusive marriages with something more than a bunch of physical and emotional scars.

What did she know about mounting a defense in criminal court, save what they had taught her in law school over six years before? Even then she’d known she wanted to be a divorce attorney, so she hadn’t exactly dedicated herself to the criminal law courses. How on earth could she help this boy when she didn’t have a clue what she was doing herself?

It wasn’t fair, not to her and not to Diego Sanchez. If he truly was innocent, as Richard claimed, then he deserved more than an attorney who hadn’t been in a criminal courtroom since her first internship. And if he was guilty, then she took offense at wasting her time defending anyone who could callously and brutally rape and murder a pregnant, sixteen-year-old girl.

Vivian glanced at her watch, knowing what it would say before she saw the little hand sliding past the seven. Court had run over by nearly an hour, which meant that she was hugely late for her appointment with Diego. She hated being late to anything, let alone a client meeting. It was particularly hard to swallow tonight, as her lateness was what had put her in the unenviable position of being hassled by this teenager in the street.

A part of her couldn’t help wondering if Diego got his jollies the same way this boy seemed to, though she did her best to ignore the thought.

Maintaining her air of confidence was getting more difficult by the second, but Vivian was determined not to let anyone around her know just how uncomfortable she was walking in this particular area—filled with prostitutes, drug dealers, gang members—as day slowly drifted into twilight. But as the short kid who had spoken to her was joined by a couple of friends and the trio began to trail her down the street, she grew increasingly alarmed.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, she straightened her shoulders a little more and sped up—a task that was more than a little difficult in her skyscraper heels. At another time, this tableau might have been funny, especially since she stood about three inches taller than the tallest boy. But here, now, it wasn’t the least bit amusing. It was frightening and disconcerting, and she wanted nothing more than for them to give up and leave her alone.

Not that she thought there was a chance in hell of that happening.

Her hand clenched more tightly around the pepper spray. It was a weak weapon when faced with three drunk or high teenage boys bent on God only knew what, but it was better than nothing.

Besides, it was her own fault. She’d known better than to come down here in her court clothes. The Tenderloin area of San Francisco was famous—or should she say notorious—for the danger lurking on the streets any time of day. Like anywhere, though, night was when the predators came out and the streets were at their most dangerous—so dangerous, in fact, that even the police rarely showed up here after nine o’clock.

She’d planned on going home to change before the meeting, had hoped to wear something a little less conspicuous. Of course, she’d also hoped to take a taxi, which would have delivered her straight to the door of Helping Hands. Instead she’d taken the BART train to a station three blocks from the shelter and then trusted in human goodness that she would make it to the door unharmed.

Trust wasn’t her strong suit at the best of times, and tonight was a perfect example of why.

Glancing at the building to her right, she tried to decipher the address through the grime without slowing her pace…1097, thank God! Only a little farther and she’d be at 1055 Ellis Street. Hopefully the community center would be a lot safer than the dilapidated neighborhood it existed in.

Though she’d grown up in San Francisco, she’d never been to this area before—her parents would have quiet heart attacks if they knew she was here now.

“Hey, lady. Whatcha need? I can show you where to get whatever you want.” The dark-haired kid reached out and grabbed her elbow, spinning her to face him before she could make a move to stop him.

His words bounced around her brain as Vivian struggled to make sense of them. “Nothing.” Her voice came out as a croak. “I don’t need anything.”

He gestured down the street. “My cousin’s got whatever you’re looking for. He’ll even cut you a good deal, since you’re so hot and all.” His friends laughed as he leered at her, his rancid breath invading her air space.

She struggled not to gag as the overwhelming smell of booze hit her head-on and his meaning finally sank in. Drugs. He thought she wanted drugs.

Pushing away the sympathy that welled instinctively, Vivian twisted her arm, struggling to break his grasp. “Really, I’m fine. I don’t need anything. I’m just trying to get—”

His leer grew more pronounced at her denial. “Well, if you’re not looking for smack, what are you looking for? There’s only a couple reasons women like you come down here. If it’s not to get high…” He let the implication dangle as he crowded her, pushing her against the front of the abandoned building as his lower body—his very hard, very aroused lower body—bumped into her own.

His friends moved in behind him, flanking him on either side and cutting off any viable means for escape.

Anger exploded inside of her, a wild animal raking her with sharp claws, making her heart pound faster and her breathing spiral out of control. Any sympathy she’d had for them evaporated as she vowed not to go down without a fight.

She tried to break away, to bring her arms up between the two of them and push the kid back, but he was stronger than he looked. And she was hampered by the tight skirt of her suit and her total lack of experience with physical brawling. She’d never been in a fight in her life and she had no idea what to do to get out of this one.

She couldn’t even use the pepper spray, as he was holding on to both her arms, the weight of his body pressing against hers until she was all but immobile, and completely vulnerable.

“Look,” she said, her voice trembling so badly she could barely understand herself. Determined not to show him how afraid she was, she cleared her throat and tried for a steadier tone. “I’m sorry. I just want to get to the community center. I’m supposed to—”

He reached up, grabbed her breast and began to squeeze. “The community center, huh? You’ll get there. Eventually.” His laugh was low and mean, and his two companions joined in.

Vivian twisted against him, preparing to scream as she looked around frantically for help. But violence was a way of life down here, and the few people near her either didn’t notice her plight or didn’t care enough to risk their own lives by interceding.

She continued to struggle against her attacker, trying to get her hand free so she could actually use the stupid pepper spray. Her movements only excited him more—she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his suddenly ragged breathing. Feel it in the hardness pressed between her thighs.

Nausea overwhelmed her, burning away the anger and leaving terror in its place. So much for those stupid self-defense classes she’d taken. Nothing they’d taught her was working, and she was suddenly very afraid that she wasn’t going to be able to find a way out of this.

His hand moved from her breast to her skirt, and he started to push the raw silk up and out of his way. Fear cut through the fury and tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them, trembling on her lashes before spilling down her cheeks.

“Please.” She looked him straight in the eye, struggled to reach the lost kid inside the street tough. Struggled for her own safety and sanity. “Please don’t do this. I beg you, please. Stop.”

For a second she thought she’d reached him, thought she saw his eyes soften as his hand stilled. But then his friends laughed and one commented, “You were right, Nacho. The rich ones don’t mind begging at all.”

She glanced at the third boy. He looked scared, nervous, as though he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, though he never opened his mouth, never said a word.

Nacho’s eyes hardened, the brief look of compassion dying out as if it had never been there. “That’s right. Didn’t I tell you I know how to treat a woman? By the time I’m done she’ll be beggin’…on her knees.”

He gave a sharp tug and Vivian felt her panty hose rip. She did scream then, one long, thin burst of sound as she struggled violently. When she finally got her left hand free, she brought it to Nacho’s face and scratched long furrows down his cheek even as she continued to buck against him. Trying desperately to get to the pepper spray, to dislodge his grip on her skirt. To get away.

Nacho swore as her nails raked his face, and brought his hand back to slap her. His friends crowded in and Vivian closed her eyes, bracing for the blow she knew was coming.

But it never landed. Suddenly she was free, and Nacho and his friends were simply gone. “What do you think you’re doing?” It was a new voice, deep and husky and so authoritative it got her attention instantly.

She opened her eyes in time to see Nacho stumble back against the wall. Glancing around wildly, half expecting his friends to attack in his place, she was shocked to see them sprawled on the dirty sidewalk and sidling backward slowly, their eyes fixed on the newcomer’s furious face.

Not that she blamed them—she’d never seen anyone or anything like him in her life. Even as she straightened her clothes, her precarious situation hanging heavily over her head, she was painfully aware of him and the power he wore like a second skin.

He was huge, towering over her despite her own impressive height. He was built like an ancient warrior, and normally his wide shoulders, broad chest and narrow hips would have made her nervous as hell. At this particular moment, however, she couldn’t be more grateful for his strength and obvious command.

Looking up into eyes so deep and black she swore they could belong to the devil himself, Vivian took an uncertain breath, then pressed a trembling hand to her heart as she fought to breathe around the relief pumping through her. His gaze swept her from head to toe, one long look that must have assured him she was unharmed, because he turned back to her would-be attacker.

“Since when do you get your kicks beating up women?” he snarled as he hauled the kid up, his face inches from Nacho’s suddenly young and frightened one. “I thought you knew better than that. If you want to fight, why don’t you pick on someone you don’t outweigh by fifty pounds?”

Her savior’s fingers tightened into fists and the kid started to back away. “Hey, Rafa, chill. We were just havin’ some fun. Playing with the gringa.”

“Fun?” His voice dripped disgust. “That’s the kind of fun that’ll get you arrested, Nacho. Or killed.” His voice was low, the threat unmistakable.

“Hey, no way, man. I wasn’t really going to hurt her.” Nacho shoved against the newcomer hard and ran, his friends trailing quickly behind him.

Her rescuer turned his head, pinned Vivian with a look that was both dark and intense. “Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.

Caught in the act of fumbling her crumpled skirt back into place, Vivian repeated dumbly, “A cell phone?”

“To call the cops?”

Her teeth were chattering so badly she almost couldn’t speak. “The cops?”

“Never mind.” Reaching down, he grabbed the briefcase she had dropped during the scuffle. “We’ll call from my place. I’m just up the block.”

As the haze of terror wore off, Vivian’s brain began working again. “I don’t think—”

“Relax,” he said, with a grin that was more a baring of teeth than an actual smile. “I own the community center. You’ll be safe there.”

“Community…” Things began to sink in as she walked toward him. “Oh, you’re with—”

“Helping Hands.” He nodded, placing his palm gently on the small of her back as he guided her down the sidewalk. Any other day she would have shrugged him off, but her knees were still knocking together and the support felt good.

“Are you hurt?” he asked as he propelled her toward the center.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was a little higher than she would have liked, but the nervous adrenaline coursing through her made her regular tone impossible.

“Are you sure? I can call an ambulance.” He glanced at her. “It might be a good idea to do that anyway.”

“No, really. I’m good, just a little shaky.”

They continued walking in silence for a few moments and Vivian struggled to compose her thoughts. She didn’t usually need to be rescued, and it pricked her pride that he thought she was so fragile that she required an ambulance to keep from freaking out.

But pride or not, she owed him a thank-you. Clearing her throat, she said, “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t—”

His low sound of exasperation surprised her. “Yes, you do.”

“I’m sorry?” She stopped dead to avoid slamming into him as he suddenly turned to face her.

“Look, you’re young and attractive and walking down this street wearing clothes worth more than I make in a month. We both know exactly what would have happened had I not shown up when I did.” He stepped in front of her, pulled open a door and waved for her to precede him.

“I didn’t plan it this way,” she protested. “It just happened.”

He snorted, clearly unimpressed. “Famous last words.”

Annoyance was rapidly starting to replace her gratitude, but because he’d saved her from getting raped—maybe even killed—she bit her tongue as she stepped inside the building.

The front room was huge, the walls painted a sunny yellow and interspersed with various murals that ranged from the amateurish to the surprisingly sophisticated. Whatever she’d been expecting, this mixture of color, comfort and smiling faces wasn’t it.

Overstuffed sofas and chairs were scattered around the room and a huge television took up part of one wall. A few teenagers sat around it, playing a video game. Others were gathered around the pool and foosball tables that sat in the center of the room, while still others were draped comfortably on a couple of the sofas, talking and passing an iPod back and forth between them.

A huge Christmas tree stood in the corner of the room, decorated with sparkling lights and hundreds of homemade ornaments, some of which looked almost professionally done. There were other hints of Christmas around the big room—wreaths on the doors, poinsettias near the front desk, and what looked like mistletoe hanging in one of the tall archways.

She shook her head, more than a little intrigued. As far as teen centers went, this one was a lot more inviting than most. It also looked as though it was a lot better funded, and its patrons were remarkably well-behaved.

“Hey, Rafa, I kicked your butt, man.” One of the kids near the TV called to her rescuer. “I’m already two thousand points above your record.”

Rafa laughed. “Enjoy it while you can, Marco. You know it won’t last.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. Soon you will bow before the master.”

“Don’t hold your breath. I forgot to renew my CPR certification this year.”

The kids around Marco snickered, but he merely shrugged good-naturedly. “You’re all talk, man.”

Rafa paused to watch as the boy maneuvered a famous skateboarder through one incredible stunt after another. “Nice job, Marco,” he commented as a huge grin replaced the frown he’d been wearing since the moment she set eyes on him. “You might have me, after all.” He turned away, then called over his shoulder as he headed down the hall. “For a day or so.”

Vivian stared after him in amazement, unable to make her feet move for long seconds after he’d walked away. The man’s smile was a lethal weapon—it lit up his face from the inside out and showed her a side of her rescuer she hadn’t dreamed existed. She started to follow him, her stomach once again uncomfortably shaky.

Maybe that perpetual scowl of his wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.

RAFAEL GLANCED BEHIND HIM at the woman trailing him down the hallway to his office. She had to be the lawyer—who else would be walking down the most dangerous street in San Francisco dressed like that and looking for his community center? She was late and would have been even if Nacho and his band of moronic maniacs hadn’t hassled her. But then, Rafael shouldn’t be surprised. Experience had taught him that women like her were never on time, even if a young boy’s life hung in the balance.

Maybe especially then.

As he opened the door to his office, his upper lip curled with a disgust he didn’t even try to hide. Diego needed a real lawyer, someone who understood him and where he came from. What he didn’t need was this slick Barbie doll version, who spent more attention on her clothes and makeup than she ever would the poor, pro bono client her law firm was forcing her to help.

When he’d called in the favor owed to him by one of the center’s board members, he’d expected Richard Stanley to send an experienced trial attorney. Someone who was acquainted with his kids’ way of life. Someone who was willing to dig in for a fight, and didn’t look like she was born with a glass of champagne in one hand and a designer handbag in the other.

Instead, Richard had sent this…cupcake, and now Rafael had absolutely no idea what to do with her.

“The bathroom’s through there.” He gestured to a door behind him and to the right. “If you want to clean up.”

“Oh, right, thanks,” she murmured, obviously still a little dazed from her close call. Unless the blank eyes were part of her normal demeanor, in which case Diego was in a lot more trouble than he’d originally thought. And that was saying something.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

Rafael nodded as he picked up the phone and dialed the local precinct. He figured he’d have plenty of time to call the cops and check on the kids—women like her didn’t know the meaning of “just a minute.” She’d be in there checking out her appearance for a while.

Not that there was anything wrong with how she looked, despite her close call with Nacho. Rationally, Rafa knew that part of his anger at her stemmed from her total lack of regard for herself.

Everything about her was a come-on. From her long, long legs and her do-me heels to her slender curves and chili pepper red hair, she screamed for attention. Add to that skin as pale and creamy as his mama’s flan and her made-for-sex mouth, and the woman was a walking wet dream for the wolves roaming the Tenderloin’s dark streets.

Still, despite the fairy princess looks, something about her bugged him. Something that wouldn’t fit into the mold he imagined she fit—

The door to the bathroom swung open and she stood there, as beautifully put together as she would have been for a charity ball. It irked him, had him slamming the phone down on the third ring.

He would call Jose later—have the detective run by and scare the hell out of Nacho and his band of merry morons. The boys weren’t going anywhere. Rafael shook his head. It wasn’t as if they had anywhere else to go. Right now, he had enough to deal with between the lawyer and Diego.

The lawyer cleared her throat as she walked carefully into the room, her back ramrod straight and her limbs flowing sensuously with every step she took. No wonder the boys on the street had been all over her—she looked like a goddess and walked like a ballerina. Was there some school rich girls went to that showed them how to walk like that or was she just a natural?

“I want to thank you for rescuing me. I’m grateful—”

“I don’t need your gratitude.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.” She reached into her briefcase. “I’d like to do something to say thank-you. Maybe make a donation to—”

He shoved the bag back down. “I don’t need your money, either.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you did.” He made sure his smile cut like glass. “But there are some things in life that can’t be bought. I’m one of them.”

Silence stretched between them, and his nerves started to twitch before she finally broke it.

“All right then.” She held her hand out. “I’m Vivian Wentworth.”

“I know. Rafael Cardoza.” Instinct had him meeting her palm with his own, though he regretted it the second he touched all that soft, smooth skin.

“Well, then, I assume you know why I’m here.” She glanced around. “Where’s Diego?”

“Upstairs. Working.” Rafa leaned down a little until his face was only inches from hers. “I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I don’t know why Richard sent you. I don’t know what he expected someone like you to be able to do for Diego.”

“Someone like me?”

“You know what I mean. You look like you spend more time in a salon than you do in a courtroom.” Even as he said them, he couldn’t believe the words had left his mouth. He was acting like a total bastard, but he couldn’t afford to be nice. Diego was too important for him to put the kid’s fate in the hands of a lawyer who didn’t know what she was doing.

“I can assure you I have seen my fair share of courtrooms,” she snapped. “And then some.”

“Yeah, well, excuse me if I’m not rolling in confidence here. You don’t exactly look like the type to care about what happens to a poor Hispanic kid accused of murder—even if he is innocent.”

She stiffened, her eyes darkening, and for a moment he would have done anything to take back the words. There was no call to speak to a woman like that. His mother would have had his ass.

But Vivian Wentworth, Esquire, handled his shit like a champ. She simply nodded and said, “Then it’s a good thing he’s got me, isn’t it?”

It was the first indication Rafael had that he might have underestimated her. But not the last.

CHAPTER TWO

OUTRAGE EXPLODED THROUGH her and, for the second time in less than an hour, Vivian understood what it was to want to do violence. She would like nothing more than to beat this smug, self-righteous idiot to a bloody pulp. Yes, he’d rescued her, but one act of kindness didn’t make up for the rest of his boorish behavior.

“I’m a very good lawyer, Mr. Cardoza, and I give one hundred percent to all of my clients, whether they’re pro bono or not.”

“I didn’t mention anything about you taking the case pro bono, Ms. Wentworth. Funny that that’s where your mind went automatically.”

Gritting her teeth, Vivian kept the smile on her face through sheer force of will. “Facts are facts.” She glanced at her watch pointedly. “And we’re already over an hour late getting started. I’d like to see my client now.”

“About that…”

She felt her shoulders tense a little bit more, and braced for the verbal blow she had a good idea was coming. He didn’t disappoint her. “Don’t push him. Diego’s really broken up about this whole thing, and I won’t put up with you running around, messing with his head.”

“Messing with his head?” She couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. “Mr. Cardoza, your client is accused of murder and stands to spend most, if not all, of his life behind bars. Of course he’s worried—”

“I didn’t say worried.” The look on Rafael’s face was as sharp and deadly as an ice pick. “I said he’s broken up. His girlfriend and baby are dead and he’s devastated. I won’t put up with you making that worse.”

“I’m here to help Diego, not make things worse.”

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” He tossed the words over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

She closed her eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths. Murder was against the law, she reminded herself with every exhale. If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t be here trying to deal with this utterly impossible, completely deplorable man. She counted to ten and waited for the urge to strangle him to pass. Or at least mellow.

A huge part of her wanted to quit before ever getting started. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have lots on her plate with the numerous divorce cases she was currently handling, as well as her work at the women’s shelter. Besides, it was bad enough having to battle the entire legal system for a kid accused of a vicious crime, without having to battle his prickly protector, too.

She sighed heavily. Quitting wasn’t really an option. Rafael obviously had some kind of pull with Richard or she wouldn’t be here. Her boss could spout off about helping the community all he wanted, but getting personally involved wasn’t his typical modus operandi. Like her mother—and most of the other rich people she knew—he just wrote a big check to charity twice a year in the law firm’s name and considered his duty done.

But this time he’d gone out of his way to take the case and to hand-select her for it. For whatever reason, Richard had felt that she was the best choice for this job, and she wasn’t going to disappoint him. She’d worked too long and too hard these past few years to get him to notice her as something other than Steven and Lillian’s daughter. Vivian would not blow this chance, no matter how ill-equipped she felt dealing with it.

She started down the hall after her reluctant rescuer. Hell would freeze over before Rafael Cardoza got the best of her, and the sooner he figured that out, the better off they both would be.

RAFAEL SMILED GRIMLY to himself as he escorted Vivian upstairs to one of the classrooms currently being renovated. Round one might have been a draw, but she wasn’t nearly as cool as she wanted him to believe. For one very brief second in his office, he’d seen fear flicker in those crazy, violet eyes. And while it had made him feel like a heel, it had also given him a small sense of satisfaction. She should be afraid, especially if it made her pay attention to her own safety. Nob Hill was a long way from here, in attitude and life lessons, if not location.

Silence stretched between them, the only sound the click-click of her ridiculous shoes as she climbed the old concrete stairs. It gave him a perverse kind of pleasure to keep her guessing about their destination, not willing to let her in on it until she asked.

As they reached the third-floor landing, he risked a side glance at her and wondered again how she was supposed to help Diego. The kid needed someone tough, someone who wouldn’t back down, and Vivian looked like a strong breeze would knock her over. How the hell was she supposed to stand up to all the crap circulating about this case?

How the hell was she supposed to stand up to the establishment when she was the establishment? Everything from her wardrobe to the way she walked screamed old money—and a lot of it.

Just then, the door to one of the classrooms flew open and Diego strode out, his simple black T-shirt spattered with yellow paint. “Rafa,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw them. “I’m just about done in here. You want to take a look?”

“Absolutely.” He patted the kid’s shoulder. “You did a great job with the other two.”

“Thanks.” He gestured for Rafael and Vivian to precede him into the room.

Rafa looked around the freshly painted space with satisfaction. “It looks good. Real good.”

He wasn’t lying, either. Diego had talent for making over rooms that seemed hopeless. He’d spent the last few days in here repairing the holes in the walls, painting and hanging up bulletin boards and whiteboards. He’d even sanded the floor, and the old wood gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

“Esme thought it’d look good in yellow,” Diego whispered, his face a mask of misery and fear. “She was right.”

The kid’s sorrow made Rafael want to punch something, preferably the scumbag who had killed Diego’s girlfriend and unborn child. “You’ll make a hell of a handyman.” He turned to Vivian. “Diego wants to start his own company when he graduates in a few months.”

“That’s wonderful,” she commented, with a sincerity that surprised him.

“Is that—” Diego stopped midsentence and put on the I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude that had gotten him into so much trouble to begin with.

Rafael grimaced as he watched the transformation, but said simply, “Diego, this is Vivian Wentworth. Ms. Wentworth this is Diego.”

Vivian reached a hand out and grasped the one Diego offered almost reflexively. “It’s nice to meet you, Diego. Rafael’s right—the room looks wonderful.” Her smile was warm, her eyes watchful, and Rafael couldn’t help the kick in his gut that came with the first real upward turn of those luscious, lopsided lips. He ignored it, focused on Diego instead.

“Thanks. Rafa’s been paying me to help him out.” The kid’s voice was stilted and frightened. Rafael wanted to wrap his arms around him—this scared, special kid who was still more boy than man—and keep him safe from this nightmare he was experiencing. “I was saving to pay—” He broke off, his throat suddenly working convulsively.

“For the baby?” Vivian’s voice was soft, persuasive. “And for Esme?”

Diego stared at the floor, unwilling—or unable—to look her in the eye. “Yeah. But that’s gone now.” His voice was flat, unemotional, despite his recent loss.

But she could see the pain in him. The harsh lines that bracketed his mouth and looked so out of place on his young face. The dark circles that shadowed his eyes. His careful body movements, as if one wrong move would shatter him. She remembered the feeling from when her older sister had died, and Vivian’s heart went out to him, this boy who’d been forced into manhood too soon.

As she looked at him, every instinct she had said he hadn’t done what he was accused of. Not this sweet, harmless kid with yellow paint on his fingers and heartbreak in his eyes. He couldn’t have brutally raped and murdered his pregnant girlfriend. Not when it was obvious he’d have preferred to die with them.

“I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes,” she said. “Find out exactly what happened that night.”

He nodded his head, cool and collected except for the tremor in his hands. “I told the cops—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “But I’m not the cops. I’m your lawyer and I’m on your side.” Against her better judgment, she reached over and laid a hand on his elbow. The kid just looked so lost.

Of course he’s lost, she told herself. It had only been two months since everything he cared about in the world had been wrenched away from him. Less than that since he’d been arrested.

“That’s what the public defender said when he urged me to take the deal they offered. He said I wouldn’t get a better offer.”

“And you probably won’t.” She’d already been over his file—twice—and had familiarized herself with the assistant D.A. who had his case. The man didn’t like to plea-bargain, had only offered to do so on this case because some of the evidence was shaky and Diego was under eighteen. She remembered enough from law school to know that that combination was often good for the defense.

“Not from Gallagher.” And not with the amount of interest the press was taking in this case. If she wasn’t careful, they’d have Diego tried and convicted before any of them ever set foot in a courtroom.

“But I didn’t do anything! I couldn’t hurt Esme. I would never hurt her. Or my baby.” Diego looked as if he was going to cry. “I loved her. We were gonna get married before the baby was born, as soon as I’d saved up enough money to get an apartment for us.”

“It’s all right, Diego. Vivian can’t make you take the plea bargain if you don’t want to.” Rafael shot her a look, one that promised retribution, when she hadn’t done anything wrong. “And he doesn’t want to,” he added in a hard voice.

“I never suggested that he should take the plea bargain. I’m not in the habit of sending innocent boys to jail, no matter what you might think of me, Mr. Cardoza.” She was proud of the icy tone she’d managed, when what she really wanted to do was tell him to go to hell. For someone who had asked for help, he sure didn’t act as if he expected her law firm to be able to deliver.

But then he didn’t know her. Didn’t know that there was no way she could let Diego be convicted if there was some way she could prevent it. Something about his utter vulnerability, the pain he couldn’t hide, struck a chord in her she hadn’t realized existed.

Rafael’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “So you believe him?”

She raised hers in mocking response, completely fed up with the attitude he kept throwing at her. “Don’t you?”

“I would have left him in the hands of that incompetent public defender if I didn’t.” The man’s expression said that he wasn’t sure she was any better, which angered her, even though she agreed with him on a base level. But he didn’t know she wasn’t a defense attorney, so he had no right to his ridiculous opinion. And she refused to apologize for the fact that her life, so far, had been pretty damn good.

Refusing to rise to the bait any more than she already had, Vivian smiled at Diego as Rafael escorted them to a room at the end of the hall that had a table with a bunch of chairs scattered around it. “The first thing I want to know,” she commented, pulling out a notepad to record the conversation, “is how come your P.D. didn’t apply to have the case heard in juvenile court? You’re only sixteen, right?”

“Mr. Williams said the judge wouldn’t move it. The crime was too big a deal and I’m too close to eighteen.”

“‘Close’ only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” she muttered, shaking her head in disgust. She might not know her way around the criminal justice system the way Diego’s P.D. had, but she recognized laziness when she saw it. “We’re going to give it a shot.”

“Why?” Diego asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to try my case in front of a jury?”

“Who told you that?” she demanded.

“Mr. Williams.”

She shot Rafael a disgusted look. “I take it you’re the one responsible for getting rid of this guy?” she asked.

He snorted. “Every single thing that came out of his mouth struck me as idiotic.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all evening.” She turned back to Diego, but not before she saw the flash of annoyance in Rafael’s eyes. Good, let him be on the receiving end of the digs for a while. She’d had enough of his nasty attitude and nastier comments. It was past time for her to get a little of her own back.

Resting her hand gently on top of Diego’s, she turned her back on his mentor and said, “The evidence in your case is far from rock solid.”

“Because I didn’t do it.”

“I know,” she answered soothingly. “But that’s why we want you in front of a judge in the juvenile system. Judges look only at the evidence, while juries, despite their best intentions, are often swayed by photographs and emotions.” She made sure she was looking into his eyes before continuing. “The photos in this case are particularly brutal, so—”

“I saw them.” This time he couldn’t hold back the tears.

“When?” she demanded, suddenly furious. “Williams didn’t—”

“No, not him. The police made me look at them, when they questioned me.”

“What did your lawyer say?”

“I didn’t have one then.”

She stared at him. “You were questioned without an attorney? Were your parents there?”

He shrugged. “My family, we’re not real tight like that. I’ve been staying here for the past few months.”

Her gaze shot to Rafael. “Were you there?”

He shook his head grimly. “I was out of town when all this went down. Diego sat in jail for four days until I got back and found out about it.”

“This whole thing has been a joke from start to finish.” Vivian rubbed her hands over her tired eyes. “I need you to walk me through this whole thing.”

“Can’t you just read the file?” Rafael objected. “He’s already told the story a bunch of times.”

“I have read the file, Mr. Cardoza, but I need to hear it from him. Besides, he needs to get used to telling it, as he’ll be saying it again and again—to me, to the judge and to whomever else I deem necessary.”

She turned to Diego. “I know it’s hard to talk about what happened to Esme and your baby, but I need to know everything. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how insignificant you think it might be. At least not now, not with me.”

She held her hand up when Rafael started to protest, and in the steely voice she reserved for deadbeat dads and abusive husbands, said, “You went through a lot of trouble to get my law firm to take this case, so why don’t you cut the guard-dog routine and give me a chance to do my job? Otherwise you should have stayed with Williams.”

“He trusts me and I’m not going to let you waltz in here and turn him inside out for your own enjoyment.”

Her mouth dropped open before she even had a shot at finding her poker face, and she finally felt her temper snap. “My own enjoyment? Look, you jerk, I can think of a lot of things I’d enjoy more than sitting here listening to a child talk about murder, but I don’t have that option. And neither does he. Not if we want to win this thing.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Diego’s eyes widen and his hands clench, and she forced herself to take a few deep breaths as she worked to regain her composure. No matter how she felt about Rafael, Diego trusted him. “I assume that’s what we all want to do, isn’t it?”

Rafael refused to answer, but he didn’t object when she asked Diego, “When was the last time you saw Esme alive?”

He cast an uncertain look at the man, but started to speak when his mentor nodded at him. “About four o’clock, on the day she died.”

“January 12.”

“Yeah. I took her to her doctor, for her checkup. She was six months and pretty big, so he did another ultrasound. Just to check out the baby, you know?”

Vivian nodded and he continued, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the scarred conference table. “But everything was cool. He was growing like he was supposed to, swimming around in that amni—amni—”

“Amniotic fluid,” she supplied.

“Exactly. Esme’s weight was good, her blood pressure, everything. So he sent us home, told us to make an appointment in two weeks.”

“This was at the clinic on Washington, right?” she asked, glancing up.

“Right.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, his foot tapping in the same rhythm his fingers had been following a minute before. “I took her home and then headed over here. I had work.”

“Did you drive her home?”

“I don’t have a car. We took the bus and then I walked with her from the bus stop.”

“Did you see anyone you knew?”

“Where?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. On the bus. On the walk home. At her building.”

“I guess so. I never really thought about it.”

“So think about it now. Who did you see?”

His eyes narrowed as he concentrated. “I saw Nacho and Luis—they live in the building next to Esme’s.”

“Nacho?” She glanced at Rafael for confirmation.

He nodded. “Same kid.”

Diego looked at her questioningly, but let it go when she didn’t pursue the matter. “Anyone else?”

He thought for a second. “Esme’s oldest brother Ric. He was leaving when we were going in.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Just said hello, you know? Nothing big. He and Esme don’t—didn’t—get along.”

Her antennae went up. “Really? Why not?”

“I don’t know. Esme pretty much thought he was a jerk, so we didn’t talk about him much.”

Vivian lifted her head, studied him carefully. “She never said anything about him? Never complained to you about him, never talked about buying him a birthday present? Nothing?”

“Well, sure, that kind of thing. But nothing major.”

“So tell me what she did say.”

“Everything?” he asked incredulously.

“Sure. Whatever you remember.”

“I don’t remember much. I mean, we were together for two years, so she said a lot about him, I guess.”

“You just said she never talked about him.”

“We never really had a conversation about him. Just stuff she said in passing.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like he’d dropped out of school to deal drugs for a while. Like she didn’t like the guys he hung around with, even before the dealing started.”

“You’re telling me Esme’s brother is a drug dealer?” she asked, just to clarify things.

“They both are. Nothing major, though. Just some weed and X, that sort of thing.”

“Ecstasy?”

He looked at her as if she was stupid. “Well, yeah.”

“And the cops know about this?”

“I guess so.”

“You didn’t tell them?” She couldn’t keep the shock out of her voice.

“I figured they knew. What’s the big deal, anyway?”

“The big deal is there’s nothing in their report about it. I can’t believe they didn’t at least look at them.”

“For Esme’s murder?” Diego asked. “Ric and Danny wouldn’t do that.”

She pinned him with her best glare. “I thought you said you didn’t know Ric very well?”

“I don’t. But I didn’t get any crazy murder vibes off him, either.”

“I didn’t realize every killer radiated ‘crazy murder vibes,’” she commented. “It must make the police’s job so much easier.”

“Vivian.” Rafael’s voice held a warning.

She glanced at him, saw his jaw tighten, and decided not to push Diego about Esme’s brother. At least not right now. “Okay. So did you talk to anybody else that you can remember?”

“Just Lissa, Esme’s best friend. She came over as I was leaving to head to work.”

“She’s the one who found Esme’s body later that night.”

He nodded stiffly, then started drumming on the table again, his rhythm faster now that he was more agitated.

“How did you find out that Esme was dead?”

“Lissa called me on my cell phone, after she’d called 911.”

“And you rushed right over.”

“Of course I did. I loved Esme and our baby. I didn’t want to believe her.”

Vivian doubled back. “And you came straight here after taking Esme home?”

“Yeah.”

“What time did you get here?”

“About four-fifteen. Her apartment’s only a couple of blocks away.”

“You were here the whole time?”

“Yes!” His voice got louder, more insistent, but she didn’t try to calm him down. Not now.

“Who saw you?”

“A bunch of people.”

“So why don’t you have an alibi?”

“I was up here working most of the time.”

“By yourself?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Rafa gave me the job, but the center can’t really afford to pay a bunch of us, so I come in every day and work for a few hours. Do what I can.”

“And you didn’t leave?”

“No.”

“Didn’t take a break? Go downstairs and get some dinner? Go to the restroom? Nothing?”

“I went to the bathroom, but up here.” He pointed down the hall. “There’s a bathroom near the stairs.”

“What time did Lissa call you?”

“Around ten-thirty that night. She told me that I had to come right away.” He looked down at the table, shame in every line of his body. “I hassled her. Things were coming along really well here and I didn’t want to be interrupted.

“I was here, patching the walls, painting, thinking about an essay I had to write for school, while Esme was dying! How could I have been doing that, while some animal was hurting her?”

THERE IT WAS, Rafael thought, the question that had been haunting the kid for the last nine weeks. Well, that and who had actually committed the murder Diego was charged with. Rafa knew Diego hadn’t harmed Esme—he wasn’t capable of it, could barely bring himself to squash a spider, let alone brutally rape and murder the girl he loved.

“How could you have known, Diego?” When he spoke his voice came out gruff with misuse. It had been hard to sit here, keeping his mouth shut, while somebody else took over with Diego, but he knew enough about the system to know it was necessary. And for the first time since he’d gotten back to town and found out Diego had been arrested, he felt as if the kid had a chance.

For all of her fashion magazine looks and cool, cultured voice, Vivian Wentworth seemed to know her stuff. Her questions had been fair, incisive and structured to give her the whole picture of the situation. He could admire that, especially since it seemed to indicate that Diego would get the defense he deserved.

And the look in her eye—the one that had messed with his head back in his office?—he’d finally identified it. Behind the mascara and shadow, her eyes held the gleam of a warrior, one who didn’t like losing.

It was the same look he’d seen in the mirror any number of times since he’d decided to change this old warehouse into a teen center. The same look that had gotten him through all the fundraising and city council meetings it took to keep this place going. The same look that convinced his board to let him do things at the center his way.

It was nice to see that Vivian had some of that same fight in her. She was going to need it before this thing was over.

Rafael had a hard time trusting anyone—couldn’t stand being out of control enough to let someone else do what he couldn’t—but as he watched her with Diego, he thought he just might be willing to bet on Vivian doing what was necessary to protect the boy.

CHAPTER THREE

THE QUESTIONS WENT ON forever, until Diego’s eyes were drooping with exhaustion and even Rafael felt as if he’d been put through the emotional wringer. The only one who looked no worse for wear was Vivian, whose voice was as calm and compassionate now as it had been when she’d started questioning Diego two hours before.

As Diego went over details of his relationship with Esme for the second time, Rafael let his mind wander for a minute. Then was brought back to the present with a jolt as Vivian started gathering up the copious notes she’d taken.

“I think that’s all for tonight,” she said as she slipped the papers into her briefcase. “But I’d like to meet again in a couple of days, after I’ve had a chance to research some things.”

“Sure.” Diego stood, wiping his palms on his jeans before extending a hand to her. “Thanks, Ms. Wentworth.”

“You’re welcome, Diego. But we’re just getting started—there’s a long road ahead of us.”

“Yeah, but you’re the first person, besides Rafa, to really listen to what I had to say about everything. I really appreciate that.”

Vivian smiled, and Rafael was struck again by her sincerity. Though he hated to admit it, he might have been wrong about her. Maybe this was more than just a toss-off pro bono case to her. Maybe—

He cut his thoughts off with a grimace. It was early days yet and there was a lot to do before Diego even had a chance of getting out of trouble. Yet Rafael couldn’t help looking at Vivian differently as he escorted her downstairs.

“Where’s your car parked?” he asked, his voice rusty from hours of disuse as he’d sat back and let Vivian do her thing.

“I took BART.”

“Are you telling me you walked all the way from the BART station in this neighborhood? I thought you’d just parked on the next block or something. Are you crazy?”

As soon as the words slipped out he wanted to take them back. Not because he didn’t mean them, but because her back turned as stiff and unyielding as a fireplace poker. But damn it, was she insane? She was lucky Nacho and his gang were the only trouble she’d run into.

“No, Mr. Cardoza, I am not crazy. I was however, running late and didn’t have time to go home for my car. As I take BART to work every day, I was stuck with that option to get here. Believe me, I wouldn’t have been wandering the streets at dusk if I could have avoided it.”

Her explanation soothed him, despite it being delivered in the prissiest tone he’d ever heard. Or maybe because of it. Something about her cultured tones and incredible composure got to him—not to mention that fantastically crooked mouth with its too-full upper lip. Made him wonder what she’d sound like if he mussed her up a little bit…or a lot.

“Do you mind if I wait here for a cab?” she asked in a voice that suggested it wasn’t the first time she’d asked him the question.

He shook his head to clear it, then watched her root around in her briefcase for her cell phone. “You’ll be waiting all night. You won’t catch a cabbie within three miles of this place once the sun goes down.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.” He paused, then did what he’d known he was going to do all along. “I’ll drive you home.”

Her eyes darted to his. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do, and we both know it. So can the obligatory protests and let’s go.” He headed toward the back of the shelter, and the alley where he kept his bike, without waiting to see if she followed. It wasn’t as if she had any other option.

A quick stop by his office yielded an extra helmet, and then he was pushing the back door open. The cold December air rushed by him, making him shiver despite his leather jacket.

He glanced behind him. If he was cold, Vivian must be freezing in her thin suit. “Here,” he said, as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Put this on.”

She eyed the jacket uncertainly for a moment, then reached for it and slipped it around her shoulders. “Thanks. I appreciate it…. Where’s your car?”

He laughed, then nodded to the motorcycle parked a few feet away. “We’re not taking a car.”

“No car? But…” He watched her closely, taking perverse pleasure in the shock—and discomfort—that flitted across her face as she noticed the motorcycle for the first time. “We’re not riding that, are we?”

“Sure we are. Now take the helmet.” To her credit, she did as he told her. He chose to ignore the fact that it was probably due to her surprise rather than any desire to actually get along with him.

“Are you sure—” Her voice broke and she had to start again. “Are you sure this is the only way to get me home? I mean—”

He laughed, then swung his leg over his prize Harley. “Relax. It’s a million times easier than riding a bicycle.” When she still didn’t move, he glanced at her impatiently. “Get on.”

She just stared at him—and the bike—warily. But then the wind picked up, blowing hard between the buildings and making her shiver all over again.

“Just swing your leg over the seat like I did,” he said.

“Um, sure. But…”

“But what?” He fought to keep the impatience out of his voice, but he was cold, tired and more than a little hungry, since he’d skipped both lunch and dinner to deal with center business. He knew his annoyance had leaked through when she stiffened.

“What do I do with my briefcase?” She held up the brown leather bag she was carrying.

“I’ll take care of it.” He grabbed it and started to shove it into the saddlebag of his bike, shocked at just how soft and supple the leather was. The thing had probably cost thousands of dollars—just one more thing to underscore the differences between them.

Not that he should care about those differences. Not that he did care about them, he told himself. He finished buckling the saddlebag and said, “Now climb on.”

Muttering beneath her breath—too low for him to hear what she was saying, which was probably a good thing—Vivian did as she was told. It wasn’t fast and it wasn’t pretty, but eventually she managed to get herself situated behind him. He was proud of himself for not laughing.

“Now hang on,” he said, as he started the bike.

“To what?” she yelled over the sudden roar of the engine.

He did laugh then as he glanced behind him in disbelief. “To me!”

It was the last thing he said before he slipped the bike onto Ellis and sent it roaring into the night.

VIVIAN TIGHTENED HER ARMS around Rafael’s waist and tried not to scream as they sped through the nearly empty streets. It wasn’t easy, when every shift and shimmy of the bike had panic racing through her.

When Rafael laughed as he careened around a corner, barely slowing the motorcycle down, she knew with absolute certainty that she had indeed gone crazy. Why else would she have her arms wrapped around a man who despised her as they barreled through the night toward certain death?

Except it wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d expected it to be. The smooth purr of the engine was kind of exciting, especially if she didn’t think about being completely unprotected in case of a crash. If she just focused on the wind whipping past her and the soft sway of their bodies as they rode through the night, it was almost relaxing. Even before she added in the strong, resilient warmth of Rafael’s back, which she was currently pressed against intimately.

It was amazing that a man with such a nasty disposition could have such a comforting way about him. She’d noticed it first when he’d saved her from Nacho and his friends, and then when he was calming down Diego. Now here it was again as they were pressed breast to back, inner thigh to hip.

He was like a furnace, the heat his body emanated absolutely amazing, especially since he didn’t have a jacket on. Yet somehow he managed to keep her warm throughout the wild ride, so warm that when they finally arrived at her apartment complex and she climbed off the bike, she somehow felt bereft without the contact.

It was stupid, ridiculous, yet something about being wrapped around Rafael had made her feel safer than she’d felt in a long time. Shocked and more than a little frightened of the feeling, she found her voice came out more abruptly than she would have liked.

“Thanks for the ride. And the rescue earlier. I appreciate it.” She took off the helmet and held it out to him.

He didn’t reach for it right away, instead choosing to pull his own helmet off and study her. His eyes gleamed black in the rosy glow of the streetlight, and for one long moment she was trapped. Caught. Unable to move or think or do anything but feel as his eyes swept leisurely over her from head to toe.

Her heart started to pound and her knees trembled—actually trembled—under the weight of his gaze. It was that small shake that jump-started her brain and had her backing away from him as panic skated down her spine.

She didn’t need this, didn’t want this—with any man. Certainly not with a man who despised her very existence.

“Don’t worry about it.” His voice was low and gruff. “But bring your car when you come on Thursday. You can park around back where I keep my bike. It should be safe there.”

“Sure.” She looked over his shoulder, then down at the ground, anywhere but into those black-magic eyes that were somehow holding her in thrall. “Um, same time? Seven o’clock? That way, even if court runs late, I won’t be.”

“Sure. And, Vivian?” He paused and silence stretched between them, so long and tense that finally she had to look up. As their gazes collided, she realized it was what he’d been waiting for. “Thanks for helping Diego.”

Shock almost had her jaw dropping before she caught it. “I thought—”

His smile, when it came, was rueful. “I was wrong. I thought you were there to go through the motions, that you really didn’t care—”

“Of course I care!” The words burst from her. “Do you think I want to see that poor child go to jail for the rest of his life? For a crime he didn’t commit?”

“I know, I know.” Rafael held out a hand as if to soothe her, but stopped just short of touching her. Yet she could still feel him, though she didn’t know how. Or why. “That’s why I wanted to apologize. I really appreciate what you’re trying to do for him. We both do.”

She shook her head. “Don’t thank me. It’s my job.” She took off his jacket, surprised at how much she wanted to keep it, then pressed it into his hands.

He took it reluctantly, shoved it into his saddlebag after he’d returned her briefcase to her. Then he pinned her with a look so fierce her heart jumped in her chest.

“I don’t think so.” He pulled his helmet back over his head. “I think it’s you.”

He started the bike and roared away before she could come up with a suitable reply.

Head swimming, feet aching, Vivian stumbled into the lobby of her apartment building. Michael, the doorman, greeted her with a smile she returned. He rushed to call the elevator for her, as he always did when she came in late.

She rode up to the penthouse condominium her parents had bought her when she’d graduated from Harvard Law, summa cum laude. It had been a bribe to get her to come back to San Francisco, and one she hadn’t been able to resist, despite the numerous job offers she’d received from a variety of New York and Washington firms.

But San Francisco, with its turbulent ocean and temperamental weather, was home.

The second her apartment door closed behind her, she kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief. She had an addiction to expensive, high-heeled shoes, and normally her feet handled her little problem just fine. But after eighteen hours in the four-inch heels, even her steel arches were weeping.

Shrugging out of her suit jacket, she dropped it on the kitchen table on her way to the refrigerator. A little spurt of guilt raised its ugly head, but she shoved it down. The house didn’t need to be spotless all the time, no matter what her mother said; Vivian could hang the jacket up tomorrow.

Right now it was—she glanced at the clock in the breakfast nook—almost eleven-thirty and the turkey sandwich she’d gulped down for lunch between court sessions had long since worn off. She wanted a quick snack and about eight hours stretched out on her very comfortable bed. But tomorrow was Tuesday, and one of the two mornings a week she spent volunteering at a battered women’s shelter. She could cancel and try to get some extra sleep, but everything inside her rebelled at the thought.

They needed her. When she’d finally become an adult, she’d sworn she’d never turn her back on someone who needed her. Like Diego. That boy—

The phone rang, interrupting her train of thought, as she was haphazardly slapping a couple pieces of cheese between two slices of bread. She started to reach for it, but just didn’t have the energy to deal with anything else tonight, no matter how irresponsible that made her.

When the answering machine finally kicked on and her mother’s voice flooded the room, she was glad exhaustion had won out over conscience.

“Vivian, this is your mother. Are you really not there? It’s eleven o’clock. If you’re out, I hope it’s on a date and not with one of those women for the shelter. You know, the Winchester boy has been asking about you and I told him you were available. I think he might be calling, so be nice when he does. The Black-and-White Ball is coming up fast and I mentioned that you didn’t have an escort yet. Remember, I helped organize it again this year so I expect you to be there. No excuses.

“Also, I was calling to see if you had time to go Christmas shopping next Tuesday. I thought we’d make a day of it—brunch, shopping, maybe an afternoon at the spa. Your nails were looking so ragged the last time I saw you, and your hair could certainly use a little pick-me-up. And don’t give me any nonsense about work—I don’t think you’ve taken a day off in two years. Call me and let me know what time you would like to meet on Tuesday. I’ll be home tomorrow until eleven.”

The answering machine clicked off abruptly.

Vivian carried her sandwich into the family room, but instead of sinking onto the nearest available space, she went to stand near the long picture window that overlooked the nearly infinite Pacific.

Nothing like her mother to put things in perspective. Forget the women’s shelter—you should be on a date. Forget helping others—we should go shopping.

Shopping was her mom’s answer to everything, and it always had been. Bad day at school—let’s go to the mall. Break up with a boy—a new dress is just what you need. Your sister died—Nordstrom’s is having a sale. Let’s go.

Vivian fought the old bitterness that crept up, hating the way her mother could so easily cut her off at the knees. She reminded herself that her mother felt things in her own way, and that criticizing her daughter was how the woman showed her love. Dwelling on how Vivian wished things were different wasn’t going to do anything, Lillian Wentworth would always be exactly what she was.

Dispassionate, formal, unwilling to show emotion, which was exactly what she’d raised her daughters to be. Thank God the lessons hadn’t rubbed off, at least not on Vivian.

Still, her skin felt too small for her body, as it often did after she’d heard from her mother. Her stomach—which had just started to relax—was in even tighter knots than it had been on the back of Rafael’s motorcycle. But then, Lillian was good at getting Vivian all worked up, good at making her feel vulnerable and inferior and disappointing.

Sometimes she wondered if her mother had been taught her passive-aggressiveness at Vassar along with all the core subjects. So many of her friends had the same ability….

As she crossed to the sofa, Vivian took a bite of her sandwich, but it tasted like sawdust now. Shoving it away, she draped her legs with the violet afghan one of her pro bono clients had made her. Then reminded herself of how much luckier she was than Diego or Marco, or any of the other kids she’d seen at Helping Hands earlier that night. She had a home, a career she loved, a family who had provided for her materially, if not emotionally.

The fact that she had spent her life wanting more just proved how selfish she was. And how lonely.

CHAPTER FOUR

“HEY, ARE YOU GETTING OLD, mi hermano? You’re playing like you’ve got arthritis.”

Rafael flipped his oldest brother, Miguel, the bird before backing up just enough to send the ball soaring into the basket for three points.

“Hey, look at the tall guy taking advantage.” This came from Jose, his teammate and best friend. After everything that had happened to Rafael, it probably should have felt weird to have a cop as a best friend, but they’d been buddies since they were in elementary school together.

Besides, Jose was cool like that—he’d hung by Rafa during his time in prison, despite the crap he’d caught from other members of the force.

“That’s right.” With a grin, he watched Jose intercept the ball, then cruised down the court for the pass. Jose didn’t disappoint, and as soon as Rafa had the ball in his hands, he blew around the opposite team—composed of his two older brothers—and slam-dunked the hell out of it.

Jose whooped. “That was game point, my man!” He looked at Rafa’s middle brother, Gabriel. “You owe us twenty bucks, Papi.”

“I thought gambling was illegal,” Gabe grumbled good-naturedly as he reached into the back pocket of his shorts and pulled out a ten. “Go hit Miguel up for the other half.”

“You know I will!” Jose danced away, talking shit and blowing smoke like he did every time they won. Or lost.

“So, Mama wants to see you.” Gabriel glanced at Rafa, then took a large gulp from his water bottle.

“What else is new? Is there anything specific or is it just time for another ‘you’re my youngest child and I won’t be happy until you settle down’ lecture?”

“I’m sure there’ll be a little of that in there, too.” He smiled when Rafael cursed. “But I think she wants your help planning a surprise party for Miguel.” He nodded at their brother, who currently had Jose in a headlock.

“Seriously? She really wants something to whine about other than how empty her arms feel without my baby in them?”

“I think so, man.”

“Why me? Aren’t the girls the ones who she usually gets to help with stuff like this?”

“Yeah, but Carolina’s a little busy with baby number three right now, and Michaela’s still recovering from pneumonia.” He stepped back and looked his youngest brother over. “Besides, freak boy, you won’t even need a ladder. That’s what you get for growing so big.”

Rafael grabbed a towel to wipe his face, decided to accept defeat gracefully. Maybe if he brought his mama flowers and kept her busy, she wouldn’t remember to nag him about being the only one of her children who was terminally single.

Yeah, right. His mother wouldn’t let a little thing like death stop her from hassling him—why should a bouquet of flowers do the trick? Still, Rafa thought as he drained a water bottle in one long gulp, it was worth a try.

“All right. I’ll call her.”

“You’re a good man.” Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “So, winners buy lunch, right? Because I’m starving.”

This time it was Jose who flipped him the bird, having extracted his head from under Miguel’s arm.

“Well, come on then, I’ve got to be back at work in half an hour and I’m hungry, too.” Miguel picked up his bag from the side of the court and headed into the center.

A few minutes later they were all seated at Manuel’s, Rafa’s favorite hole-in-the-wall taco shop, shoveling carne asada burritos into their mouths. Rafa had already blown through his first when he noticed Nacho standing at the corner with an unfamiliar white boy.

“Hey, Jose. Did you get a chance to talk to Nacho about what he pulled the other night?”

Jose followed his gaze. “Absolutely. My partner and I went by and read him the riot act. Hopefully, it’ll be enough.”

Rafa cut his eyes to his best friend. “You don’t think so?”

“No, man. That kid’s a walking time bomb.”

“That’s what I think, too.”

“Who’s he with?” Miguel nodded at the prepped-out white kid. In his chinos and fancy sweater, he stuck out like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. “Is he one of your kids, Rafa?”

“No, but he seems familiar.” He continued to watch him, wondering what the kid was doing in this neighborhood—and with Nacho. “That doesn’t look good, though.” He turned to Jose.

“I know. But I can’t see Nacho buying any of his customers lunch.”

“He’s dealing?” This from Gabriel.

“That’s what I hear.”

Rafael cursed. “You know that’s not a good thing. The kid’s already an amoral ass. I can’t wait to see what a few months as a dealer turns him into.”

“I think it’s too late to worry about that.” Jose took another big bite.

“I know. But still…” Rafa ran a hand over his eyes. You can’t save them all, he reminded himself. Especially the ones who aren’t interested in salvation. It grated that a teenager was going bad in front of his eyes. He still remembered Nacho as a little kid. He’d been skinny and mean even then, but there’d been something endearing about him, anyway. Now he was just plain mean.

Regardless, Rafa couldn’t help wondering if the rest was still there, too, just buried beneath the crap. On his way out of the restaurant, he stopped by the table. “Hey, Nacho. Who’s your friend?”

“Screw you, Rafael.”

“Thanks, but you’re not my type.” He held out his hand to the other kid, who shook it, but then looked as if he wanted to swim in a vat of hand sanitizer.

Rafa didn’t get what these two were doing together, but he’d bet the twenty in his wallet that it had something to do with the drugs Jose had been talking about. “We’re having a barbecue at the center this weekend. You guys should drop by.”

“Yeah, ’cause that’s going to happen,” Nacho sneered.

“Too busy picking on defenseless women to make time for a hamburger, huh?”

“Too busy avoiding pendejos like you.”

“Well, that’s your prerogative.” He looked at the preppy kid. “Nice to meet you…?’

“Thomas.”

“Thomas,” he repeated. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe.”

As Rafael hustled to catch up with the rest of the guys, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen the new kid before. Anymore than he could ignore how uncomfortable that knowledge made him.

“THANKS SO MUCH FOR seeing me today.” Vivian extended her hand to each homicide detective in turn. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

“Same here.” Detective Anthony Barnes nodded to her, a lock of his too-long, sand-colored hair falling over his baby face as he did so. He looked younger than Diego, and the idea that this guy had arrested her client for murder threw her for a major loop.

“You want some coffee?” demanded Daniel Turner, the other detective, even as he raised a hand to signal the waitress.

“That’d be great,” she said, though she’d already had an entire pot of the stuff that morning. But she didn’t want to seem prickly, especially since these two had been nice enough to meet with her when other detectives would have turned up their noses.

She smiled at Turner, and was glad to see that he, at least, looked like her idea of a homicide detective. A little overweight, a little rumpled, with lines in his face that showed every one of his forty-odd years, he seemed like he’d been doing this job for a long time.

“Thanks again for meeting me,” she said, in an effort to keep everything cordial. “I know how busy you are.”

“That’s okay.” Turner shrugged. “We wanted to get a look at the woman who was defending that piece of scum, anyway.”

Maybe he’d been on the job too long, Vivian thought, as sheer strength of will kept a pleasant expression on her face. “So, you’re really convinced Diego did it?”

“We’re not in the habit of arresting people for murder if we think they’re innocent.” The detective’s voice was deliberately bland.

“Of course. I wasn’t trying to imply that you did. It’s just that after reviewing the case, so much of the evidence seems circumstantial to me.”

“Enough circumstance adds up—if you know what I’m saying.”

“I do. But still, why Diego? I know you always look at the boyfriend or husband first, but sometimes he isn’t the killer.”

“Most of the time he is.” Turner reached for one of the little packets of half-and-half and ripped it open. “In this case, Sanchez is definitely it. He’s practically got a scarlet A branded into his chest.”

“Why? Witnesses say they saw him drop the victim off at her house at least a couple hours before she was murdered.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t circle back,” Barnes interjected. She glanced at him and was surprised at how uncomfortable he looked, as if he’d rather be anywhere but in this crappy little coffee shop.

Deciding to push him, she replied, “It doesn’t mean he did, either. It seems to me he really loved that girl.”

“Yeah, well, appearances are deceiving. If you learn nothing else in this foray of yours into criminal court, learn that,” Turner said, before Barnes could speak.

“Oh, I think that’s a lesson I’ve already learned.” Vivian smiled sweetly at him as she let her eyes run over him from head to toe.

He flushed. “Good. Because no one else had motive, means and opportunity.” He tore open two packets of sugar and dumped them into his coffee, then took a huge swig without bothering to stir it.

“Means?” she asked as she went over the file in her head for what felt like the millionth time. “I didn’t see anything in the case file about you finding the murder weapon.”

“I don’t need a weapon. That kid was popped for carrying a knife before he was twelve years old. He definitely knows his way around a switchblade.”

“Yes, but the case was dismissed as self-defense. Besides—”

“Self-defense, my ass. Is that what he called murdering his unborn kid?” Turner snorted, then shook his head as he repeated, “Self-defense.”

“Besides,” she said again, “Diego hasn’t been in any trouble since then—no fights, no problems at school, no drugs. His school counselor seems to think he’s had a pretty rough time of it.”

“Yeah, well, the vic sure as hell didn’t have an easy time of it either. Pregnant at sixteen, living with two of the scummiest dealers in—” He stopped abruptly, but it was too late and he seemed to know it.

Vivian was careful to keep a neutral expression as she seized on the opportunity Turner had inadvertently provided.

“So, you do know Esme’s brothers deal drugs?” She made sure to direct the question to both detectives, then watched as Turner’s face turned beet-red. But his reaction wasn’t nearly as interesting as Barnes’s was. The young detective started drumming on the table with the same nervous energy Diego had displayed when she was questioning him a few nights before.

Trying to capitalize on his obvious discomfort, she leaned forward and asked softly, “Why didn’t you at least look at the brothers—or their rivals—when Esme turned up dead, Anthony?”

“We did.” Once again it was Turner who answered. “There was nothing there.”

“Nothing there? They’re gang members and drug dealers, and both have been in and out of the system for years. How can there be nothing there?”

“Because they didn’t kill her!”

“Maybe, but what about other gangs? Other dealers? I hear there’s always a turf war going on in this neighborhood.”

“What do you know about this neighborhood?” Turner didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “You’re over here doing your little pro bono case, and as soon as it’s done you’ll run as far and as fast as you can back to where you belong.”

“Where I’m from is not the issue here.”

“Well, it should be. You do-gooders are all alike. You come over here thinking you can save some kid who doesn’t deserve to be saved. Maybe you save him, maybe you don’t, but either way you make life ten times harder for the victim’s family while you’re doing it. And then you just walk away.”

“What about arresting an innocent man?” she asked quietly. “How does that affect the victim’s family?”

Turner’s face went from red to purple, and for a second Vivian feared he might be having a stroke, but when he spoke, his voice was steady and poisonous. “I wouldn’t know. Your client did it and he’s going down for it. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get a needle in the arm by the time the D.A.’s done with him. Killing a pregnant woman counts as special circumstances.”

“Yes, well, the judge didn’t think that scenario was very likely. Otherwise Diego never would have had a chance to make bail.” She gave as good as she got, refusing to back down.

“Look, lady, we’ve got motive, means and opportunity. That’s a slam dunk.”

“Really? Because when I was looking through the file, it seemed to me that you had nothing. What’s the motive again?”

“He didn’t want the baby. According to Esme’s friends and brothers, Diego was getting cold feet.”

“These are the same brothers that we’ve already established deal drugs?” she asked. “The ones with the shady rivals?”

“That doesn’t make them liars.”

“No, but it doesn’t make them paragons of reliability, either. What else have you got?”

“He could come and go any time from Esme’s place—that’s opportunity.”

“Yeah, but nobody saw him there and he has an alibi.”

“Somebody did see him—the woman who lives across the street—and his alibi’s shaky.”

“So’s your evidence, but you don’t see me whining about that, do you? Your witness is a ninety-three-year old Chinese woman with cataracts. If I paraded Santa Claus in front of her, she’d finger him as the killer.”

“But she didn’t finger Santa Claus, did she? She fingered your client.”

“Because he was the only Mexican in the lineup. I can’t wait to see what a judge has to say about that.”

Turner shook his head in disgust. “Jesus, you’re just as bad as all the other defense attorneys, you know that? I thought a divorce attorney might have more sense.”

She started to snap back another smart-ass comment, but then his words sunk in. “How do you know what kind of lawyer I am? I never mentioned it to you.”

“What, are you keeping it a secret?” Turner shot his partner a furious look and then pushed back from the table. “This conversation is over. And don’t call me again. If you want to talk to me, you can do it in court.” He stormed off.

Barnes smiled awkwardly as he stood. “Sorry about that, Ms. Wentworth. He gets a little excited sometimes.”

“It’s fine.” She studied him for a second, more than a little intrigued by his discomfort. “Tell me something, Anthony. If Turner hadn’t been pushing for it, would you have arrested Diego Sanchez for murder?”

“Absolutely.” His voice was firm, resolute, but his eyes never made it past the bridge of her nose. “I have to go now.”

“I know. Thanks again for meeting me.”

“No problem.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but she stopped him.

“Don’t worry about it—coffee’s on me. It’s the least I can do after pulling you down here for nothing.”

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