The Christmas Present. Tracy Wolff

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?”