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 horren-dously 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.