“Only one bullet,” Oscar told him, fingering a dent in the wall behind Rafe’s desk. “Good aim, that’s all.”
Anne swallowed a gasp. “Somebody shot at you?”
“No, we were closed,” Rafe said, rolling up his sleeves while Oscar removed a sheet of cardboard from the window frame. “This happened last night, I just never got time today.”
He sounded as matter-of-fact as if the window had been shattered by a baseball, but apparently her start of alarm raised a red flag, because he turned to her with his usual swift offer of aid.
“Why don’t I take you home and come back later? You don’t need to wait around here.”
“No, that’s okay.” If she waited, it would give her a chance to read the Legalismo flyers she’d seen on the battered coffee table. And that, in turn, might give her some clue to drawing out this man. “Really, I’m fine. You guys go ahead and fix things.”
“This won’t take long,” Rafe promised as he and Oscar turned their attention to the pane of glass in the corner, so she returned to the lobby with its green plastic sofa and dented folding chairs. And by the time she made her way through the company-history brochure, halfway listening to the dialogue in Rafe’s office, she found herself more intrigued than ever.
How did he do that? she wondered. How did a Law Review attorney, regardless of his past experience, keep up such a natural, easy conversation with a gang-tattooed boy who responded only in monosyllables?
How could Rafe do such a breathtaking job of caring for everyone around him, and refuse to accept any support for himself?
And why should she care?
But she did, Anne knew, even though she had never been much of a nurturer. That was Beth’s role, while hers was to succeed in the world. Yet maybe the loss of her sister had made a difference in her priorities…because right now this man’s welfare mattered far more than any business.
More than anything, she wanted to give him a chance to let down his guard.
“Thanks,” she heard him tell Oscar, who came back through the lobby and headed outside without even a glance at her. All right, they must be finished—which meant she could start another attempt at looking out for the man her sister had loved.
“I didn’t think lawyers could install windows,” she told Rafe when he came down the hall, buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves.
“Depends on where they practice,” he replied, then shot her a quick grin as he wiped a streak of plaster dust off his face. A simple gesture, but one which—without any warning—suddenly made her heart skip a beat. “We’re in a pretty good location for this part of town, but bulletproof glass would be nice.”
Anne caught her breath. She had no business reacting to the sight of this man—not even in the context of physical labor, which made her more aware of his powerful body—with such raw, primitive yearning.
“Is it safe,” she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal, “working here?”
“Pretty much.” He evidently hadn’t noticed any flush of warmth on her skin, for which she could only be grateful, because he was moving with his usual unconscious grace. Opening the door, reversing a sign, twisting home the lock. “I won’t let the interns work alone, but I’ve never had any problems.”
She was supposed to be offering support, here, but for the moment all her carefully rehearsed openings had vanished, leaving her with a faster pulse and the desire to blurt out any question, any distraction she could think of. “Uh, do your clients carry guns?”
Rafe held up the No Drugs/No Weapons sign he’d just removed from the door and set it on the coffee table. “Not inside,” he announced, then glanced back at his office. “I just need to grab a few things, and we’re out of here.”
“Take your time,” she told him, and used the free minute to steady her breathing, pressing her hands against her thighs until she felt herself edging back into common sense. Enough so that by the time he returned with a handful of file folders, she was able to ask a casual question.
“Was this a pretty typical day?”
“Well, it’s not every day we have to replace a window.” He gave her an apologetic smile as he turned toward the ancient answering machine on the front desk. “Sorry that took so long.”
“No, I enjoyed seeing you in action.” Which wasn’t what she’d meant to say! Although she had enjoyed hearing his conversation, even before he came down the hall adjusting his shirt—and she’d better change the subject fast. “Is Oscar some kind of an assistant or something?”
Rafe picked up the machine and shook it until a red light came on. “I’m just keeping an eye on him.”
“How come?”
“He reminds me of myself, I guess.” He met her gaze with the same half confident, half defiant expression she’d noticed the other day, then set the machine back in place. “I’d like to see him get out of here.”
So her impression of Oscar as the dangerous type had been valid, Anne realized. Because according to the company brochure, Rafe himself had grown up as a gang member in Los Angeles…until his last juvenile conviction had started him down the road toward rehab, law school and the crusade to help kids like those he’d done time with.
“I saw that fund-raising story about your background,” she told him, and saw his posture stiffen as he headed down the hall.
“That was Peter’s idea,” he said, snapping off the light switch at the end of the hallway. “Guy who put up the money. He said we’d get a lot more donations if people saw a poster child make good.”
Although his face was obscured by the shadows as he came back toward the lobby, she heard the thread of uneasiness in his voice. “How do you feel,” Anne asked, “about being a poster child?”
He hesitated for a moment, then she saw his expression grow more determined, more resolute as he came into the light.
“It gets the job done.”
And getting the job done, she suspected, was worth any amount of sacrifice. If he was ashamed of his past, the way she suspected from the sound of his voice, he wouldn’t let that interfere with helping Legalismo.
“This really matters to you,” she said softly, “doesn’t it.”
“Yeah.” Rafe moved past her toward the desk, where he retrieved what looked like an appointment book from the center drawer and reached for a pencil. “I want to get some of these kids on track.”
“Who did that for you?”
“Lot of people,” he answered without looking up from the page. “I’m still paying it back.”
Which would explain his passion for the job, and why Beth had complained that he put his crusade ahead of his marriage. But paying back implied a time limit, which she couldn’t remember her sister mentioning. “For how long?”
He glanced at her then, checking off one last name on the page. “Beth always asked that, too.”
Maybe because she’d recognized that Rafe was already doing more for the world than it had done for him. “And what did you tell her?”
Shutting the appointment book, he slid it back into the drawer and straightened up. “Long as I can do somebody some good,” he said, reaching for his keys. “These kids—somebody’s gotta be there for ’em.”
It looked like he was getting ready to lock up, but she hated to leave right now. Not when a glimpse of his personality was almost within reach.
“Was anybody there for you?” she asked as he locked the