Читать книгу Sleeping Beauty's Billionaire - Caroline Cross - Страница 10

“Hey, lady.” The cabbie turned to give Colleen a quick, questioning glance over his shoulder, then twisted back around to peer through the windshield at the street ahead. “You sure you gave me the right address?”

Jarred from her thoughts, she contemplated the back of the man’s balding head and told herself to focus. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

He snorted with disbelief. “You’re kiddin’, right?” He lifted a hand off the wheel and gestured at the surrounding area. “Take a look around. In case you haven’t noticed, this ain’t exactly Beacon Hill.”

She dutifully turned her head although she already knew what she’d find outside. With each block they passed, the sidewalks grew narrower, the store signs less refined, the building facades dingier. More and more steel and iron grills secured by chains and padlocks protected businesses; more upper-story windows were barred.

Wryly she conceded the cabbie had a point; the area didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to either Beacon Hill or the upscale neighborhood where Nick and Gail’s wedding reception had just been held.

Yet as she noted the eclectic mix of people on the street, some standing and chatting, some coming and going from various bars, cafés and delis, some clearly intent on getting somewhere else, she felt a distinct fondness for the area. It might not be squeaky clean nor even particularly attractive, but it was very much alive, with no pretensions. It was also home.

“You’re right. It’s not Beacon Hill. But we are in the right place. My street is the third one after the next light. When you reach it, go right, and my building is a few blocks down, just past a small park.”

The man parted his lips as if to make yet another disapproving observation, then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

Colleen swallowed a smile, suspecting his sudden lack of opinion had more to do with the sizable tip he’d been promised by her father than a sudden appreciation of the neighborhood. Carlo Barone had not only insisted on calling her a cab, but had told the driver he’d get an extra twenty if he saw her to her door. Then, ignoring her protests, he’d pressed a wad of bills into her palm as he’d handed her into the back seat, given her a tender kiss on the cheek and told her to take care of herself and “not be such a stranger.”

Dear Papa. They’d always had a special bond, no doubt in part because she’d been the only girl among the four boys in the family until she’d been five and Gina had arrived. Even so, it had been a distinct shock when she’d eventually come to realize that her decision to join the Sisters of Charity had sprung not from a true vocation on her part, but from a desire to fulfill her father’s long-held dream for her and, to a lesser extent, to please her mother.

And? prompted the gentle voice of her conscience.

She shifted on the vinyl-covered seat. Ever since she’d admitted to herself—and God—that she wasn’t meant to be a nun, she’d vowed she’d always be honest with Him and herself, no matter how difficult or humbling.

So quit avoiding the other reason you knew you weren’t meant to stay in the order. Admit that despite the passage of time, you never completely quit having feelings for Gavin. That for all these years, a part of you has continued to long for him—the sound of his voice, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his touch…his presence in your life.

The shudder of pleasure she hadn’t allowed herself at the time swept through her now as she recalled how it had felt to be held in his arms on the dance floor tonight. She squeezed her eyes shut, thanking the Almighty for lending her the strength to appear composed, to keep the conversation light, to not make a fool of herself and blurt out to Gavin that she’d never stopped missing him.

She also thanked God for helping her keep her chin up when, moments after telling Gavin she’d spent most of the past decade as a nun, he’d fled. Or close enough. Conveniently for him, the music had ended a few seconds after her revelation. Murmuring an uninflected, “I see,” he’d glanced at his watch and grimaced. “I’m sorry to be abrupt, but there’s a phone call I need to make.” He’d looked up, flashing her a duplicate of the polite, impersonal smile with which he’d first greeted her. “It’s been nice seeing you, Colleen. Thanks for the dance.” Then he’d turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone on the dance floor.

“Jeez, lady, is that what you mean by a park?”

The cabbie’s incredulous question put a merciful end to Colleen’s recollections. She snapped her eyes open, grasping at the chance to concentrate on the present, even though she knew she was only postponing the inevitable. Like it or not, she was going to have to deal with the caldron of feelings her encounter with Gavin had stirred up.

But not yet. “Pardon me?”

“I said, is that the park you were talking about?” He waved at the dark patch of ground that stretched between the lighted brownstones like a dark gap between a row of pearly teeth.

“Yes, it is.”

“Huh.” He met her gaze in the rearview mirror as he slowed the taxi and pulled to the curb. “Where I live, we’d call that a vacant lot.”

She did her best to look serene. “Everyone is entitled to his opinion.” Besides, she hadn’t a doubt that once the bulbs she’d planted came up this spring and she added a few trees, a couple of birdbaths and a bench or two, it would look much more parklike, something the cabdriver couldn’t possibly be expected to know.

“Yeah, that’s true. That’s why we live in a democracy.”

Frowning, she realized someone was sitting on her front stairs. “Actually, the United States is a republic,” she said automatically as she reached for the door handle. “What do I owe you?”

The man rattled off the amount on the meter. “Plus two sawbucks for—”

“Seeing me to the stoop. I remember. But it’s really not necessary as it appears I have company. Here’s the fare—” she leaned forward and thrust the money at him “—and your twenty, plus an extra five for being so nice.” Flashing him a bright smile, she scooted out onto the sidewalk. “Have a lovely night.”

“But your old man said—”

“Good night,” she said, firmly shutting the door. Then, taking a deep, calming breath and composing herself, she turned just as the shadowy figure climbed to its feet, revealed by the streetlight to be a tall, dark-haired teenager. “Brett? Is that you?”

Hunching his shoulders, the youngster thrust his hands into his front pants pockets. “Hey, Ms. Barone.”

Muscles she hadn’t known she’d tensed slowly relaxed, while questions crowded her tongue. Oh, dear. Why was he here at this hour? Had he been in a fight? Was he hurt? In trouble with the law? Had he had another argument with his mother? Or had the woman kicked him out again because she was “entertaining” one of her boyfriends?

Yet as she crossed the sidewalk and started up the steps, Colleen knew better than to ask, at least not right away. Of all the students she counseled at Jefferson High, Brett Maguiness was both the most talented and academically gifted—and the most private.

He was also her favorite, although she was careful not to show it. In her heart of hearts, however, she couldn’t deny that there was something about the moody youngster with the guarded eyes that had pulled at her from the instant they’d met at the start of the previous school year.

“Goodness, but it’s cold out here.” With a shiver that wasn’t feigned, she stepped past him to unlock the door to the vestibule. “Have you been waiting long?”

He hiked his shoulders in the nonchalant shrug she considered his trademark. “Awhile.”

She let it go, since it wasn’t really important. “Well, what do you say we get inside where it’s warmer?” She pushed the outer door open and proceeded to the inner one, trusting him to follow.

Moments later they were walking down the short hallway to her ground-floor apartment. The sound of a violin concerto drifted sweetly from the floor above. Brett made a vaguely rude noise. “Sounds like the geezer’s having his usual wild night.”

“The geezer has a name, and you know it,” she said mildly. “It’s Mr. Crypinski.” The older man, a retired transit worker, owned the converted brownstone and lived on the second floor.

“Huh. Creepinski is more like it.”

She glanced at the teenager, startled by the rancor in his voice. “Did something happen between you two?”

“Nothing important.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me about it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If you gotta know, I buzzed him and asked if he’d let me in so I could wait for you in the vestibule. And you know what he said? He said that I might have you fooled but he knew a shiftless young thug when he saw one.”

“Oh, dear. I can’t imagine…” Though gruff, her landlord had never been anything but kind toward her. Yet she also knew Brett well enough to know he never made things up. “I’ll talk to him.”

“No.”

“Brett—”

“No. He’s probably hoping you’ll do just that so he can call me a wuss or something. So just forget it, all right?”

She considered an instant, then nodded. “Okay.” She’d simply have to find a different way to approach the problem, she decided as she worked the locks on the front door and pushed it open. Switching on a light, she shed her coat and hung it and her purse on the brass wall rack. She turned, glad to be home in her very own space.

Not that there was a lot of it, she acknowledged. Like the lot it was built on, the converted brownstone was long and narrow front to back. Her portion of it consisted of the postage-size entry, with the bedroom, bathroom and utility room stretching down one side of the house, and the living room, kitchen and pantry down the other.

What it lacked in size, it made up for in character, however. The old wood floors had aged to a burnished, golden hue and the high plaster ceilings boasted ornate crown molding.

But Colleen’s favorite feature was the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows at the far side of the living room. Her brother Joe might consider “all that glass a break-in just waiting to happen,” but Colleen loved being able to look out on her small garden. Like the park next door, it wouldn’t be long before the first crocuses began to appear, followed by the constantly changing tableau of blooming flowers, bushes and trees that would go on until the first fall freeze.

“Would you put the kettle on while I go change?” she asked Brett. She could hardly wait to shed her high heels and panty hose.

“Sure.”

“Help yourself to a glass of milk or a soda. And there’s some lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Who made it?”

Headed toward her bedroom, she stopped, turned and made a wry face at him. “My sister.”

“Great.”

Amused, she watched as he hurried toward the kitchen. Due to the brownstone’s high ceilings and wide doorways, she could see him perfectly well as he turned on the light and yanked open the appliance door. “Someday my cooking’s going to improve and you’re going to be sorry for your attitude,” she warned.

He straightened and turned, a casserole dish in one hand, a carton of milk in the other, and flashed her a grin. “I’m not holding my breath.”

Even as she warmed at the sight of that rare, sunny smile, her stomach clenched. The brightly illuminated kitchen revealed what she hadn’t seen before. The corner of the boy’s right eye and the cheek below were bruised and puffy.

She parted her lips to ask what had happened, then clamped them shut. She and Brett had been down this road before during the past six months and she knew what to expect. At her very first question, his smile would vanish and the usual guarded look would come over his face. Next he’d claim that he’d run into a door, or something else equally as lame. Then he’d make an excuse to leave.

And if she reported, as she had the last two times, her suspicions that he’d tangled with one of his mother’s boyfriends, he’d vanish. He’d go to ground on the streets, not showing up at school for weeks. And when he finally did return, he’d stick stubbornly to whatever story he’d told initially.

“Hmm.” Somehow she managed a smile. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And with that she twisted around and slipped into her room. Shutting the door, she leaned back against it and allowed herself a sigh of frustration.

Darn it! How could she justify collecting a paycheck, much less live with herself, if she couldn’t find a way to provide help when it was needed? Brett was such a good kid at heart, but if something in his life didn’t change soon and for the better, there was a more than good chance she’d lose him. He already had two strikes against him—an absent father and an alcoholic mother. Add to that his tendency to keep things bottled up inside, and it was a recipe for disaster.

If only she could find—and convince him to accept—a good foster home. Or even provide him with a role model, someone to show him that real men didn’t have to resort to violence to get their way, that he could rise above his beginnings if he stayed in school, applied himself and didn’t give up.

Like a genie escaping a bottle, an image of Gavin popped into her mind. With absolute clarity, she recalled the warmth that had crept into his voice when he’d talked about the older man who’d helped him get started in the hotel business.

Transfixed, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. Of course! What Brett and the rest of her kids needed were mentors. People who came from similar backgrounds, who’d faced some of the same things they confronted every day and had succeeded, anyway. What’s more, Gavin would be the absolutely perfect match for Brett.

She tried to push the idea away, but it wouldn’t budge.

Yet lodged with it was the recollection of the coolness that had been in Gavin’s voice when he’d spoken to her, the reserve with which he’d treated her, the hurried way he’d said goodbye the instant it was politely feasible. A dull ache blossomed in the region of her heart as she faced a truth she’d been trying to avoid for hours.

Whatever feelings he’d once had for her were dead. The best thing she could do for both of them was keep her distance so they could both get on with their lives.

And yet, if he could help Brett…

She instinctively glanced heavenward. “I don’t know if this is part of Your plan for me, but I’m not making any promises,” she warned Him, her feelings as tangled as a ball of yarn tossed into a roomful of kittens. “Except that I’ll think about it.”

For now that would have to be enough.

A nun.

Gavin stared unseeingly at the columns of January revenue figures laid out on his desk.

A nun. The word—and all it implied—had been rattling around in his head for the past four days, surfacing at odd moments to ruin his concentration.

And he was damned if he knew why. After all, as he’d proved at Nick’s wedding reception, Colleen meant nothing to him.