Sleeping Beauty's Billionaire Read online

  And he certainly hadn’t lived like a monk while he’d done it. In the time since he and Colleen had parted ways, he’d dated his share of women. Most of them, at least lately, tended to be either up-and-coming actresses, members of what was left of European aristocracy or international supermodels.

  So maybe he should try not to act like some petulant kid; maybe he could even see his way clear to give little Ms. Barone a break. After all, there was a chance, slight though it was, that he might not be where he was if she hadn’t chosen to stomp on his heart all those years ago.

  “Dance with me,” he said abruptly as the band struck up a new song.

  Her eyes widened and for a second something that looked almost like panic gleamed in their sapphire depths. “I beg your pardon?”

  What the hell. So he wasn’t a saint; but what could it hurt if by acting like an adult he also gave her a taste of what she’d thrown away? He deliberately softened his voice. “Dance with me, Colleen. Please?”

  She hesitated another instant, then her face smoothed out as she apparently decided he was now upwardly mobile enough to warrant her attention. “All right.” Flashing him a quick smile he might have deemed shyly beguiling had she been anyone else, she headed for the dance floor.

  He fell in behind her. Refusing to debate the wisdom of what he was doing, he forced himself to concentrate on the slow but catchy beat of the love song the band was crooning—and not the supple line of her back. By the time they reached the outer circle of dancers, he was ready. Taking Colleen’s slender hand in his much bigger one, he slid his other palm to rest on the small of her back, pressed her close and led her into the dance.

  Given the awkwardness of their reunion, the acrimony of their former parting and the disparity of their heights, their coming together should have been more than a little graceless.

  Instead, from their first step they were perfectly matched, melting together in a rhythm that was as instinctive as breathing—or sex.

  “Oh, my,” Colleen murmured.

  “What?” Even to his own ears, he sounded a little terse, but then, the last thing he’d expected was the pleasure that was currently sizzling along his nerves.

  “I’d just…forgotten.” She raised her chin and met his gaze, an unexpected and oddly self-effacing expression on her fine-boned face. “It’s been a long time since I danced. I’d forgotten how nice it is.”

  Nice? That was the last word he’d use to describe the awareness tingling through him like ungrounded electricity. “Yeah. Right.”

  She cocked her head. “When did you finally learn?”

  “What?”

  “To dance. As I recall, you didn’t…before.”

  Now there was a diplomatic choice of words. For a second he was tempted to make her squirm, to politely inquire, “Do you mean before you discarded me like yesterday’s newspaper, with no more explanation than we didn’t suit and you didn’t want to see me anymore?”

  But then he reminded himself of his decision not to be petty. Which was no doubt good since a second later the band launched into a complicated instrumental riff that sounded as if it might keep them together longer than he’d been counting on.

  What wasn’t good was the discovery that he wanted in the worst way to look away from Colleen’s gaze so that he could bury his face in the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulder and drink her in, inhale her scent, taste her skin, savor the flavor of her on his tongue. Just like that, any sort of distraction, including conversation, seemed like a damn good idea. “I took lessons. Arthur Murray.”

  “You’re kidding.” She couldn’t hide her amazement.

  Annoyed and not sure why, except that it pissed him off royally to be lusting after a woman he didn’t like, he retorted, “I’m dead serious. Elliot insisted.”

  “Elliot?”

  Terrific. If ever there was a subject he didn’t care to discuss with her, this was it. “Elliot Sutherland,” he said repressively. Determined to distract her long enough to retake control of the conversation, not to mention his treacherous body, he executed a complicated series of steps.

  She followed effortlessly, not missing a beat. “I apologize if I ought to recognize his name, but I don’t,” she said easily. “Is he a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  She continued to look at him, the picture of interest—and endless patience. Clearly, she wasn’t going to drop the subject.

  “Elliot was my boss.” And the closest thing to a father I ever had. Not that she needed to know that. Or would care if she did. “He owned the Independence Hotel downtown and he gave me my first real job in the business.” Not to mention the mantle of his chosen successor. Thanks to Elliot’s having noticed Gavin’s savvy business mind and solid work ethic, today Gavin stood before Colleen a wealthy hotelier with five-star lodgings all over the country. He’d done his best to make Elliot proud, adding hotels to the chain over the years. But he never lost sight of his humble beginnings.

  “Elliot’s and my backgrounds were similar, so he took an interest in me. In addition to teaching me everything I know about business, he also insisted I learn some other things.”

  “Like how to dance?” she said softly.

  “Yeah. Like how to dance. And dress. And use the right fork and choose the right wine at dinner.” Try as he might, he just couldn’t keep the trace of sarcasm out of his voice. “Hell, he even made sure I’d know how to behave at a big society wedding.”

  She flinched, just as he’d intended. Yet rather than experiencing satisfaction, he felt more than a little ashamed of himself. Colleen might be a spoiled, social-conscious snob, but he was no bully. Nor was he likely to make her regret giving him up if he kept behaving like a callow jerk still smarting from a long-ago rejection.

  Which he wasn’t. He’d gotten past that a long time ago.

  Yeah? Then prove it. See if you can’t locate a little of the Irish charm Clarice and Caroline and Angelina and the rest of your dates are always prattling on about.

  He drew Colleen slightly closer. Ignoring the treacherous leap of his pulse, he swung her around and reversed direction as they reached the edge of the dance floor. “So what about you?” he inquired, doing his best to sound mildly curious and nothing more. “Did you get your teaching degree?” Given her chic little haircut and stylish suit, it was easy to imagine her teaching French or Nineteenth-Century Romantic Poets to a giggly group of teenage girls at some posh private school.

  Some of the tension left her body. “Yes, I did.”

  “So what are you doing these days?”

  “I run a counseling program for gifted but at-risk kids at Jefferson High.”

  He missed a step. “You what?” Surely he hadn’t heard her right.

  Her voice held a totally unexpected hint of wryness. “Don’t look so horrified.”

  “I’m not. Just…surprised.” That was putting it mildly. Jefferson was his alma mater, a tough school in an even tougher neighborhood. Given Colleen’s privileged, sheltered, parochial-school background, he would’ve thought she was joking if not for the calm, steady way she was gazing up at him. “When did you start?” Even if she was being serious, surely this had to be something recent, some sort of fleeting, poor-little-rich-girl scheme to help the needy and downtrodden.

  “This is my third year.”

  For a moment he was so stunned he couldn’t think what to say. “And your family—your parents—are all right with it?” he finally managed. He simply couldn’t imagine the fashionable Moira Barone allowing such a thing.

  Colleen gave a slight shrug. “They’re not wild about it. But then, they were so over-wrought when I decided to leave the order that they consider my subsequent errors in judgment these last three years minor in comparison.”

  Her voice was so matter-of-fact it took a moment for her words to sink in. “You left… What order? What the hell are you talking about?”

  All solemn blue eyes, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I just assumed y
ou knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “After we broke up…and after college, I joined the Sisters of Charity. For seven years I was a nun.”

  Two

  “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 he
r 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.