Sleeping Beauty's Billionaire. Caroline Cross

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