"What do you want to know about him?"
"Come with me to the exhibit hall, will you?"
Oh, hell. Aubrey wished for patience. She wished the Red Sox hadn't lost the night before. She wished Gray had turned out to be a little more of a gentleman. And maybe not quite so good in bed. Sighing, she stood up.
Karla gave her a look that Aubrey could read easily. Get in a better mood. Now. Aubrey decided she didn't much care if her ex-husband Paul took the brunt of her bad mood.
"So did you have a nice trip?” Paul asked politely as they walked together to the exhibit hall.
And now he wanted to make small talk. Terrific. “I had a horrible trip, Paul. A supremely horrible trip. I don't want to talk about it.” But even as she said it, she wondered what Paul would do if she told him that she'd had sex with another man last night. Paul would blink those huge frog eyes of his and look disappointed in her.
Paul, she realized almost in shock, was a tiny man. She'd never thought of him like that. But if he stood next to Gray, she thought Gray would be able to crush him with just his bad foot. Paul was bigger than Aubrey but that wasn't terribly difficult.
He just wasn't ... He just wasn't ... He didn't make her feel as deliciously feminine as Gray had made her feel. Small and delicate and graceful and female and yet powerful all at once. Maybe another reason why her marriage to Paul had fallen apart. Maybe he hadn't made her feel enough like a woman.
Paul ignored what she said, which was typical for him. “The thing about this Monet exhibit is,” he said as they pushed through the doors into the room and then he stopped talking, as if this thing should be obvious.
Which, sadly enough, it was, because he'd told her six or seven times before already. “You don't like the way I've placed the paintings."
Paul looked pleased. “Oh, so you agree?"
"No, I don't agree. We've had this discussion before.” Aubrey paced the length of the exhibit, through the many small interlocking rooms that in a few days’ time would hold the paintings.
Most of the paintings had arrived. A few had not. She would have to start supervising their hanging. But for now she had scrawled their titles on pieces of masking tape on the walls. She had been living with these paintings so long that if she closed her eyes, she could clearly see each of them lined up. It was going to be a magnificent show.
Paul was an idiot.
"I think all the haystacks should be together."
"I don't want all the haystacks to be together,” she countered. “If you put them all together, they're just a bunch of paintings of haystacks. If you put a little space between them, you see each of them as a painting, not just an example of a series of paintings."
"But they are a series of paintings,” Paul pointed out.
"I agree. But for this exhibit, we are just going to see what happens if we don't think of them that way."
"The same for the water lilies, I suppose?” His mouth was formed in a disapproving smirk.
"Yes, the same for the water lilies. Paul, do you think it's possible that I can have this exhibit the way every other curator in this museum gets to have their exhibits?"
Paul blinked in surprise. “What do you mean?"
"Without you breathing over their shoulders at every turn."
"It's breathing down their necks."
"Oh, don't be so literal. You know what I mean.” She was spoiling for a fight and she decided she was going to get one. “You don't really give a damn about the placement of the paintings. You helped me get the Monets; your job is done. I'll run this exhibit from here on out."
"With all due respect, Aubrey. I can't have it look like I'm giving you special treatment."
She arched a sarcastic eyebrow. “You are giving me special treatment. By not treating me like everyone else."
He ignored her. “It already looks suspicious that I'm giving you this enormous show. Violet hasn't had a show in—"
"Violet deals with nineteenth-century wallpaper, Paul. Monet sells tickets. It's not my fault that I chose Impressionism as my field of—"
"That's another thing. The fact that you went over my head to Louis when you knew I—"
"I knew you wouldn't give me the show because you're upset with me for getting alimony. I had to go to Louis."
Paul's brown eyebrows drew together at the mention of alimony, as they always did. “I have gone out of my way to be fair to you."
"This is what you call fair? Questioning every decision I make? How can I be expected to work this way?"
"Speaking of decisions, you approved Garamond as the typeface for the programs."
If it had been anyone but Paul, she would have thought he was joking. But Paul was deadly serious. Paul didn't have a sense of humor. “You have a problem with the typeface I chose?"
"Garamond doesn't seem French."
"Doesn't seem French?” she repeated, incredulous.
"Also it isn't quite ... elegant enough. This museum has a reputation to uphold, Aubrey."
"Garamond isn't elegant enough? What, pray tell, would be elegant enough?” She put her hands on her hips and gave him her best haughty look.
"I'll fix the typeface issue for you,” he told her soothingly. “Don't worry about it, Aubrey."
"You're right,” she heard herself saying. “I won't worry about it. You're so concerned about this show, you run it, Paul.” Then she was walking out of the exhibit hall, back down the corridors toward her office.
"Hey,” said Paul sharply from behind her. “That isn't my job, Aubrey. That's your job."
She actually laughed. “Oh, not anymore. I quit."
* * * *
"The St. Paul Bienvenue could use the trout fishing convention, Gray. It doesn't get much business."
"In St. Paul? A luxury hotel in St. Paul doesn't get much business? This is actually amazing to me."
Diane Halliwell didn't look like she appreciated his sarcasm.
"All right, bring the rates down for them and I'll approve them. We should maybe think about selling the St. Paul Bienvenue."
"Won't look good for the company if we start selling hotels, Gray,” she answered.
"No, but—Come in!” he called to whoever was knocking on the door of his suite. Danny poked his head around it and Gray waved him in. “To make this hotel profitable, I think we'd have to lower rates, and if we lower rates, we dilute the Bienvenue name, right?” Gray poured himself another cup of coffee and hoped that the caffeine would start to kick in soon.
"The St. Paul Bienvenue doesn't need to be profitable,” said Diane with a grin. “That's why we have the Las Vegas Bienvenue."
Gray grinned back and waved his hand. “Go. I need to attend to the Las Vegas Bienvenue now."
"Hi, Danny,” Diane said to him on the way out.
"Hi, Diane,” he replied cordially.
"I appreciate your patience, Danny,” Gray told him. “Diane wanted to talk to me. I thought it was important.” Gray took the folder Danny held out and sat on his couch, propping up his swollen foot.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Huh?” Gray asked blankly, glancing up from the folder.
"You're limping."
"Oh.” Gray glared down at his foot, which had not appreciated the airplane flight, first class or no. “I ... did something to my foot in Boston."
"Did what?"
"Okay, I kicked a wall. Let's not talk about it."
"Diane have something important to say?"
"No. Trout fishing. Whatever. The profits from the slots are up three percent again."
"Right."
Gray frowned thoughtfully at the figure. “That's our...?"
"Sixth straight month,” Danny supplied.
"Oh, what the hell.” Gray pinched the bridge of his nose and forced himself to think past his exhaustion.
"You want to wait? It could still right itself."
"We're pretty consistently coming out ahead here.” Casinos didn't operate like that. Odds didn't sudde
nly change. Especially not on slots, which were set by computers to give a certain return. He'd been waiting for the odds to right themselves. They didn't seem to want to cooperate. “Break down the slot machine returns by manufacturer."
"You think it's a programming glitch?"
"Probably.” He handed the folder back to Danny. “How'd Doug do?"
Danny smiled brightly. “Great."
"Oh, God,” Gray said, realization dawning. “You're going easy on him because he's my little brother."
"I'm going easy on him because you've got a blind spot for the kid, and I've worked with you long enough to know that you eventually shake yourself out of blind spots. So you'll come out of it in time. Until then, it's not like the kid's a disaster. He's just not interested."
"My mother says he's not interested because I don't give him enough of a chance."
"When did your mother get her degree in psychology?"
"I think when she had children,” Gray replied.
"We had a guy come in and hit us up for three million at blackjack."
Gray whistled in appreciation. “Good for him."
"Right. I told Doug, and he had no reaction at all. Not ‘Dear God, we must keep him playing and win back the money'. And not ‘We must get him to walk away before he loses it all back'."
"You chose the latter, right?"
"Of course I chose the latter."
"Good man.” For the amount of money the casino raked in daily, they could afford to give three million to somebody who probably needed it. Gray had his millions in the bank. He thought others should also get the chance. And it was the kind of word of mouth publicity that money just couldn't buy. “I miss anything else?"
"There was a fight in the, uh,” Danny cleared his throat, “sports book."
"Don't tell me. Red Sox-Yankee fans. I don't want to talk about the game."
"Okay. Then we're basically done here. Everything's running smoothly."
"Good. Thanks for covering for me last night, dealing with Doug."
"Doug was so quiet I didn't even know he was around. You staying in here the rest of the day or going to the office?"
"Here.” Gray gestured to his foot. “We're resting."
A knock came at the door and Gray's mother walked in familiarly, smiling at Danny. “Hello, Danny. Are we making money?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lowenby,” Danny told her, bobbing his head with the nervous respect the employees gave his mother seemingly automatically and, notably, did not give Gray. Not that it had ever seemed to affect the way he ran the company. He commanded respect. He just also, apparently, encouraged familiarity without even knowing it.
"Good to know.” She looked at Gray. “I'll come back later, then?"
"No, we're through here, Mrs. Lowenby,” said Danny, and closed the door behind him.
"Not feeling well, darling?” she asked Gray, leaning over to kiss his forehead.
"What do you think?” he grumbled, out-of-sorts.
"I am sorry.” She sat in the chair opposite him with a little smile. “I watched from home."
"It was awful. Painful. Devastating. I'm swearing off baseball."
His mother chuckled. “How much did you lose?"
"I only bet a thousand."
"That's good. You were strutting around here so much I was convinced you'd bet the whole corporation on the Red Sox winning."
"That was the problem. I was way too overconfident. I forgot that I root for the Red Sox."
"You know what Hugh would say?"
Gray sighed. “No, what would Hugh say?"
"He would say that you don't root for the Red Sox because you like winning—you root for them because it proves that you are a loyal person, worthy of friendship and the affection of others."
"You know why Hugh said that? Because he rooted for a team that never wins."
His mother looked amused. “My, we are in a mood today."
"I would take winning in a New York minute."
"Or a Boston minute."
"Unfortunate turn of phrase there.” But Gray was thinking. The mention of his stepfather had him wondering what had happened to the cap. What had he done with it?
"Other than the game, are you feeling okay?"
Gray looked at her in surprise, leaving aside the issue of the baseball cap for a second. “I'm fine. Why do you ask?"
"I've never heard of you working out of the suite before. I stopped by your office first and when they told me, I confess I was concerned."
"I'm fine. I hurt my foot."
"Hurt it how?” she asked, sounding a little alarmed. “Should the hotel doctor come up?"
"No. It's not that bad. It just didn't like the flight. And I'm just tired today. Not much sleep.” A little too much to drink. Exhausting marathon sessions of truly fantastic sex. Red Sox loss.
It had not exactly been a relaxing twenty hours.
"That's because you're thirty-six,” his mother chided. “You are too old to fly from one end of the country to the other and back again in the space of a single day. You should get married and have children and shift a little of your responsibility to Doug."
The marriage and children thing Gray ignored as he always did. But he focused on the Doug thing. “About Doug..."
"What about Doug? I thought he did a splendid job last night.” His mother fairly beamed.
"That isn't what Danny said."
His mother's frown would have had Danny quivering in nervousness. Gray was old enough not to even notice it anymore. “What could Danny have had to complain about? I think Danny's jealous. Danny will be getting the board to vote you out—"
"Danny's not going to do any such thing. I trust Danny. I trust his judgment. He says Doug's not interested in taking a more active role in the company."
"You trust Danny more than you trust your mother?” She lifted her eyebrows in a gesture she'd perfected and that, when he had been a child, he'd felt like a physical slap.
"Is Doug telling you that he wants to be more involved in the company?"
"Of course he's telling me that, Gray!” she exclaimed.
"Well, why doesn't he tell me that? If he's so grown up that he wants a piece of the company, he should be grown up enough not to have his mother doing his errands."
"Gray. You're being harsh. He's frightened of you."
"Oh, yeah. I forgot how threatening I am."
"He's frightened of you because he worships you. You're his big brother. You don't understand because you don't have a big brother."
"Neither do you,” Gray pointed out.
"But I have two sons. And Doug is terrified of you because he thinks you're the most brilliant man on earth. He's terrified of asking you for a chance and letting you down. If you would just believe in him, Gray—"
"I believe in him, Mom. I just also think that he's twenty-four. He can help with the company, he can. But maybe he's just a kid, Mom. Maybe he should just—"
"Just sit around and do nothing like you did?"
Gray blinked at her. “I was a Rhodes scholar,” he reminded her.
"Yes. And I was very proud. I still am. But it wasn't exactly useful, Gray, now was it? And Doug has it in his head that you thought his father was useless—"
"Now why would he think that? Simon was extremely useful. He was very useful at spending any excess money we had lying around. And he turned out to be damn useful when it came to abandoning his children. Today, Mom, would not be the best day to have me pretend that your taste in husbands is brilliant."
"Apparently not,” she remarked, unfazed—although why should she be? She had heard it all before. Gray had adored his first stepfather but had despised his second, and he had never been shy about it. “It's just that Doug worries you'll transfer that opinion onto him."
"Because obviously I believe sons turn out just like their fathers?” Gray lifted a scathing eyebrow.
"Not everyone is as wonderfully practical as you are, Gray."
His phone rang and he looke
d at it where it sat on the sideboard, then looked back at his mother. “Do you think you could get that? My foot...” he explained, gesturing.
Sighing, she stood and picked up the phone. “Hello? Yes, he's here.” She held the phone out. “Mark."
"Oh.” Gray took it. “Hello, Detective."
"Hello, Chairman,” Mark Dailey answered. “I'm coming by at about five o'clock. You up to losing a boxing match miserably?"
Gray looked at his foot. “No, actually."
"Scared?"
"Injured. I hurt my foot."
"How'd you do that?"
"Long story,” Gray said as he waved in Lucy Moncrief, his casino host.
"Can you do dinner?” Mark asked. “Monica said she'd cook."
Gray watched Lucy make small talk with his mother. Lucy, he had to admit, was one of the only employees who was totally unfazed by the grandiosity of Moira Scott Lowenby. “Dinner I can do. I'll meet you downstairs at seven."
"That works,” said Mark, and hung up.
Gray handed the phone to his mother, who'd waited for it and hung it back up for him. “I'll talk to Doug,” he said.
"Thank you. I just want you to give him a chance."
"Mom, I'll give him a million and one chances. You know I will. He ought to know it, too. It's just that I don't think that this is really what he wants. I think it's what he thinks he should want."
"Just make sure you're positive with him,” she told him.
Gray didn't bother to suppress his sigh.
"I'm going to leave Lucy to your wonderful mood."
"Thanks,” said Lucy, quirking a smile after his mother. Then she quirked that same smile at him, raising an eyebrow. “Family problems?"
"Always. What have you got for me?"
"Just a quick heads-up. Dennis Halcourt approached me about gambling here."
"Dennis Halcourt approached you?” Not only was it unusual for the player and not the casino to do the wooing, Gray wasn't anxious to start a relationship with Dennis Halcourt. He may have been one of the richest men in the country, but Gray, who had met him on several occasions, thought the money came from mostly unsavory enterprises. The fact that nothing had been pinned on him yet just credited how much money he made in the enterprises.
"I can give him the cold shoulder,” suggested Lucy.
Twenty Hours in Boston Page 5
