Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  Gray didn't really give a damn who Rosie married but he did admit to feeling a bit of satisfaction over the knowledge that Stefan Meyer ranked below Gray on practically every Most Eligible Bachelor list. Rosie had given up, in a fashion. Thank God.

  Not seeing Danny, Gray turned to Rosie, who was giving him the most pitying, pathetic look. “I must admit,” Gray told her, clasping her left hand between both of his, feeling the diamond dig against his palm, “that I was ... stunned. Absolutely stunned, Rosie. What a catch I let slip through my fingers."

  Rosie blinked in obvious surprise.

  Gray sighed dramatically. “Really a pity. Such a pity. But you enjoy Stefan now, Rosie, and I will somehow survive in my barren, lonely—” Gray abruptly turned his head, attracted by the petite redhead he had glimpsed out of the corner of his eye: a pixie of a redhead, her back to him, leaning on one of the wrought-iron railings in the lobby and looking down into the brook.

  Aubrey.

  "Gray, is that really how you—"

  Gray dropped Rosie's hand abruptly, turning fully toward Aubrey and blinking in disbelief.

  Aubrey.

  What amazed him primarily was not that she had, by some chance circumstance, turned up in the lobby of his hotel, nor that he had recognized her the instant he laid eyes on her, but that his body practically sighed at the sight of her. He felt as if he was finally taking his first deep breath in months, and for a second he was riveted there, just staring at the back of a tiny redhead who'd happened through his lobby.

  Aubrey.

  Her hair was a trifle longer but still cut in that jagged, flyaway manner that looked sexy as hell spread over a pillow, tucked under a Red Sox cap, clutched in his hands.

  Gray realized that he wasn't breathing quite steadily and his palms were sweaty and it was all because of some girl he'd slept with somehow miraculously resurfacing in his life.

  Women did that all the time—Rosie being Exhibit A—so why was it that all of a sudden he was reacting like this? Maybe he was getting too damned old for one night stands anymore. Or maybe it was just that he really wanted to ask her about Curt Schilling in the rotation.

  "Gray!” said Rosie, and she sounded irritated.

  He ignored her and tried to determine whether he should go up to Aubrey. He had slunk out of her room before dawn. Maybe she wouldn't be happy to see him. Maybe she would be delighted to see him. It was the possibility that there would be delight—those wide, enchanting blue eyes filled with delight for him—that sent him forward.

  "Gray,” Rosie snapped at him, but he ignored her, went to stand beside Aubrey, said her name just once.

  Aubrey knew. She'd known the moment when his gaze had first landed on her, had felt the hairs prick on the back of her neck. She hadn't pegged the sensation as Gray, not until his shadow fell over the brook in front of her and her heart raced and her breath caught in her throat and she could feel the heat of him and then she wanted to weep.

  Gray.

  Of all the hotels in Vegas, why should she and Gray be in the same lobby at the same time? She could die of mortification, and she took her time looking up, and then wished she hadn't, because Gray had looked quite amazing enough in a Nixon jersey. But he was downright illegally attractive in a suit.

  "Gray,” she said, and tried to flicker a smile at him.

  Gray stuck his hands in his pockets. “How are you?” he asked stupidly.

  "I'm fine. How are you?"

  "I'm fine.” He could think of nothing else to say, cleared his throat and rocked onto his heels and then onto the balls of his feet.

  He's seen me naked, she thought. Not only had he seen her naked, but he had seen her naked and drunk and she had done stupid things like try to perform a striptease.

  Of all the hotels in Vegas...

  She might as well just die right now of mortification. She took in his handsome suit, a pale pearl gray that brought out both the dark sheen of his untidy hair and also the gray edge in his blue eyes. “You work here,” she concluded glumly.

  "Yeah. Are you staying here?"

  Hands in his pockets, she watched him rock backward and forward again. Was he nervous? Maybe so. She probably was supposed to stay compartmentalized in his mental file of Non-Vegas Life. “Yes,” she confirmed, with a smile that was ironic on both their behalves.

  "Uh, for how long?"

  "I'm not—"

  "I mean, we could have dinner. If you'd like to have dinner. We could have dinner."

  Oh, yeah, just what they needed. To have dinner. Clearly that would not be awkward.

  "I don't believe I've met your friend, Gray.” The woman draped herself over Gray's shoulder. One of those impossibly beautiful male-fantasy women that men drooled over. Almost as tall as Gray, with a head of wild dark red hair and breasts that deserved their own zip code.

  Gray shrugged the model off his shoulder. “Give us a second, would you?” he demanded almost crossly and before Aubrey realized what he intended to do, his hand was clamped around her upper arm and he was practically dragging her beside him to the other side of the lobby.

  She would have struggled. Maybe she should have struggled. And she tried to tell herself that she didn't struggle because she knew it would have been useless. He was much, much stronger than her.

  But she really didn't struggle because his hand was hot and inexcusably familiar on her skin and her stupid body was busy deciding that maybe dinner with Gray wouldn't be such a bad idea.

  He dropped his hand and she glanced at her arm, expecting to see a red imprint of his touch, because she certainly felt as if he'd scalded her.

  "So,” he said calmly. “Sorry about that. I wanted to know if—"

  If Gray worked here, and she was going to be living here until the portrait was finished, it was not a good idea to take him up on dinner. He was probably offering out of some sense of shame, anyhow.

  And even if he wasn't, even if he thought it would be an obscene amount of fun to get her into bed again—did he think that? wouldn't it be lovely to find out!—she couldn't have a quick fling and then face him every day. She had only had the fling in the first place because she thought she'd never see him again.

  And certainly he felt the same way. Of course he did.

  "You don't have to be polite, Gray. I understand the rules of the game. I'm not angry."

  "Angry? The rules of what game?"

  "As if you didn't make your game pretty damn apparent when you crept out without saying good-bye.” She held up a hand to head off the protest he started to voice. “I'm not angry. Really I'm not angry. Because I happen to agree with you. It was supposed to be one night. We don't need to stretch it out and have awkward conversations over dinner. But it was really very chivalrous of you to at least think to make the effort. Really very gallant. You'll excuse me."

  Gray, for one of the very few times in his life, was absolutely speechless. He watched her walk away, saw her walking away, and knew he should say something to get her back, but could think of nothing to say. Really, he was still trying to process what she had said. So the only thing he called out was, “Enjoy your stay!” If God were kind, He would take pity and strike him dead for his idiocy.

  Aubrey, without breaking stride, waved a hand at him. Her short red hair bounced jauntily with every step she took, until she was swallowed quickly into the crowd. Gray frowned, stuck his hands in his pockets, and rocked on his heels.

  "Who was that?” Rosie demanded, crossing her arms.

  Rosie. He'd forgotten about Rosie. He blinked to refocus on her, left his frown in place. “Since she's not sleeping with your husband, her identity doesn't seem to be relevant to you, does it?"

  Rosie narrowed her eyes. Then she unsheathed her claws and fought back. “Doesn't seem like she's sleeping with you either. In fact,” she went on, full of blithe unconcern, “I think that's the first time I've ever seen a woman walk away from Gray Delamonte."

  "She didn't walk away."

  "No, yo
u're right. She practically ran."

  "She—"

  "Nothing sadder than an aging playboy who's losing his touch, Gray. See you, sexy.” She winked at him as she sashayed off, carefully flipping her hair down her back.

  Gray glared after her, lanced in the direction Aubrey had disappeared, and decided he'd had enough of women. He was done with them.

  "I was looking for you,” Danny said, coming up to him. “The slot machine returns—"

  "I want you to run a search for the name Aubrey."

  So much for being done with women.

  Danny blinked. “Huh? Aubrey? A search of what?"

  "People staying in this hotel. Reservations."

  "Aubrey's a first name or a last name?"

  "First name."

  "What's the last name?"

  "I don't know."

  "You want me to search for someone named Aubrey staying in this hotel?” Danny clarified.

  "Yeah."

  Danny paused. Then he said, “The slot machine returns—"

  "Well, are you going to do it?” Gray demanded.

  "Run a search of reservations for this person named Aubrey?"

  "Yeah."

  "No. Listen—"

  "No?” Gray echoed in his sternest tone of voice.

  Danny sighed heavily. “Aubrey. That's a female name?"

  "Yeah."

  "What do you want me to find out about this woman?"

  "How long she's staying here."

  "No. The guest list at the Bienvenue is not your own personal dating service, Gray."

  "I know this girl."

  "You don't even know her last name. I'm not running searches on the reservations so you can follow some hunch. Chase her the old-fashioned way. Are you ready to hear about the slot returns?"

  "No. You're a bad employee."

  "I'm a damn good employee, as you'll recall when you don't get voted out for violating our guests’ privacy. The slot returns are up again."

  "Again? Dammit. We just had them come fix it."

  "I know."

  Gray sighed. “Check around the other casinos. See if it's some sort of problem with the computer program itself. Maybe these people don't know how to fix it."

  "You got it,” said Danny.

  Gray watched him walk away, then slipped over to the Employees Only door, swiped his ID card, and used the service elevator to go to the center of Bienvenue's security operation, where Mark Dailey was settled in a chair, eyes flickering over television screens that lined the room, showing various pictures of events in the hotel and casino. He glanced up when Gray walked into the room and said, “Hey."

  "I need you to do something slightly shady for me,” Gray announced without preamble, perching on Mark's desk. Mark looked up and Gray had to laugh. “Don't look so alarmed. It's nothing really. I was talking to a girl earlier in the lobby."

  "I saw you.” Mark nodded toward one of the screens. “She didn't look too thrilled to death with you."

  "I need you to figure out how long she's staying here."

  "Why?"

  "So I can figure out how much time I have to convince her to have dinner with me."

  "I repeat. She didn't look too thrilled to death with you."

  "I know. So she's presenting a bit of a challenge.” Gray shrugged lightly.

  "Do you even know her name?” asked Mark.

  "Aubrey."

  "Aubrey what?"

  "Well, I don't know her last name."

  "So you want me to spy on some girl whose last name you don't even know just so you can prove to yourself that you haven't lost your touch."

  "I know for a fact that I haven't lost my touch. I've already slept with the girl. I'm trying to apologize for my behavior after I slept with her."

  "Ah,” Mark realized. “That would be why she didn't look too thrilled to death with you."

  "Don't you think that she deserves a proper apology from me?” Gray tried to look as penitent as possible.

  "I think she should run as quickly as she can in the other direction.” But Mark's hands were moving over the central keyboard, fleetly wending their way through the hotel's databases. “No Aubreys."

  Gray leaned over Mark's shoulder, peering at the computer screen. “None at all?"

  "None at all. Apparently it's not the most popular name."

  Gray frowned. “She's here with a guy then."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Well, the room must be in his name."

  "Or she's here with female friends. Another possibility is that Aubrey is not her real name."

  "You think she used a nom de plume?” Gray asked skeptically.

  "A nom de sex."

  "She didn't use a nom de sex."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because she looks like an Aubrey.” He couldn't deal with the thought that her name wasn't Aubrey. He had been associating the name with copper-haired pixies in his head. She was too much of Aubrey to suddenly become another name.

  "Well, my friend.” Mark leaned back in his seat. “Looks like you've hit a dead end."

  Gray frowned at the television screens that lined Mark's office. “If she comes across one of those screens, call me right away."

  "You have more important things to do than chase this girl, Gray,” Mark reminded him, looking openly amused.

  "I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I really don't."

  Mark chuckled. “Get out. If Danny finds out I'm doing illegal things for you, he'll fire me."

  Gray paused on his way out of the office. “You know Danny can't fire you, right? I'm the person who does the firing and the hiring around here."

  "Not what Danny says,” Mark replied.

  "Danny and I have to do some clarifying,” grumbled Gray on the way out.

  * * * *

  February 11, 2004

  "So have you been on any dates since your divorce?"

  The thing about Moira Scott Lowenby was that she didn't waste any time. She was blunt. She asked what she wanted to ask without preamble. Aubrey's hand actually slipped, but luckily, she was only painting the background of the picture a lovely grayish-green color whose hue Moira had chosen.

  They were not even close to the serious business of portrait-painting but Aubrey had recognized almost immediately in Moira Lowenby a kindred spirit: a woman who was essentially lonely. Despite the fact that she lived in luxury, had children she obviously adored, had lived a life that any ordinary person would deem fascinating, at the end of the day Moira was just lonely.

  She loved to talk. She had insisted that Aubrey be in her suite endlessly, while she was painting, while she wasn't painting, totally unnecessarily. Not that Aubrey really minded. She didn't know anyone in Vegas. Well, other than Gray. And hiding out in Moira's suite meant she could avoid running into Gray.

  She had left things, she thought, so splendidly. Walking away so firmly. Without even tripping! She was determined to have that be Gray's last impression of her. A self-possessed, confident woman walking away from him, totally not shattered by the fact that he'd crept out before dawn since, really, she had only asked him for a one-night stand and why should she blame him for taking advantage of that?

  And did one-night stands even count as dates?

  "Not really,” answered Aubrey, carefully fixing the abrupt paint stroke Moira's question had provoked.

  "No, Kaye told me you hadn't."

  The one real problem with this job was that Moira and Kaye had apparently taken to discussing her behind her back. Aubrey sent Moira a dry glance over the top of the canvas she was working on, and was struck anew by the woman's downright exquisiteness.

  She had pale skin that glowed like fine porcelain in sunlight, dark, rich, glossy hair that she wore in a pageboy that managed to be beautifully feminine, a pair of green eyes shaded with a gray that was almost like smoke curling its way through, rendering her mysterious and aloof when she was anything but.

  Aubrey thought she purposely cultivat
ed the unapproachable air, but it quickly vanished when you actually sat down and talked with the woman one on one. But she'd been given haughty, cool features, a mask of a face—and she used it for what it was worth. She had also been given a lithe, slender figure blessed with hints of curves that made Aubrey jealous. If she could look half so good now, she ... well, she would have had sex more than once since her divorce.

  "Men can be bastards,” continued Moira, studying the shade of bright red on her manicured nails. “I know that better than anybody. My first husband ran off when our baby was six weeks old. I never saw him again. And Simon...” Moira sighed heavily. “Well, Simon was Simon. Charming as hell. I never was very good at keeping immune to all that charm. And then he found himself a stripper. After that, I found his charm a bit revolting."

  "With reason,” agreed Aubrey, dipping her paintbrush into the paint she had mixed.

  "You would be perfect for my son,” Moira announced.

  Oh, no. And now she was getting fixed up. “I really don't think—"

  "You might be a little older than him but he's really very mature for his age."

  "Older than him?” Aubrey echoed. “How old is he?"

  "Twenty-four."

  To Aubrey, who had attained what she felt was the inexcusably old age of twenty-eight, twenty-four sounded like the boy was still a babe in arms. “Moira, it's nice of you to—"

  "I don't mean, of course, that you have to marry him. A fling would do you good. It was after my second husband died that I had the fling with Bob. Redford,” she clarified needlessly. “And that was just what the doctor ordered. Doug's very good with flings. Come to think of it,” Moira said, smiling a little self-deprecatingly, “all the men I know seem to be very good with flings."

  "Again, Moira, I appreciate the effort, but—"

  "Now, Aubrey. You don't know anybody in Vegas. Doug could take you to all the hot spots. You could meet more people your age. It seems silly for you to spend all your time hanging out with an old woman like me."

  "But it's not ... I mean, it's really not—"

  "I'll have Doug pick you up at seven."

  Because she wasn't busy, because Moira was right and she knew no one in Vegas, she said, “Doug's probably busy. I don't want to—"