"Because you're not acting at all like yourself, Gray. Why do you care whether Hannah's seeing anyone? I have been trying to set you up with her—with anyone—for the entirety of your life, and you have never expressed any interest. At all."
"I need a date for Valentine's Day. Let's call it a midlife crisis."
"Is this because that stupid tramp got married?"
"Who?” he asked blankly.
"Rosie. Because she was never even half good enough for you, Gray, and you're lucky you dodged that bullet."
"This isn't about Rosie. Not at all about Rosie."
His mother looked as if she didn't quite believe him, and maybe that was okay. Better, maybe, that this was about Rosie and not Aubrey. Because at least it might make a little bit of sense for this to be about Rosie. He had had some sort of relationship with Rosie. He had had one night with Aubrey. It was difficult to believe that one night had thrown his life this much out of sorts.
"Do you think Hannah will go out with me on Valentine's Day?” he asked, because he was tired of his mother looking at him so pityingly.
"Well, not if you ask her in that tone of voice. But I suppose I could feel out the Dunbars. Rumor has it that you are charming...” She arched an eyebrow, as if asking him for verification.
"I can be,” he retorted. “I'll handle my end of the date. You feel out the Dunbars, see if she's seeing anyone."
"Okay. I'll do it tomorrow. Speaking of which, I'd like for you to meet the woman who's painting my portrait."
Oh, God, thought Gray. His mother and her ridiculous follies: memoir-writing, portrait-painting. Driving him mad. But he smiled brightly. “Sure. I'll meet her."
"Tomorrow for dinner. At Pierre's. Seven."
"Eight is better. I'm sending Doug to St. Paul."
This gave his mother pause. He could tell. But she said, “We'll talk about it later. Now I'm on my way out."
"Where are you going?” Gray asked, as he held the door open for her.
"A mother has to have some secrets from her children, darling."
* * * *
"So, Gray—the man in the lobby—he's your brother?” Aubrey tried to sound innocent and disinterested as she asked.
"Mm-hmm. Try this.” Doug nudged a raw oyster over to her.
Aubrey detested oysters. But she took it and ate it only because she was trying to be sophisticated tonight. “Mmm, delicious,” she said perfunctorily. “He seemed upset."
"Yes, he did. You're not drinking your champagne, Aubrey,” he chided, now nudging the glass toward her.
She took a large, obedient sip. “You're not concerned about that?"
"About Gray being upset?"
"Yeah."
"Not particularly."
"So he's usually that upset?"
Doug frowned. “No, actually. Gray's seldom upset. Sophie and I spend the greater part of our time trying to bait him just because he so seldom loses his temper. He's been out-of-sorts lately. I think I just managed to be the person in the way."
"He's been out-of-sorts lately?” Aubrey prodded, taking another oyster so that Doug would keep talking about Gray and not get distracted by what she was or wasn't eating and imbibing.
"His girlfriend got married,” answered Doug. “Perhaps you'd like some caviar?"
"Oh,” said Aubrey. Then again, “Oh. His ... girlfriend got married."
"Yeah. Caviar?"
"He has a girlfriend."
"Well, had would be more accurate, I suppose. Aubrey, what does this—"
"Why did his girlfriend marry someone else? I mean, if she was dating him—"
"Look, Rosie was dating Gray for his money. Obviously. I mean, why else would a woman date Gray? It's not like he's tons of fun or anything. He's pretty boring, you know. Really strict. A stickler for rules. No fun at all."
"She found someone richer?” Aubrey guessed.
"I honestly don't know. More likely she found someone who didn't have a well-known aversion to the entire institution of marriage. Hard to get your hands on all that money when you're not legally recognized as a man's heir, now isn't it? The boring saga of Gray aside—"
"How long was he dating this girl? What did you say her name was?"
"Rosie. I don't know. A year, give or take. Off and on. Gray doesn't pay much attention to his personal life, and he certainly doesn't share details about it with me, so it's difficult to actually know. Are we going to talk about Gray all night?"
"I simply ... I ... It was just that he was so rude to you.” She decided that sounded like a believable lie. And better than, It's just that I've had sex with him and was wondering...
Doug smiled a wounded, long-suffering smile. “Tough being Gray Delamonte's little brother. But somehow I manage."
"Delamonte?” she echoed.
"That's Gray's last name. Different father, you know. He wants me to work with the hotels."
Gray Delamonte. Finally, after all this time, his full name. Gray Delamonte. It was really a nice name. Roll-off-your-tongue nice. Nicer last name than Thomas, it had to be admitted. And Aubrey Delamonte—and this was clearly just an academic exercise—sounded kind of nice.
"Well, maybe not so much Gray,” Doug was saying, frowning now. His face looked as if it seldom frowned, as if the muscles didn't quite know what they were supposed to be doing. “I mean, I think Gray couldn't care less whether or not I work with the hotels as long as I do something productive. My mother wants me to work with the hotels. I don't really know why. I really want to be a musician. That's why I'm so fascinated by how you got into art."
Aubrey vaguely heard the last part of what he said. Something about her going into art. “Huh?” she said.
Doug smiled. “I think you've already had too much champagne, babe."
Babe? Had he really just called her that?
"How did you get into art?” asked Doug, sipping his own champagne.
"I ... Well, it's actually a pretty long story—"
"We have all night,” Doug pointed out.
"Ah. True.” Aubrey felt this called for a smile in return. “But I'm not really ... I mean ... into art. I'm kind of trying it out."
"You mean my mother's portrait is your first portrait?"
"Not that I'm not a really good painter,” Aubrey corrected hastily. “And she isn't ... my first portrait.” Not really, Aubrey told herself. She had painted plenty of portraits for art classes in college. She was very well qualified for this.
"I play the clarinet,” said Doug.
Why the hell were they talking about this now? “That's nice,” said Aubrey.
"Not at all. It's pretty damn useless for being a musician. I mean, I don't want to be a concert clarinetist. Do they even have those?"
"Concert—?"
"I need to learn how to play the guitar. Or maybe the drums. You like the drums?"
"I like saxophones,” answered Aubrey honestly.
"That's not a bad idea,” mused Doug. “Saxophone. Another thing to put on the list. What I really do is write songs."
"Write songs?” echoed Aubrey.
Doug nodded. “I'm very good."
"I'm sure,” she agreed weakly.
"It's just that I haven't told anyone. I mean, Mom or ... Gray. I don't think they'd quite approve. Do you think they'd approve?"
"Oh, Doug, I don't really know—"
"I'll play some of my songs for you,” Doug decided brightly. “I mean, I can play them, and then I'll sing them. I can't do both at the same time because, well, I play the clarinet."
"Right,” said Aubrey.
"You sure you don't want some caviar?” asked Doug.
* * * *
"What do you mean, nothing?” snapped Markham on the other line of the phone.
Mark sighed as he pulled into the driveway of his house and turned off the car. He was tired. Sick to death of this assignment. And ready to kill Markham. “Nothing,” he repeated again. “Nothing. The same as I report every damn week. Nothing. He has ne
ver asked me to do anything even slightly shady. Oh, wait, he asked me to run a search of the guest reservations for some woman named Aubrey."
"Aubrey,” mused Markham. “I wonder if Halcourt—"
"Aubrey has no connection to Halcourt. Aubrey is some girl Gray wants to get into bed. He is not doing anything that even causes me to raise my eyebrows."
"So Delamont-ay is using the hotel guest list to seduce women, possibly?"
Maybe mentioning the Aubrey thing had been a mistake. He had thought it would be illustrative as what passed as shady at the Bienvenue.
"Gray is not seducing women. And he's not using the guest list at the Bienvenue for any purposes. He was joking about the Aubrey thing. It was a joke, Markham."
"You're missing something. You're probably purposely missing something."
"No, I'm not. I watch him like a hawk, Markham. I watch every move he makes. I've never seen him approach Halcourt. I've never seen him be anywhere or do anything that he hadn't already told me he was going to do. He's not hiding anything."
Mark grew more confident of this as the days went by. If Gray was hiding something, he was doing a damn good job and deserved to get away with it. Mark watched him constantly. Mark had watched his strange fit over Doug and Aubrey in the lobby, had watched him up the elevator until he had disappeared into the camera-free zone of his suite. Had watched him down the elevator until he had disappeared into the camera-free zone of his mother's suite. It was possible, of course, that all manner of illegal things were occurring in the family suites. Mark strongly doubted it.
"If you fail to find something here, Dailey—"
"I cannot manufacture evidence, Agent Markham. I hope you're not suggesting that I do."
"It's just that we're watching you. We know what you're doing."
"Good. Then you know that I'm doing my job.” Mark closed his cell phone without saying good-bye and quickly shut it off because he didn't want to deal with Markham anymore. Then he got out of his car and walked into the house.
Madison came barreling toward him, clutching her latest doll, and he lifted her up. She launched into a recitation of the amazing things she had done that day and he made encouraging sounds and found Monica making brownies in the kitchen.
"Hey,” he said. “Brownies? What occasion calls for this?"
Monica shook her head, smiling at him. “Nothing. Just in a happy mood today."
"Happy mood?” Mark repeated, and gave her a quick kiss. “Well, at least one of us is."
"Bad day?” she guessed, pouring the brownie mix into a pan.
"Not until just now."
"Daddy, baby thirty,” Madison told him, holding up her doll.
"Oh. Well, get her her bottle then.” He put her down, watched her race from the kitchen in search of the baby's bottle. Then yawning with a sudden exhaustion he hadn't noticed until just that moment, he said, “Tell me how your day was good."
"Kids cooperated at school. Madison has been lovely since then.” Monica slid the brownies into the oven then patted her protruding stomach. “And Dorian is sleeping."
"Gray's nixed the Dorian idea,” Mark informed her, sitting at the kitchen table.
"Gray has a say in the naming of our child now?” Monica inquired mildly, sitting in the seat opposite him.
"Gray says Dorian is a sissy name."
"And Gray's not?"
"It's not his fault he's named Gray. Anyhow, Gray told me that I should give up on the M names. And I will ... if you give up on the sissy names."
"Okay. Well, then, I have a suggestion."
"Let's hear it."
"Taylor."
"Taylor is a girl's name."
"No, it's not. Before we get off on this tangent, tell me why your day was so bad.” Madison came back into the room, singing her baby to sleep. Monica glanced at her then turned her attention back to Mark.
"It was—” Mark sighed, waving his hand. “Gray still hasn't committed murder or anything like that."
"So Markham's not happy."
"Markham's furious. He says I'm biased."
"Are you?” asked Monica.
"No. If anything, I think I'm too anxious to find something wrong. I can't believe I'm doing this in the first place. He's my best friend, and suddenly I'm not entirely sure he's on the right side of the law? It's all absurd. And I watch him like a hawk, and he doesn't really do anything strange or out of the ordinary but I'm so terrified of finding something. If he's covering, he's doing a good job. But I don't think he's covering. And I wish I had something other than gut instinct, something other than I know Gray and this isn't like him to base this on."
"Pretty tough to prove a negative."
"I don't know how much longer they'll keep me on this assignment. Markham's growing impatient, I can tell."
"Is this by way of preparing me? Because, Mark, I'm sorry that I threw the fit about your job. Not that the idea of you going back to chasing criminals delights me in any way, but it was selfish of me to—"
"You had a point,” Mark interjected. “I mean, a point from your point of view. And it turns out that working for Gray really isn't bad. I kind of like it, actually."
Monica brightened considerably. “Do you really? Mark, I'm so glad."
Mark grinned. “You were just telling me how it was all right for me to go back to the force."
"I was only saying that because I thought it would make you happy."
"Well,” said Mark, “it doesn't really matter that I like working at the Bienvenue. Once Gray finds out what I'm actually doing at the Bienvenue—"
"Mark—"
"He's going to be furious."
"For a little while,” Monica said. “Then he'll get over it."
"Get over it? He'll get over the fact that I was spying on him for suspected money-laundering?"
"People told you he was."
"And I didn't just go to him and ask him, did I? And I certainly can't tell him that the reason I didn't do that was that I wasn't sure he would tell me the truth. This entire situation, Monica, is going to be a disaster."
"It almost would have been easier for you if it turned out Gray had been money-laundering,” she remarked.
"But I'm so glad he's not,” said Mark, on a sigh. “So glad he's not."
Monica picked up his hand, kissed his knuckle, traced a pattern on his palm. She sighed too. “Maybe this will all turn out okay."
"Yes,” Mark agreed, without believing it in the least. “Maybe."
Chapter Eight
No team is worshipped with such a perverse sense of fatality.
—Thomas Boswell, How Life Imitates the World Series
"It was a lovely evening,” said Aubrey. “Thank you."
"Quite a night,” Doug proclaimed. “Didn't I promise you quite a night?"
"Oh, yes, you did,” Aubrey replied, trying to keep any sarcasm out of her voice.
It had definitely been quite a night. It was nearly five in the morning, and Aubrey had had to beg Doug to take her home. He was ready for another club. She was exhausted, and had been, quite frankly, since eleven o'clock. This was because she was old and frumpy. No man was ever going to want her ever again, leather pants aside.
There were still people in the lobby and casino of the Bienvenue. Not tons of people but more people than one typically encountered at 4:42 in the morning. “Vegas really never sleeps, does it?"
"No. That's the beauty of Vegas.” Doug punched the button for the elevator. “That's why I love this place."
Aubrey could see that. Doug probably partied all night every night. And slept all day. It did not appear to her that he had any responsibilities at all. If she were Gray, she supposed she would be snapping at him to pull his weight, too.
"Shall we go to my room and I'll play you some music?” Doug asked smoothly as he placed a hand against the elevator door to keep it open while she walked on.
That's right. He composed music on the clarinet. That was what he did with his time, she
reminded herself. She was too damned exhausted to even think of going to his room. And she was also a trifle annoyed that he thought she was really this easy.
For one moment, she wondered if Gray had shared with his brother that she was good for a one-night stand...
The next moment, she dismissed the thought. Gray might be many things, but she didn't think he would crassly pass her around amongst acquaintances like a sexual hot potato.
And why not sleep with Doug? Hadn't she just been lamenting that she would never have sex again? Here was a bona fide opportunity.
But she was just too tired.
She was not at all worried that he wouldn't live up to Gray—after all, who could live up to Gray? No, no, surely she had not already had the best sex of her life. Surely Gray had left her something to look forward to.
Damn him to hell.
No, surely Gray was not the best there was. She had never realized that the sex she had been having wasn't good until she'd met Gray. Maybe Doug would make Gray seem like a pale aspirer.
Aubrey looked at Doug—looking disheveled and sweaty, white-blonde hair sticking up jaggedly all over his head—and felt not the slightest twinge of desire. Certainly no urge to close her hands in his hair and pull him to her, as she felt whenever she laid eyes on Gray.
"No,” she said. “Not tonight. I'm sorry, Doug. Not that I didn't have a lovely time, as I said, but I'm tired and I have to paint for your mother tomorrow—"
"Oh, my mother will understand,” Doug said carelessly, punching the button for his floor.
Understand that you were up until all hours of the morning having sex with her son? She leaned over and firmly punched the button for her own floor. Then, to soften the effect, she smiled at him and said, “Not on the first date."
"Of course not. But I really could just play the clarinet for you—"
"I wouldn't be awake enough to appreciate it, Doug. Really. We'll do it another time, how's that?"
He looked like he was on the verge of pouting like a petulant little boy. But he fought down that particular demon and smiled at her brightly. “Okay. Another time.” The elevator jerked to a gentle stop at her floor, and the elevator doors slid open, and he stuck out a hand to keep them open and took her chin between his fingers. “Until another time, then,” he said.
Twenty Hours in Boston Page 12
