Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  He was going to kiss her. Oh, damn, she thought and closed her eyes and obediently parted her lips in anticipation.

  He wasn't a bad kisser. He had gentle, persuasive lips, a tongue with finesse. And yet she felt absolutely nothing. Gray had placed his hand on her arm, in the lobby the other day, and not even in affection, just to pull her off into a corner away from the aggressive girl who had interrupted them. And her heart had raced and her breath had caught and she had wanted him. And Doug had his tongue in her mouth and she couldn't even drum up interest.

  She let him choose when to end the kiss, then smiled up at him. “Good night."

  "Good night,” he answered.

  Then she walked off the elevator and into her suite and collapsed into bed. She was absolutely exhausted, far too tired to get undressed, and yet she was awake when the sun finished coming up, feeling strangely terrified of the fact that Doug Lowenby had kissed her and all she had wanted was for it to be Gray instead.

  * * * *

  February 12, 2004

  "How was your night with Doug?"

  Moira looked eager as hell to hear the whole story. Aubrey didn't feel up to being eager. She had slept perhaps fifteen minutes. She had showered and thrown on clothing but she had decided that she didn't like warm weather places because all she had really wanted to wear was jeans and a cozy sweater and she would have looked like an idiot in a sweater in Vegas.

  So she was already not in the happiest of moods. And she would not recap the long, boring, club-after-club night she'd had with this woman's younger son. And the other thing she didn't need to recap was how damned off-balance this woman's cursed older son had her. Without even trying.

  Damn him to hell.

  That was becoming her mantra.

  She set up her easel and began mixing pigments. “Oh, it was fun,” she answered brightly. “Exhausting. He has way too much energy."

  "Yes, he does. Tons of energy.” Moira smiled, as if this was a source of pride. She looked about to say more but the phone rang. Thank God, thought Aubrey. She was way too exhausted to keep up this conversation.

  She should have come up with some reason why she couldn't work that day. But her only reason for being in Vegas at all was to paint, not to spend nights at clubs—and how irresponsible would it look if she started calling in sick?

  Moira went to answer her phone. Aubrey tuned her out. It didn't take much effort, since she was dead on her feet anyway. She stared at the pigment she'd mixed and tried to determine whether it was at all close to the background color she'd already started using.

  Moira came back from her phone call while Aubrey was in the middle of a luxurious yawn.

  "Sorry about that,” she said. “Lois Dunbar. My son has suddenly developed an interest in Lois’ daughter. Not Doug, my other son,” she added hastily.

  Aubrey was lying awake all night and Gray was developing an interest in Lois Dunbar's daughter?

  Frowning, Aubrey added more green to her pigment, with no real idea whether the pigment needed more green or not.

  "Speaking of my other son,” Moira continued, “we're going to meet him for dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. Pierre's."

  Aubrey looked up, feeling awake now. “What?"

  "I hope you haven't made other plans?"

  "No,” Aubrey replied honestly. “No other plans. But I'm a bit tired—"

  "Oh, dinner will be relaxed. Gray's easy-going. That's his name. Gray. I was seventeen and a little over-romantic when I had him.” Moira chuckled at herself.

  "Gray isn't having dinner with Lois Dunbar's daughter?” Aubrey asked, feeling a little vicious.

  "No, that's for Valentine's Day. If he plays his cards right."

  Valentine's Day. Of course. Aubrey drew a vicious streak of gray-green across the easel.

  "So dinner at eight, then,” Moira proclaimed, as if this had all been settled. Because, in Moira's mind, it obviously had been.

  "Oh, yes,” Aubrey agreed, trying not to scowl. “Dinner at eight. Pierre's. With Gray."

  She could hardly wait.

  * * * *

  God, she was tired. So tired. Gray would notice the circles under her eyes. She just could not cover them up, try as she might. Her hair looked tired, too. Limp and bedraggled. She tried to get it to do something remotely interesting and she felt like it glared at her in disbelief. You must be joking, her hair seemed to tease from atop her head.

  She frowned at it and tried to call Kaye. No answer. Further annoyance. She ignored the message from Doug because she didn't know what the hell to do with that and called her mother. Also not home. Damn. She left a total lie on the answering machine that everything was going splendidly. Then she fought a little more with her opinionated hair.

  Hopeless. It was all a hopeless battle. She looked in chagrin at her reflection, at her straight, uninteresting body. The flowy, gauzy, pale blue blouse she was wearing would have been lovely if she had had any breasts to put into it. As it was, she was not going to hold a candle to the women Gray encountered every day.

  She thought the white pants were a nice touch because they made her look a little taller, but her hair was just a total loss. She ran her hand through it one final time and watched it flop exhaustedly back into its haphazard part. Oh, well, she thought on a sigh. It wasn't like she was trying to attract him. It wasn't like she really wanted to sleep with Gray again anyhow.

  Uh-huh. Right.

  * * * *

  He had a billion and one things to do but he was sitting at Mark's desk rewinding elevator surveillance tapes from the night before, waiting for his brother and Aubrey to come across the screen. He had had to wait until Mark left to do this, because he didn't want to be teased mercilessly, as he knew he would have been had he done it while Mark was in the room.

  He wasn't sure why he was doing it anyhow. It was mere curiosity. Surely.

  He found them and stopped the tape and pressed play, watching the timestamp blinking 4:43 at him. Quite a night, he thought with a sardonic smile. They were talking. The elevator stopped. Doug kissed her. Then she walked off the elevator. Doug continued upward.

  Well, at least he hadn't slept with her, thought Gray, replaying the kiss and watching it through narrowed eyes. Not much of a kiss, he decided. He could beat that kiss easily. Not that he was out to beat the kiss. Aubrey could do whatever the hell she wanted.

  Gray glanced at his watch as he ejected the tape and carefully replaced it. Ten minutes until he had to go make vapid small talk over dinner with his mother's portrait artist. He hoped to God she didn't turn out to be some out-there artsy type. He didn't want to discuss astrology. Or vegetarianism. He didn't consider either topic to be proper dinner table conversation.

  He pulled out the piece of paper his mother had sent to his office earlier and dialed Hannah Dunbar's number. She picked up on the second ring, a woman with a low, husky voice that he vaguely remembered.

  "Hannah,” he said warmly. “It's Gray Delamonte."

  "Oh,” she said, and he thought she sounded pleased. “Gray. How are you?"

  "I'm well. Particularly well since I heard some fantastic news."

  "Fantastic news?” she echoed, sounding genuinely confused.

  "My mother mentioned in passing that I might just have an opportunity to correct the mistake I made in not asking you to marry me upon first sight."

  "Oh.” She sounded amused now. “Are you asking me to marry you?"

  "Not quite yet. Just dinner,” he replied.

  "Dinner,” she repeated.

  "What are you doing for Valentine's Day?"

  "Well, I'm—"

  "I'll fly you in from L.A., you can spend a luxurious weekend at the Bienvenue, and I'll only intrude on you for dinner on Saturday."

  She chuckled, then asked, “How long do you think dinner will be?"

  He grinned. “Two hours, tops."

  "Hmm. Well, I suppose that's not a bad tradeoff."

  "Fly down tomorrow,” he said.

&n
bsp; "Buy me a ticket,” she countered.

  He smiled, feeling pleased with himself. Losing his touch, indeed! “I'll be in touch,” he promised. As he hung up, he glanced again at his watch. Only a couple of minutes left.

  He left a quick message for his secretary to get in the morning, asking her to buy a plane ticket in the name of Hannah Dunbar for tomorrow. They were cutting things close, but Hannah seemed not to mind. That was a good sign, Gray decided.

  Well, he'd put it off as long as he could. Sighing, he stood and stretched and shut the lights off in Mark's office on his way out. He took the elevator to the lobby and walked through quickly. Nothing good ever happened to him in the lobby. He always ran into Aubrey or Rosie or someone else he was trying to avoid.

  No one called his name this particular evening, which was good, as he was running a bit late. He bypassed the line of guests waiting at Pierre's, smiled at the maitre d'. “My mother—” he started.

  "Yes, she and Miss Thomas are here waiting for you,” he replied. “Your regular table."

  "Thanks."

  "Your tie, Mr. Delamonte,” said the maitre d', discreetly making a motion as if to adjust his own tie.

  "Oh,” said Gray, as he headed toward his table, trying to fix a tie he hadn't realized was crooked, and then he almost stopped walking. Certainly he stopped fixing his tie.

  His mother was indeed at the family's regular table, a cozy corner table from which the entire room could be surveyed. His mother's back was to him, but he could recognize her from behind, the dark hair swinging in its pageboy. The problem was that facing her, one elegant hand holding a martini glass, was a petite redhead he could have sworn was Aubrey.

  The redhead's saucer-wide blue eyes shifted from his mother, landed on him.

  Oh, yes. Definitely Aubrey.

  Gray did stop walking then. He blinked. Why was Aubrey sitting with his mother? What could they possibly be talking about? Was this about her date with Doug last night?

  Aubrey, watching him, sipped whatever was in her martini glass. Pink. Must be a Cosmo, he thought, still standing there like an idiot.

  Which was when his mother turned in her seat, smiled at him, and beckoned him over.

  He started forward again, still trying to figure out his bearings in this situation, how he should treat Aubrey.

  "Gray!” said his mother. “Why were you just standing there?"

  "I was, uh, thinking,” he answered her, glancing at Aubrey.

  Aubrey had evidently been expecting him. She did not look the least thrown off by his appearance. She looked almost bored.

  His mother said, “This is Aubrey Thomas."

  Aubrey Thomas. Her complete name. Aubrey Thomas. He decided to pretend that he had never laid eyes on her before, inclining his head a bit. “How do you do, Miss Thomas,” he said.

  She quirked an amused smile at him. “Mr. Delamonte,” she replied, with her own answering little head inclination.

  Gray sat down, spread his napkin over his lap. “I'm so pleased you could join us, Miss Thomas.” He turned to his mother. “But where is your artist?"

  His mother blinked. “What are you talking about? Aubrey is painting my portrait."

  "Aubrey is painting your portrait?” he repeated, and he couldn't help the disbelief. He looked at Aubrey.

  Aubrey was studying the ceiling, sipping her Cosmo.

  "Gray!” his mother exclaimed. “Don't be so rude. Aubrey's a very good painter."

  But ... Of course. That was why Aubrey's name didn't show up on the guest registration. His mother had set up the reservation in her name, obviously. Also why she had been out with Doug the night before. His mother had introduced them. His mother had apparently decided that Doug was more suited for Aubrey than he was.

  Maybe that was true. Nonetheless, he was just a trifle offended.

  "Gray.” Aubrey's voice, cutting into his racing thoughts.

  He blinked, bringing her back into focus. “What?"

  "The waiter asked you if you'd like a drink."

  Gray looked up. There was indeed a waiter standing over him, although he hadn't heard him at all. “Oh, I definitely would like a drink,” he decided. “I'll have my usual."

  "Very good, Mr. Delamonte,” said the waiter.

  "Are you all right, Gray?” asked his mother. “You're looking a bit ... off-balance."

  Gray supposed this was a good way to describe the way he was feeling. And his mother was regarding him with those narrowed eyes that still could make him squirm if he was feeling guilty enough. And he was maybe feeling just the smallest bit guilty about having had a one-night stand with his mother's artist. Whose eyes were steadily not on him but roving about the room looking at everybody else. Which was pretty damn irritating, to be honest.

  "I'm fine,” he said. “I just didn't realize ... I mean, I met Miss Thomas last night, with Doug, and I didn't realize—"

  "Oh, yes, Doug took Aubrey out last night. And then you promptly sent him off to St. Paul. If I didn't know better I'd say you were jealous."

  "Jealous?” Gray repeated and cleared his throat. “You've been asking me—commanding me—to give Doug something to do, and now I give him something to do and you—"

  "Gray,” said his mother, “I was joking.” She tilted her head at him. “Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Yes. Yes. Maybe just feeling a bit uncertain about having sent Doug off to St. Paul. Well, you were with him last night.” Gray looked at Aubrey. “Was he excited about going?"

  "Um...” Aubrey wasn't really sure what to say to that. Gray was looking confused enough. She wondered if she should also tell him that his brother was composing music on his clarinet. And writing songs.

  "That's what I thought,” said Gray.

  "We really didn't talk about it. Your brother doesn't frequent places where conversation is encouraged."

  Gray laughed a little too brightly.

  Moira leaned forward, looking a bit anxious. “Didn't you have a nice time last night, Aubrey?"

  "Oh, I had a lovely time. It's just that Doug and I didn't spend much time talking."

  "Doug always did move quickly,” retorted Gray.

  "Something he learned from his older brother?” Aubrey asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

  As his martini arrived, Gray sent her a hooded glance she couldn't quite decipher.

  "Speaking of which,” said Moira, “did you manage to get in touch with Hannah?"

  "Oh.” Gray swallowed a sip of his drink. “Yes. Just called her."

  "And is she coming for Valentine's Day?"

  "Naturally. I truly can't believe you doubted that. I suppose you and Doug have plans for Valentine's Day, Miss Thomas?"

  "Not since you sent him away to St. Paul."

  "Oh, I've no doubt he'll hurry back for Valentine's Day. He'll leave Danny in St. Paul."

  "You sent Danny to St. Paul, too?” Moira asked.

  "Yes."

  "But I thought you were giving Doug more responsibility!"

  "I can't give Doug more responsibility until he knows how to handle it. I can't send him to St. Paul to handle a huge convention single-handedly when he's never handled a huge convention in any capacity. If I have to worry about how he's doing the whole time I might as well just go myself. Danny knows what he's doing. I trust Danny."

  "And you don't trust Doug,” his mother concluded flatly.

  Gray glanced as surreptitiously as possible at Aubrey. “We're not getting into this again. Danny will help Doug along—"

  "Danny doesn't like Doug."

  "That is only in your head. Danny likes Doug just fine."

  "I'm sure St. Paul will be a success. What little Doug said on the matter led me to believe that he was looking forward to it,” Aubrey lied blithely—and wasn't quite sure why she had lied. Gray certainly didn't need her help in the matter.

  But Gray sent her a grateful smile that lightened his periwinkle eyes. “See? Doug was looking forward to it. So how are you liking Las Vegas
, Miss Thomas? Where did Doug take you last night?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Clubs. Clubs. More clubs."

  Gray chuckled into his martini.

  "Oh, you really didn't have a good time, did you?” said Moira.

  "There's more to Vegas than clubs. I hope my mother gives you some time off to see it."

  "Oh, plenty of time,” Moira protested. “Aubrey has a suite for as long as it takes to finish the portrait."

  "And how's that going?"

  "Very well,” gushed Moira.

  "Yes, I'm very proud of how gorgeous the background is turning out.” Aubrey's eyes twinkled over the rim of her glass.

  Gray chuckled again. It was a warm, low, thoroughly masculine sound, as thoroughly masculine as the rest of him. She hated the fact that she could feel him, even though they were not touching. Her heart was beating an irregular beat and her palms were sweaty and she felt a little short of breath and it was all because Gray, as usual, looked plenty good enough to eat.

  "I didn't know you were in art,” he said.

  "I am."

  "Vegas has museums.” He frowned. “I think."

  "It's pretty obvious we don't frequent museums,” Moira drawled.

  "There's a restaurant at the Bellagio. Picasso's. Picassos on the walls. Do you like Picassos?"

  "My specialty is Impressionism."

  "Ah,” said Gray. Then, after a second, “That's not Picasso...?"

  Aubrey smiled. The man could talk baseball, but he hadn't any idea about art. Which might be good, because otherwise he might be the perfect man. “No. Impressionism is ... Monet. Water lilies."

  "Ah,” said Gray, although he clearly said it still having no idea what she was talking about.

  "I am afraid that I didn't raise the children to appreciate art. I never appreciated it much myself, I must admit. Hugh, however, had excellent taste. My second husband, Hugh."

  "The cap,” said Aubrey involuntarily. It had just occurred to her when Moira had mentioned her second husband. Gray's stepfather, she realized at that moment. The original owner of the baseball cap now lying on a closet shelf in her New York apartment.

  "What was that?” asked Moira.

  Aubrey looked at Gray, who clearly knew what she was talking about. He looked ... hopeful. She decided that keeping the cap had been the right thing to do, because Gray looked so delighted at the prospect of being reunited with it.