Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  Mark sighed. “Look. Not that I'm not all for you demonstrating your sexual prowess all you want. But there's no need to break the heart of some girl just because she's not tripping over herself because of you."

  "Oh, there's no need to be dramatic,” Gray told him. “I'm not breaking anyone's heart. And she is tripping over herself. That's what makes this whole situation so ridiculous. I'm formulating my plan. Stop by my office in twenty minutes or so. Lucy's going to give me a Dennis Halcourt rundown.” Gray turned to leave through the open office door.

  "She's not just another girl,” said Mark.

  Gray looked back at him. “Who, Lucy?” he said, though he knew very well who Mark meant.

  Mark kept sorting through the papers on his desk. “She hasn't been since the very first day I heard you say her name.” He looked up then. “So do yourself a favor and don't mess this up trying to pretend it's a game. If we want to talk about breaking hearts, I don't feel like picking up the pieces of yours."

  "You're being dramatic again."

  Mark shrugged. “Whatever. Just wanted to plant the seeds in your head."

  "Stop by for the Dennis Halcourt rundown,” Gray said again.

  Mark nodded.

  Mark was being ridiculous about the whole thing, Gray thought as he walked back to his office. Maybe she wasn't just another girl. Maybe that was true. But there was no need to be so ridiculously dramatic and talk about broken hearts and what not.

  Why couldn't he sleep with one woman in his lifetime who could talk baseball and turn it into foreplay? Really, that was all he wanted here. Was that too much to ask?

  Danny was sitting in the office watching Sports Center. Gray looked at him. “What are you doing here?"

  "Dennis Halcourt's coming in today, right?"

  "Yeah.” Gray dropped into the chair behind his desk and glanced at the television.

  "Wanted to make sure you had everything under control."

  "I can run the hotel without you, you know."

  Danny shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure. Also, you have a great television."

  "Lucy's stopping by to discuss things."

  "I'll stick around then."

  "Let me ask you something."

  "Okay."

  "Did you ever meet a girl you could talk football with?"

  "Lots of girls like football."

  "That's not what I mean. I mean talk seriously about football."

  Danny snorted. “No."

  "What would you do if you met one?"

  "Buy her a diamond ring."

  "Hmm.” Well, he wasn't taking things that far, but he at least had to have more than one fuzzy, dazed, desperate night.

  Mark strolled in a few minutes later and dropped onto the couch beside Danny, now both engrossed in Sports Center. When Lucy finally showed up, she looked at the pair of them and said to Gray flatly, “I hate working with men."

  "We have our good points,” Gray told her. “Tell me what's up with Halcourt."

  "He keeps asking when you're going to stop by to see him."

  "You're not stopping by to see him, Gray,” said Mark from the couch.

  Gray sighed. “I'm sure he just wants a greeting in the lobby—"

  Mark turned from Sports Center. “I thought you didn't want to encourage this guy. Tell him you're busy."

  "Mark makes a valid point,” contributed Danny.

  "I'll go,” said Mark.

  "You'll go?” Lucy said in surprise.

  "I'll go as Gray's emissary. His closest friend. We make a big deal out of it, it'll be like meeting Gray's consigliore. I'll fawn over him. Halcourt will love it."

  "I don't think that's such a—” Gray stopped short as Marjorie walked in carrying the six dozen roses he'd sent to Aubrey that morning.

  He actually smiled. The girl did keep him on his toes.

  "Sorry, Mr. Delamonte,” she said, putting them on his desk. “Joey was too scared to bring them in."

  "No problem,” Gray assured her.

  "Someone sending you flowers, Gray?” Lucy asked, arching an eyebrow.

  "Maybe they're for you,” he countered with a smile.

  "Are they?"

  "No. That'd be sexual harassment, gorgeous.” He winked at her, then turned back to Mark, who had also been distracted by the flowers. “I don't think it's a good idea for you to meet Halcourt."

  "Why not?” Mark frowned at him.

  "Because I don't need you reverting to cop mode. We're not reading Halcourt his rights; we're welcoming him to the Bienvenue."

  Danny cleared his throat to punctuate the fact that he'd managed to resist the omnipresent pun.

  "I appreciate that,” Lucy told him with a significant glance.

  "Sure thing, Luce,” Danny replied.

  "I'm not going to revert to cop mode,” Mark insisted. “I want to meet Halcourt. I want to look in his eyes. I want to see what's up with him. I promise I'll be cool and calm and collected."

  Gray regarded him for a second. Then he sighed. “Lucy, you're in charge. If Mark makes you uncomfortable, get Halcourt out of there."

  "Okay."

  "And I'm not meeting him,” Gray decided. “He's going to have to deal with that. Like I want to be friends with Dennis Halcourt. Ha. Okay. We're done here then."

  "That's it?” said Danny. “I came in for that?"

  "No one told you to come in."

  "I'm going home now,” Danny said.

  "When are you coming back to work?"

  "When do you want me back?"

  "Tomorrow would be great."

  "Consider it done."

  "You gave in too easily. I would have got at least another day out of him,” Lucy told Danny as they walked out together.

  "So what's with these?” Mark indicated the roses.

  "Oh, that's Aubrey. Delightful, isn't it?"

  "She sent you roses?"

  "No, I sent her roses. She sent them back. She doesn't want me sending her roses."

  "Why not?"

  "She thinks it sends the wrong message about our relationship."

  "Does it?"

  "I think Aubrey is way too concerned with what other people think. Don't worry. I'm going to have a chat with her, change her mind."

  "You seem pretty confident."

  "If I go in for a round with Aubrey with any doubt at all,” Gray remarked grimly, “she'll eat me alive. And not in a good way."

  Chapter Fourteen

  I had been looking about the familiar Stadium surround in valedictory fashion—the motel-landscape bullpens, the UTZ Potato Chip sign over in right—but from here to the end sat transfixed by the cascade of events, scarcely able to draw a full breath. No other sport does this, and even as we stare and cry, “Can you believe this?” we forget how often it comes along, how it's built into baseball.

  —Roger Angell,, The New Yorker November 24, 2003

  It occurred to Gray that Aubrey had seen him in nothing but suits since Boston. So he stopped at his suite and showered and changed before starting his negotiations with her, hoping that jeans and the Nixon jersey would provoke even more memories than usual in her. But when he knocked on her door he was actually nervous ... and this was incredibly out of character for him.

  On the other side of the door, Aubrey looked up in dread. Knocks. Nothing good came from knocks on her door. Sighing, she left behind the painting of Sophie she was trying to finish and peered through the peephole.

  Gray. In jeans and that casually wonderful Nixon jersey he'd been wearing when she first met him in Boston. That momentarily threw her for a loop. And his hair was still damp, drying untidily all over his head. He had apparently just showered.

  The effect was devastating. And he, naturally, would know that.

  She gritted her teeth and swung open the door. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  He grinned at her, all irresistible, mischievous man. Damn him to hell. “Hi,” he said.

  "What do you want?” she asked again,
hoping she looked entirely unamused by him. She was entirely unamused by him.

  "Now, that's not very welcoming, Aubrey. Here at the Bienvenue, we try to be welcoming. That's what it means, you know. Bienvenue."

  "I studied at the Sorbonne, Gray. You think you're the only one who traveled in Europe? Now what do you want?"

  "I have a business proposal,” he said. “I didn't know you studied in Paris."

  "I didn't know you knew the Sorbonne was in Paris. What is this business proposal? And does it involve sex?"

  "Sex?” Gray gave a very good impression of being shocked. “Do you want it to involve sex?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "Okay. So I'll scratch that off the list. Get dressed."

  "I am dressed."

  "I mean dressed to go out."

  "I'm not going out with you. I told you that yesterday."

  "This isn't going out. This is a business dinner."

  "Then where's your requisite business suit?"

  "Anyhow, I told you we weren't done yesterday. We're not."

  "I say we are done. We're done with everything. If you'll excuse me—” She went to close the door.

  He stepped through it easily, with nary more than a nudge. “Here's the thing,” he said, closing the door for her. “I'm wondering if you could—"

  "I'm calling security,” she warned him, walking over to the phone. Now if only she knew what number she called for security. She stared at the list of numbers next to the phone. Room service. No. Front desk. No.

  "You're working on Sophie. You've changed it somehow. The tilt of the head? Is that it?"

  Aubrey looked up at him. He was standing, hands clasped behind his back, in front of the painting. Her gaze darted over to the portrait of him, turned so the back of the canvas faced out. Better he not start investigating her paintings. “Did you hear me? I'm calling security."

  "I heard you. I don't know why you're calling security."

  "You're in my room. I don't want you in my room. That requires me to call security,” she explained patiently. “You're trespassing."

  "I own this room,” he reminded her. “In fact, I have a key to it."

  She uttered a squeak as she realized that was probably true. And she stomped over to him in her most threatening manner. “If you ever let yourself into my room—” she began, tipping her head back to meet his eyes.

  "Would you stop it? I'm trying to run my hotel here. I can't let it get out that I'm invading guests’ rooms."

  "But you are invading guests’ rooms,” she protested.

  "Only yours. And I have a good reason."

  "Yeah. You're stalking me."

  "I'm not stalking you."

  "You sent me flowers."

  "You sent them back. That was a nice touch."

  "I told you not to send me flowers."

  "They were really beautiful flowers."

  "That's not the point, Gray."

  "I want to commission a portrait from you."

  "I have a full plate with your mother's portrait."

  "No, you don't. She's the busiest woman on earth, and yet she does nothing. You cannot possibly be too busy with my mother's portrait. You're not.” He waved at the portrait of Sophie, as if that proved everything.

  "You want a more formal portrait of Sophie?” That really wouldn't be bad, actually. A little extra money. And Sophie wasn't bad to hang out with.

  "No,” he replied and wandered over to the modern slashes across the room—the side of the room with the blank canvas back that on the other side was him.

  Aubrey scurried after him.

  "Sophie's going back to school,” Gray informed her. “She can finish out the semester at least. I mean, before the baby. And then we'll have to figure out, you know, what to do. What the hell is wrong with you?"

  Aubrey had taken his arm and was tugging at it in an ineffective manner. “Why don't we sit down and discuss this portrait? Who did you say you wanted it of?” Why did the man weigh a ton? She couldn't budge him away from his portrait.

  "Me,” he answered.

  She stopped trying to move him. She gaped up at him like a fish.

  He stepped easily out of her grasp. “What is in this corner that you don't want me to see?” he mused, his gaze dancing over the canvases.

  Aubrey was too frozen in place to jump forward. “You want me to paint a portrait of you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why?"

  He glanced at her. “I like the way you paint. I've already told you that. My mother would be delighted."

  "You don't really want a portrait."

  "Of course I do. Why else would I ask you?"

  "You want something else."

  Gray made a tsk-ing sound. “Oh, Aubrey.” He leaned forward to study more closely a red box smeared on a canvas. “So suspicious."

  "I'm not painting a portrait of you."

  "I'd pay you a million dollars."

  Aubrey was silent. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was staring at him, mouth gaping open, and she looked fairly unable to form coherent sentences.

  "I'll give you a moment,” he decided, and went back to the nearest canvas.

  "You're absolutely insane!” Aubrey croaked. But in her head she was thinking, a million dollars! Oh, all the things she could do with a million dollars! All the splendid, wonderful things! Like the ability to pursue art full-time. Her art. A full-time career.

  She was so busy running over the possibilities in her mind, she didn't notice Gray had turned the canvas over until he said, “Hmm,” and pulled her attention back to him.

  Swirling clouds of gray and blue. Dense and heavy, the paint thick. “Hmm,” he said again, and took a step back to try to gain some perspective.

  And he saw then. Tilting his head the right way, he could have sworn he was staring straight into his own eyes.

  Aubrey came barreling over, reaching for the canvas. “That's not finished—"

  "Wait a second.” Gray caught her, pulled her back from the canvas, looked at it for a moment in silence. Then he looked at her calmly. “You've already started."

  Aubrey looked like a deer who'd just realized he had her in his sights. If his hand hadn't been on her arm, he was sure she would have bolted. “W-what do you mean?” she asked, trying to look wide-eyed and innocent.

  He smiled and gestured to the painting. “It's me."

  "No, it's...” What the hell kind of lie was she going to tell to fix this? He could clearly see it was his likeness. “It's not finished,” she moaned helplessly.

  "I see that. And I'll give you a million dollars to complete it."

  "Gray—"

  "Do you know what you need to do?” he interrupted. “You need to stop fighting me so damn hard. Paint my portrait. Make a million bucks. What is the worst that could happen, Aubrey?"

  Bad things, she thought. Very, very bad things. Falling in love with him. Trying, after all, to be the girl to fix Gray Delamonte and his notorious fear of commitment. Whirling headlong into yet another disastrous relationship. She almost told him these things.

  "Think about it,” he said. “I was going to wine and dine you into it, but you don't seem like the best conversationalist tonight."

  She continued to just stare at him.

  "Right,” he said after a moment. “So think about it. Get in touch with me,” he told her, and left her standing there as he headed out the door.

  She stared after him. She wasn't sure how long. A million dollars ... And she was going to turn it down because she was scared she'd get her heart broken? How stupid would she have to be to get her heart broken? She knew he was lethal. She'd be on the lookout. She'd be stiff and unresponsive when he tried to seduce her. Because she didn't for a minute think he actually wanted his portrait painted.

  But a million dollars!

  She finally moved, fell on her cell phone and called her mother, who picked up almost immediately. “It's me,” she said.

  "Aubrey!” exclaimed her mo
ther. “How lovely to hear from you! I was sorry I was so busy with the twins when you called before. How is Las Vegas? Is everything okay? You sounded a bit down yesterday."

  "There's a guy here,” Aubrey said.

  "Oh, Aubrey, that's wonderful. I mean, not that you should rush into anything. I mean, after the way Paul turned out—"

  "Not like that. He wants me to paint his portrait."

  "Another portrait? Aubrey, that would be—"

  "He wants to pay me a million dollars."

  There was silence. A long silence.

  "Mom?"

  "I'm here. A ... a million dollars? Is that what you said?"

  "A million dollars,” she affirmed.

  "Just for a painting?"

  "Do you think I should do it?"

  "Aubrey, why wouldn't you do it? You've always wanted to paint, and—A million dollars. Darling, I've always wanted you to be successful but—A million dollars. For one painting!"

  She was right. Her mother was right. Whether the subject was Gray or not, she would be a fool to turn this down. “You're right. You're right. I'm going to tell him yes.” She hung up the phone and went racing out of the room.

  In the lobby, she spotted Gray's friend Mark almost immediately, the one who had shown her how to get to Gray's office. He was standing at the check-in desk talking to a tall, cool man probably ten to fifteen years older than Gray. She went skipping over to Mark, rudely interrupting the conversation.

  "Sorry,” she apologized to the tall, cool man. Close-cropped gray hair. Ice blue eyes. “Excuse me. This'll just take a second.” Then she turned to Mark, who looked surprised to see her. “I need to find Gray."

  "That's just what I was telling Mr. Dailey,” said the other man.

  Aubrey glanced at him.

  "Um,” said Mark, leaning over and grabbing Aubrey's elbow in a tight grip. “Why don't we—"

  "I'm Dennis,” said the other man, holding out his hand.

  "Oh. I'm Aubrey,” she answered, shaking it.

  "You're a friend of Gray's?"

  "Well, I don't know if—"

  "Everything okay here?” asked a woman brightly, coming up into the conversation.

  "Just great, Lucy,” Mark answered tightly. “I just need to get something settled here. Excuse me, Mr. Halcourt,” he said to the tall, cool man, then practically dragged Aubrey away.

  Aubrey frowned. “You're hurting me.” She jerked her elbow away from Mark's grip.