Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  "Sorry. I told you to wait around the door if you wanted to talk to Gray and someone would let you—"

  She shook her head. “He's not in his office. He was in jeans. And I know how to get to his suite, but I don't have a card—"

  Mark glanced over his shoulder. The tall, cool man was watching them. The woman Mark had called Lucy was talking to him animatedly, but the man didn't seem to be paying any attention to her.

  Mark turned back to Aubrey, smiling tightly. “I'll take you."

  Aubrey also glanced at the man. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize that ... I mean, I didn't mean to interrupt—"

  "You didn't.” Mark led her toward the elevator, his grip much looser now. “I wasn't getting anywhere anyway."

  "Getting anywhere?” Aubrey echoed as they stepped onto the nearest elevator. Mark pressed a button.

  "Never mind. Gray needs to give you a card. It would make getting hold of him a lot easier."

  "I don't have his phone number either."

  "That would also help matters,” said Mark. “He's a little bit of an idiot sometimes."

  Aubrey lifted her eyebrows. “Sometimes?"

  Mark chuckled as the elevator doors whooshed open, and she followed him down a hallway. Mark punched the button for the service elevator, then turned and handed her his card. “Here you go,” he said. “When the elevator comes, insert this card, punch the button for the top floor, then enter 1-9-1-8."

  "1-9-1-8?"

  "It's Gray's PIN number."

  "1918,” Aubrey repeated. “That's a little predictable, isn't it?"

  "Huh?"

  "The last time the Red Sox won the World Series. 1918."

  "Oh. I didn't realize that. I guess it is predictable for a Red Sox—” Mark stopped talking. He looked at her in surprise. “You're a Red Sox fan."

  "Yeah,” she said.

  "You're ... Boston..."

  "What?"

  "Nothing. Just realized something. Anyhow, that's how you get to his suite. I'm going to go make sure Lucy's got everything covered downstairs."

  "Wait. How will I get your card back to you? Leave it with Gray?"

  Mark shrugged. “Keep it. I only have it for security purposes. It's not like I actually use it."

  Aubrey watched him walk away, then the service elevator arrived and she stepped on and did exactly what Mark had instructed. When the elevator doors opened again, she was indeed standing in Gray's opulent marble foyer, and then she really didn't know what to do. Knock? Where?

  She settled for stepping into the foyer and calling, “Gray?” She got no response. Behind her, the elevator doors whooshed closed. She ventured forward, tried again. “Gray?” Still no answer. Was he really not there? Probably the place was enormous. Probably he couldn't hear her.

  She peeked into the Gainsborough room, found it deserted, as was the family room. She located the kitchen and formal dining room. Both equally empty. A media room, way more impressive than the one in her suite. She got a little bit distracted while examining the movies lined up on shelves. Mostly action films. And the predictable baseball ones that made her smile nonetheless.

  Then she reminded herself that she was snooping through his apartment under the guise of finding him, so she kept moving, calling his name. She didn't really want to venture into his bedroom, but she didn't hear anyone moving, so she finally decided that he really wasn't there. That was disappointing. Sighing, she headed back to the elevator and called for it. She had been thinking of ways to spend the million dollars. And looking forward to telling him yes.

  Then the elevator doors opened and Gray said in surprise, “Aubrey."

  He had been somewhere working out. That was fairly obvious. He was dressed in shorts and a loose t-shirt that nonetheless revealed the fantastic shape he was in. His hair curled damply with sweat. She took an involuntary step back and tried to formulate something to say.

  He stepped from the elevator, regarding her quizzically. “What are you doing here?"

  "I was ... looking for you."

  He looked slightly amused. “But how did you get up here?"

  "Mark...” She cleared her throat. “Isn't your PIN number a little bit predictable?"

  "I'm hoping to change it someday,” he remarked mildly, heading toward the family room area.

  Aubrey snorted and stayed where she was.

  He paused and turned back to look at her. “Well. Don't hesitate to come in now. Or do you only enjoy my suite when I'm not in it?"

  "I ... I should go. I mean, I was just going when—"

  "If you'll give me a second, I'll take a shower and then we can—"

  "Oh, that's not necessary,” she inserted quickly. Just what she needed to think about: Gray in the shower. “I thought you'd be here. That's why I came."

  "Well, I am here."

  "But you weren't."

  Gray sighed. “Aubrey. Come in. Sit down. It'll only take me a couple of minutes to—"

  "No, I'll just go. That's okay."

  "But why were you looking for me?"

  "I wasn't looking at you."

  "Looking for me,” he corrected patiently. “Why were you in my suite if you weren't looking for me?"

  She really couldn't remember the reason she'd been in his suite. She was sure she had in fact been looking for him. But she couldn't remember why.

  "Did it have to do with my portrait?” he suggested helpfully.

  "Oh!” she exclaimed. “Yes! It did! Thank you."

  "Don't mention it,” he assured her dryly. “What about my portrait?"

  "I wanted to tell you that I'll do it. Paint your portrait, I mean."

  "Okay. Great. Why don't I take a quick shower and then we can—"

  "I'm not going to start on it tonight."

  "If those elevator doors open, you're going to tumble right through them."

  "Huh?” He was coming toward her, and she realized he was right. She was pressed right up against the elevator doors, leaning heavily on them.

  He kept walking until he was right on top of her, not touching her but near enough to provoke the usual shiver of awareness, the sensation of being touched but yet not touched that made her long to actually be touched.

  Damn.

  "I do believe I make you nervous,” he murmured.

  And he smiled. Arrogant. Smug. “You...” The air in her lungs rushed out in a whoosh, predictable when he was standing so damn close.

  "Yes? What about me?” He leaned in.

  She cleared her throat. “You're sweaty and gross,” she managed to say, and winced at how childish and juvenile she sounded.

  He grinned. “I know. Let me take a shower. I'm not suggesting you start the portrait tonight. I'm suggesting we figure out a schedule for—"

  "I thought you were going out."

  "I just got in,” he said in confusion.

  "You asked me to go to dinner."

  "Oh. Yes. Are you accepting?"

  "No,” she answered hastily. “But aren't you still going?"

  "Out?"

  "Yes."

  "By myself?"

  "You don't have someone waiting in reserve?"

  He actually chuckled. “No, I don't have someone waiting in reserve. Stop being foolish. Come in and sit down and let me take a quick shower and then we'll arrange a schedule for when you can paint the portrait."

  "Why don't I just go back to my room and we can discuss all this tomorrow?"

  "If you wanted to discuss this tomorrow, why did you come see me today?"

  "Well, I just wanted to tell you that I would do it and we can—"

  "You going to call my secretary tomorrow to make an appointment?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

  "Oh. Would you prefer that?"

  "No. I'd prefer you to come in and sit down and stop looking like any minute I'm going to strike you."

  She wasn't afraid he was going to strike her. It was the possibility of a caress that scared the hell out of her. Striking her might actually be pref
erable.

  "There must be something on television you can watch. Or you can admire the Gainsborough."

  "Don't you think it's ... strange ... to have me sitting around your place while you shower?"

  "I think it's even stranger to walk through my front door and find you already in here."

  "There isn't really any way to knock, you know. And you didn't give me your phone number, so—"

  "Do you realize that in the length of time we've stood here talking I could have showered twice?"

  "I'm going back to my room,” she decided, and turned and punched the button firmly. The elevator doors slid open immediately.

  "Coward,” Gray accused with a wicked smile as the door slid closed.

  Aubrey leaned against the back wall of the elevator and wondered if she'd absolutely lost her mind. She had just agreed to paint a man whose very presence made her toes curl.

  There was no way in hell this could turn out well.

  * * * *

  February 19, 2004

  Mark was sitting in his office when Gray walked in the following morning. Gray glanced at his watch. “Wow. You're here early. This can't be good."

  "I usually get here early,” said Mark. “I like to make sure everything's running smoothly."

  "Yeah, but you're never waiting for me in my office.” Gray sat in his chair. “Things not running smoothly?"

  "No, they're fine."

  "How'd the Halcourt thing go?"

  Mark scowled. “He is cool as a cucumber. He just stood there smirking at me the whole time I was making your excuses. I don't get it, Gray. Why is he so anxious to meet you?"

  Gray shrugged. “Ego thing, I think. So important that the Chairman of the Board goes trotting around at his beck and call."

  "Well, I don't like it. Promise me you're going to stay away from him."

  Gray laughed. “You think I'm going to be seduced by his glamorous life of crime?"

  "Can you just make me the promise?"

  "All right, all right, I promise I'll stay away from Dennis Halcourt. I didn't have any intention of becoming best buddies with him anyway. You need to stop worrying. You're going to give yourself gray hair, my friend."

  "You forget how much younger than you I am. So. Aubrey."

  "Oh. Yeah. Aubrey. Thanks for letting her into my suite."

  "I gave her my card, you know. I thought you might appreciate her being able to get into your suite, slipping into something comfortable, welcoming you home in proper fashion."

  Gray snorted. “I wish."

  "I thought you were making progress with her. You say you're going to have a chat with her, and the next thing I know she's running in between me and Halcourt, covered in paint, desperate to locate you."

  "I waved a million dollars in her face."

  "You did what?"

  "Hey, I'm not above bribery. And if it's going to buy me a little time, well, I need all the help I can get."

  "You didn't tell me she was from Boston."

  "She isn't from Boston. She's from New York."

  "Yeah, but you slept with her in Boston, didn't you? She's the one night stand from the—"

  "We don't need to talk about what else happened that night. Yes, she's that one night stand."

  "You didn't tell me that."

  "What does that matter?"

  "I don't know. I told her your PIN number. She knew what it was instantly."

  "Of course she did. She's a Red Sox fan."

  Mark regarded him for a second. Then he grinned. “You're in deep trouble."

  Gray scowled. “I don't even know what that's supposed to mean."

  "Anyhow, I wanted to tell you that Halcourt met Aubrey. Thinks she's a friend of yours."

  "A friend of mine? Really? Well, glad he cleared that up for me."

  "Can you just tell her to look out for him?"

  "You want me to tell Aubrey to look out for Halcourt?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why?"

  "I just want her ... wary."

  "Why the hell are you so paranoid? Halcourt isn't going to do anything to Aubrey. Or to me."

  "All right. I just want to make sure, okay? Can you just give her a heads-up for me?"

  "Fine. A heads-up. You are really worrying way too much, Mark. Really. Everything's okay with Monica and Madison and the baby, right?"

  Mark gave him a tight smile that didn't really put Gray at ease. “Terrific."

  Gray paused. “If something was on your mind, you'd tell me, right?"

  "Absolu—"

  Marjorie tapped quickly on the open door and Gray looked up at her, smiling in welcome. “Good morning."

  "Good morning, Mr. Delamonte. There's a woman here asking to see you."

  "A woman?” Gray repeated.

  "Yes. A Ms. Thomas."

  "Oh. Mark was just leaving. Send her right in."

  "Well,” Mark remarked dryly, “I can take a hint."

  "I'm basically fighting a war,” Gray told him. “I can't let up on the artillery fire for even a second."

  "Gee, that's romantic.” Mark stood, then glanced toward the doorway as Aubrey walked through it.

  She was wearing a powder-blue business suit, and Gray tried to remember if he'd seen her in a skirt before. She had knock-out legs. And she was wearing her hair in a sleeker fashion that made Gray wonder if it would flop all over her head in that appealing manner if he reached out and tousled it playfully.

  "Ms. Thomas,” Mark said to her in greeting as she walked in.

  "Oh.” Aubrey looked at him. “Am I interrupting yet another of your conversations?"

  Mark smiled. “No, I was just leaving.” He half-turned and sent Gray a private wink, then left the room.

  "You're all dressed up,” Gray commented.

  "I was debating whether or not to make an appointment,” Aubrey replied primly.

  Gray lifted his eyebrows. “Make an appointment?"

  "Yes. Do you mind if I sit?"

  "This from the woman who was waiting for me in my apartment last night..."

  Aubrey ignored that and sat down stiffly. “Your mother cancelled her sitting for this morning so I thought we could use this time to make our arrangements."

  She was apparently playing this as formally as possible. The idea amused Gray endlessly. What the hell would she do, he wondered, if he leaned over and took a delicate sip of the lovely soft skin underneath her jaw? He doubted that her reflex would be to slap him across the face; rather, he suspected it would be to let out one of those alluring sighs.

  Aubrey cleared her throat.

  Gray realized he was staring and cleared his own throat in response. “Sorry, I was thinking ... What would be the best way to go about this? I've never sat for a portrait before."

  Aubrey considered him. Then she sighed in frustration. “Can I make a confession?"

  "Please do."

  "I'm not happy with the portrait I started of you. I mean the one you saw yesterday."

  "Maybe it's because you're resorting to clichés,” he suggested dryly.

  "What clichés?"

  "I don't mean to be unappreciative of your work, but ... You thought Study in Gray was a bad joke. Painting my portrait all in gray? Isn't that a bit ... trite?"

  "It's not gray,” she refuted.

  "It looked like gray."

  "It's blue-gray. It's called periwinkle. It's different shades of periwinkle."

  "Periwinkle.” Semantics, thought Gray.

  "It's the color of your eyes,” she said in a rush. “Anyhow, I think the colors in the portrait are the least of its problems. I don't think it does a good job capturing who you are. And that's the purpose of a portrait—to capture the subject."

  Gray was a little distracted by the idea that she had been trying to replicate the color of his eyes. He said stupidly, “Uh..."

  "Right. The thing is that I don't have a very good idea who you are."

  Aubrey had given a lot of thought to this the night before. She ma
y have slept with the man, and he may give every impression of being open and friendly and totally cordial—which she supposed he was—but she was very aware that there were parts of him that she had never seen. Large parts of him.

  If she did a good job with these portraits of Gray and Moira, there would be more to come. So she had to do a good job. She had to figure out what made Gray tick. She wanted people to look at her portrait of Gray Delamonte and think, Yes, the artist is right, that is what he's like.

  Gray was just staring at her and didn't look as if he knew how to respond, so she kept talking. “I thought we might pick a day when I could tag along with you."

  "Tag along with me?” Gray echoed.

  "Yeah. I mean, just to see—"

  "Here?"

  She paused. “What do you mean, here?"

  "Here at work,” he clarified.

  "Yeah. And after. I mean, just a typical day in your life."

  "My life is anything but typical.” Gray sighed. But his mind was racing. A day. A whole day. What he could do with a whole day of Aubrey! A whole day to convince her ... “Well ... hmm ... You know, tagging along for a day might actually be a good idea."

  "I would sit in the corner. You wouldn't even notice I'm around."

  "Not notice you were around? That would be impossible."

  Chapter Fifteen

  In bars across New England, fans fell to their knees as if shot.

  —Glenn Stout and Richard A. Johnson, Red Sox Century

  February 22, 2004

  "Why are you dressed like that?” demanded his mother.

  Gray blinked at her. “Why are you here would be a more relevant question."

  "Why am I here?” She threw up her hands in obvious despair over the fact that God had given her an idiot for a son and marched further into the family room, intercepting his view of the football game. Gray, frowning, tipped his head to see around her. “I told you about this,” she complained.

  Gray glanced at her, took in the fact that she was dressed in vibrant cherry red. Attention-getting to the hilt. “You're all dressed up."

  "Yes. You should be too."

  "Sunday is a day of rest,” he informed her. “I'm watching football all day. I have no intention of dressing up."

  "But I told you we were taking Kaye and Aubrey to brunch."

  He heard the word “Aubrey” and finally turned his full attention to his mother. He hadn't seen Aubrey since she had marched out of his office, having settled upon Monday as tag-along day. This talk of taking her to brunch was unprecedented. “What did you tell me?"