Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  He didn't deepen the kiss at all, just lifted his head the slightest whisper away from her. Her eyes—so wide, so blue—stared up at him.

  "Sorry,” he told her huskily.

  "What are you doing?” she whispered.

  "I'm sorry,” he said again—because he didn't know what else to say. He hadn't meant to kiss her. It was just that she was so glorious when she was angry with him. And he wanted her so much that it was ripping him up inside. Even now, that one brief smidgen of the taste of her was clamoring inside of him. For more.

  "We had a ground rule,” she said, sounding absolutely bewildered that he couldn't have abided by it. “I mean, a ground rule that you actually agreed to abide by."

  "A ground rule?"

  "Yes. No touching. Remember?"

  He honestly didn't. But he nodded so as not to argue about it.

  "And you're touching me."

  "Not anymore."

  "Yes.” She lifted their hands, and he was surprised to see that they were still joined. He truly hadn't even realized that he was still holding her hand.

  And as he looked at their intertwined hands, it occurred to him that, shockingly, he liked holding hands with her. He liked holding hands with her. Of all the stupid things to suddenly become transfixed by. Holding hands!

  "Stop holding hands with me,” she said.

  "Why don't you just let go?” he countered.

  "Your hands are bigger."

  "But you're still holding on."

  "Oh, this is ridiculous!” she huffed and wrenched her hand away from his. “If you start doing stupid things like holding hands with me, your mother will absolutely keel over from happiness."

  Gray thought that was probably true. And Aubrey was absolutely right. He had to stop doing things that smacked of being a boyfriend. He wanted to seduce the woman. He didn't want her to think she was in a relationship with him.

  Damn it, why couldn't he stick to his game plan here?

  "Let's go have brunch,” he decided, and actually lifted his arm to place a guiding hand on the small of her back. Oh, damn it to hell, he was touching her again!

  "Where have the two of you been?” exclaimed his mother as they walked into the restaurant, looking as if she thought they had been making out like two naughty teenagers. While there may have been lip-to-lip contact involved, it definitely hadn't been anything like the make-out session Gray was envisioning.

  So he said sourly, as he automatically pulled her chair out for her, “Aubrey had a problem with her clothing."

  "I didn't realize we were going to brunch. There wasn't much time to find something to wear,” Aubrey sniffed in self-defense.

  "Well, you look lovely,” Moira assured her.

  "Except that Gray wouldn't let me dry my hair.” She glared at him as he sat next to her.

  "I was hungry."

  "Aubrey doesn't need to dry her hair,” Kaye commented. “She has great hair. It always looks beautiful."

  Aubrey stared at her. She must be joking. Or deliberately engaging in elaborate praise as if the easy-to-care-for nature of her hair was going to inspire Gray to write sonnets.

  "I have noticed that,” Moira agreed, gravely nodding her head in infinite wisdom. “Have you noticed that, Gray?"

  Gray was gesturing to a waiter. He looked startled at being addressed. “What?"

  "How lovely Aubrey's hair is. Have you noticed that?"

  Gray looked at Aubrey blankly. But he said, “Yes. Lovely hair. Why isn't the waiter coming?"

  "I've always thought it was a sexy haircut,” said Kaye, while Moira continued to nod wisely. Clearly they had been practicing this little routine.

  "Yes, the service, Gray, is really awful,” said Aubrey desperately. “You should really try to—"

  "Before I get asked the question,” Gray interrupted her wearily, “yes, I think the haircut is very sexy. But honestly, as a heterosexual male, I don't spend as much time thinking about Aubrey's hair as the two of you seem to think. It's red. And it's soft. That's really all I've noticed. Have you ordered anything at—"

  "It's soft?” Kaye and his mother echoed in one voice.

  Aubrey kicked him under the table.

  Gray, momentarily speechless at his slip-up, took a second to recover. It was soft. Lovely to tangle his hands in. But was it really necessary to share those impressions? “I ... assume,” he stammered. “I mean, I assume it's ... soft. It looks soft."

  The waiter finally arrived and Gray scowled at him. Just a few seconds earlier, and none of this mess would have happened. Would that really have been too much to ask? For a waiter to come and wait on the damn chairman of the board of the company that owned the hotel? “Wonderful. Could I have a glass of champagne, please?"

  "Me too,” said Aubrey quickly, looking as if she'd resigned herself to a long, interminable brunch.

  "Right away,” said the waiter and scurried off.

  Gray frowned. “I wanted to order food."

  "Gray,” said his mother expansively, with a smile he didn't quite like, “what's the rush, my dear?"

  * * * *

  "I think they would just make a wonderful couple.” Moira, with customary elegance, dropped onto a couch in her room and looked at Kaye hopefully. “Don't you think so?"

  Kaye sighed as she sat down on the couch next to her. “I don't know, Moira. I mean, I like Gray. He seems nice. Intelligent. But the problem with Gray is..."

  "What?” asked Moira challengingly.

  Kaye knew she would react this way. Gray was her son. Moreover, if the memoirs were any indication, a son she absolutely flat-out adored. But someone had to represent Aubrey's interest in Moira's scheme, and that was obviously now Kaye's job. “He knows his way around women, Moira."

  "So?” retorted Moira. “That's not a crime. He's a man who likes women. I have a somewhat difficult time accepting that, but I'm his mother. I don't see what difference that should make to Aubrey. The women in his past—"

  "And the women in his future,” Kaye finished flatly. “I don't know Gray the way you do, naturally. But I know his reputation. Since he started cropping up so frequently in my conversations with Aubrey, I did a bit of research on him. He has a penchant for redheads, Moira. And a well-documented fear of commitment. And I love Aubrey. But I find it hard to believe that she's going to stop a notorious womanizer in his tracks."

  "Gray is not a womanizer,” Moira informed Kaye stiffly. “How I hate that term. Now, Simon ... Simon was a womanizer. Simon was a man who couldn't make a commitment. Gray is just a man who hasn't met the right woman yet."

  "And what makes you think Aubrey is the right woman?"

  Moira sighed and rubbed at her temples. “When Hugh died—I haven't got to that point in the memoirs yet, but when Hugh died we were both so devastated, Gray and I, and the way he seemed to cope with his grief was to take care of me. He was always calling room service, getting me, you know, tea. Or flowers. Whatever he thought might make me happy. And I let him, because I thought that it was a good way for him to cope.

  "And then ... I don't know what happened. One day I realized that Hugh had been dead twenty years and Gray was still taking care of things. Not really me, but anything that came his way, that was slightly skewed or messed up or not quite how he thought it should be. He's a compulsive fixer. He doesn't trust anyone else to handle situations. He's cautious with delegating, and he's quick to blame himself, and I don't know if he was always going to turn out that way or if that was the way I raised him, not meaning to.

  "But Gray's the fixer. In the family. In the company. And even I'm guilty of it. When things go wrong, I call Gray. It's instinctive now, built into us. And the thing about Gray is that he doesn't resent it. He would be angry as hell if he wasn't the go-to person for all of us. But when Sophie told him she was pregnant, he did something that I've never seen him do before. He talked someone else into handling it. Decided that someone else would do a better job with it. And that someone else was Aubrey. I've ju
st never seen him do that before. And that made me realize that ... With all due respect, you don't know Gray. And I do. And that is so incredibly uncharacteristic that Aubrey must be different. Must mean more to him. Just must."

  "But wouldn't you say that Sophie's pregnancy was a rather unique situation?"

  "Sure. But no more so than other things I've asked him to deal with over the years. The debacle with Simon. All the other issues we had with the kids over the years."

  Kaye sighed. “Okay. So now you've told me what you know about Gray. I'll tell you what I know about Aubrey. She's already slept with Gray. Not recently. Months ago."

  "I suspected as much. When I introduced them, it seemed as if they already knew each other."

  "And there are few women Gray meets who he doesn't sleep with,” Kaye noted dryly.

  Moira looked a little irritated but didn't dispute that point.

  "Aubrey doesn't do things like sleep with random men, Moira. She's very old-fashioned. For Gray everything is casual. For Aubrey nothing is that simple. She's tense when she's near him, tries to be very aloof, and that's because I think she already realizes she's too susceptible to him. She tells me that Gray is too charming for any woman's good, and having met him, I've got to agree with her.

  "Surely you must realize that, Moira. Gray is the type of man it's too easy to fall in love with. And he doesn't seem to ever fall in love. Aubrey's had her heart broken. I had to go through it with her. I don't want to go through it again. I'm sure Gray's a great guy. But if he hurts Aubrey...” Kaye shrugged. “I'll castrate him."

  Chapter Sixteen

  "They told me, ‘If it came to a choice between getting Saddam Hussein or beating the Yankees, we'd take beating the Yankees.’ I think they were kidding."

  —Gordon Edes (quoting Joe Torre), Boston Globe July 28, 2003

  February 23, 2004

  She was stark raving mad. She had to be. Why would she ever agree to paint Gray's portrait? Why would she ever propose following him around for a day? Because she'd lost her mind, that was why.

  She was trying a new tactic. Instead of trying to look as beautiful as possible, she was trying to look as dowdy as possible. Clearly Gray was still attracted to her. He'd proven that by kissing her the day before. So, yes, she was happy to know that she'd gotten under Gray's skin. But she now wanted to dissuade Gray from trying to get under hers. She was not getting involved with some messy sexual entanglement with Gray Delamonte.

  Gnawing on her lower lip nervously, she met her own worried eyes in the mirror. Maybe she needed to write that out a hundred times or so. Memorize it. Burn it into her—

  There was a knock on the door. Gray. Arriving so she could start her day with him.

  God help her.

  "What the hell are those?” she demanded, crinkling her nose in the most adorable expression of disapproval.

  She was dressed as dowdily as he'd ever seen her, in shapeless pants and oversized shirt. And her hair was pulled back in a severe twist. Her way of ensuring that he would abide by her ground rule, he supposed, and tried not to smile in amusement. Instead, he looked down at the flowers he was holding. “You said that roses were not allowed anymore. I thought you might be more amenable to daisies."

  "Flowers,” she spat out. “Flowers are not allowed anymore. And what excuse could you possibly have concocted for these?"

  "They're by way of apology. I wrote a card.” He handed it over politely. “Because you seem to be confused when I send you flowers."

  She did not seem to find any of this charming. She scowled at him as she read the card. Sorry: (1) For forgetting the ground rule; (2) For my stupidity at brunch; (3) For buying you flowers.

  "Also for anything else I may do today that you think may warrant flowers,” he added.

  "Well.” She disappeared briefly back into the suite and reemerged without the flowers. “At least that means I won't receive flowers tomorrow."

  "You are the only woman I've ever met who's so violently against flowers,” Gray commented, sticking his hands deep in his pockets so he wouldn't give in to these stupid impulses to touch her that he kept suffering from. “What would you prefer instead?"

  "Nothing,” she responded flatly, calling for the elevator. “Here's the game plan for today."

  "You're obsessed with these things, aren't you? Game plans, ground rules."

  "You know what happens when you don't have a game plan?"

  "What?"

  "Grady Little."

  Gray chuckled as the elevator doors whooshed open. “Touché. Okay, tell me the game plan."

  "I'm just going to sit in your office all day. You can just ignore me."

  "So you've told me already.” Gray punched the lobby button.

  Aubrey let a moment of silence pass. “Do you agree to my game plan?"

  Gray glanced at her in surprise. “What's to agree to? I've already agreed to let you hang around my office."

  "Yes,” she said, “but what about ignoring me?"

  "I might look at you every once in a while. Are you going to be able to handle that?"

  The elevator doors opened onto the lobby. “I want you to go through your day in a completely normal fashion,” she told him earnestly. “I don't want you to—"

  "Gray,” a man interjected. “Why, look, and Aubrey too. How delightful to run into you."

  It was the man whose conversation with Mark she had interrupted that day. Gray's hand appeared on the small of her back, a light pressure that she should really call him on. He also edged a little closer to her, and he looked so wary that she decided starting an argument with him probably wasn't wise at that moment. She stayed silent.

  Okay, and maybe she relaxed a little bit into the intoxicating warmth of his hand at her back.

  "I was looking for you before. Did Lucy tell you?"

  "She mentioned something,” Gray answered curtly. “I do apologize but I've been very busy lately—"

  "That is too bad. I'm leaving today and I wanted to speak with you before I left."

  "Well,” said Gray. “I hope you had a good time at the Bienvenue."

  "You took a little too much of my money.” The man laughed genially.

  Gray managed just a bit of a smile, said, “Sorry. We're in a hurry. Have a pleasant trip home.” The pressure on her back grew, nudging her toward the employee door where Gray quickly and cleanly swiped his card and held the door open for her.

  "Who is that man?” Aubrey asked, watching him punch the button for the elevator.

  "Just a guest,” he answered.

  "No, not just a guest. You don't like him."

  "I'm not required to like every guest at the Bienvenue. I keep trying to impress this upon Mark."

  "Yeah, but he...” Aubrey trailed off, then came out and just asked it. “Were you trying to protect me from him?"

  The elevator arrived. “Don't worry about it,” Gray assured her, gesturing her onto the elevator. “You're perfectly safe."

  Mark pretty effectively destroyed this statement by pouncing on them the instant the elevator doors opened. “What did Halcourt want?"

  "He didn't want anything,” Gray replied shortly as he began walking swiftly toward his office. “He's leaving today. He came to tell me good-bye."

  "Tell you good-bye?” Mark echoed.

  "I told you. It's an ego thing."

  "Did he tell you to be careful?” Mark asked Aubrey. At Aubrey's blank look, he chided Gray's back. “You didn't tell her to be careful."

  "I forgot.” Gray glanced over his shoulder at Aubrey. “Hey, Aubrey. Watch your back, would you?"

  "Watch my—?” Aubrey repeated, in confusion.

  "Dammit, Gray, would you take this seriously?"

  "No. You're out of your mind here. You have me going out of my mind.” They entered Gray's office and Gray dropped into the chair behind his desk. “The man comes up to talk to me and I'm suddenly supposed to be terrified he's going to take out a knife and hold it against Aubrey's throat
or something? That is not going to happen. You have lost your mind over this Dennis Halcourt thing, Mark. You're overreacting. And I'm letting it affect me. Which I can't. He's a guest in my hotel, and he needs to be treated like a guest in my hotel."

  "Yeah. So you shouldn't be talking to him in the lobby. How many guests do you talk to in the lobby?"

  "I can't be rude to him, Mark.” Gray looked at Aubrey. “Mark used to be a police officer. He hasn't quite gotten the hang of the hospitality industry."

  "Dennis Halcourt is a known criminal,” Mark told Aubrey. “If he approaches you again, make sure you tell me, okay?"

  Aubrey, bewildered, nodded her head.

  "Do you have anything else for me?” Gray asked, clearly closing the topic of Dennis Halcourt.

  "Few more counterfeits than usual in the blackjack pit. We're checking it out. That's all."

  "Okay. If Dennis Halcourt comes storming my office, I'll be sure to call you through the hail of bullets."

  "I swear to God this isn't funny, Gray,” Mark told him.

  "Okay,” Gray agreed gravely.

  Aubrey watched Mark leave, then turned back to Gray. “What is going on?"

  "If I knew, believe me, I'd tell you. I think what's going on is Mark's wife is due to give birth at any minute and he's transferring anxiety.” Gray sighed. “And the day is clearly off and running."

  * * * *

  When Aubrey was sketching, it was clear that she was absorbed in her own little world. Gray knew this because he asked her three times what she wanted to order for lunch and she still didn't answer him. “Hang on,” he said to the room service operator waiting for him on the line, and stood up and walked over to where Aubrey was sitting on the couch.

  She was sketching him with quick, sure strokes, and he was surprised at how good the likeness was. He was tipped back in the chair behind his desk, his fingers steepled together, looking at something that wasn't in the picture.

  "Do I really sit like that?” he asked in surprise, and, typically, got no answer. He put his fingers in front of Aubrey's eyes and snapped them briskly.

  Aubrey jumped a mile and looked up at him. Then she quickly hugged the sketch to her breasts, as if terrified that he might actually see it. “What?"