Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  "What,” he asked calmly, “do you want for lunch?"

  "Lunch?” she echoed without comprehension.

  "Lunch,” he explained patiently. “It's the meal in the middle of the day. I'm ordering something up. What would you like?"

  "Oh, a ... salad, I suppose."

  "Thank you. Now you may go back to whatever world you were in."

  She frowned at him as he ordered her salad. And house dressing. “Who said I wanted house dressing?"

  Gray hung up the phone. “Attempting to get an answer out of you regarding lunch itself was like pulling teeth. Do you not want house dressing?"

  "No, it's fine."

  Gray stood and sank onto the sofa next to her, arm thrown over the back of it, as he leaned in her direction. “You have more of the artistic temperament in you than I realized."

  Aubrey narrowed her eyes a bit. “What does that mean?"

  "Just that I was talking to you, or trying to talk to you, and you had no idea. You were absolutely lost in your own little world. To me, that seems like an eccentric bit of artistic temperament."

  "You exaggerate,” she said as room service knocked on the door. Aubrey watched as a lunch cart was wheeled over to them.

  "Thanks,” Gray said, flickering a smile up at the waiter.

  "That was the quickest service I've ever seen."

  "I get the same thing every day,” Gray told her. “They have it ready for me. And it's not like a salad takes a lot of effort to make."

  Aubrey watched him dig enthusiastically into a cheeseburger. “You have that for lunch every day?"

  He nodded, obviously deciding it was the most divine thing he'd ever tasted.

  "It's a miracle you haven't had a heart attack yet."

  Gray shrugged. “I work out."

  Sighing and shaking her head, Aubrey carefully poured the house dressing over her salad.

  "So tell me how the sketching's going."

  "Fine."

  Gray waited. “That's all I'm getting?"

  She looked up from her salad. “What else do you want?"

  "Well, do you have any ideas?"

  "A few. I'd rather not share until I'm more certain of..."

  "What?” he asked when she trailed off, and glanced up from his cheeseburger.

  She was looking at him fixedly, and she decided it was time to throw caution to the wind where he was concerned. “You're a very private person."

  "Is that going to be a problem?"

  "It's just that I feel like I know just as much about you as any guest in your hotel would know upon meeting you in the lobby."

  He shook his head. “That's not true."

  "Because I've seen you naked?"

  A frown flickered across his face. “You—"

  "And what makes this all a lot sadder is the fact that I probably know as much about you as your mother knows. I mean, your mother obviously adores you, but you are always playing a part. And for a man who isn't very good at lying, it's impressive to me how effortlessly you play this part."

  "I'm not playing a part,” Gray protested. “I'm not sure why you think I am."

  "No one's that good-natured, Gray."

  "Just because you aren't—"

  "Oh, now I'm not good-natured?"

  "I'm not saying that. And you've exactly proved my point. It isn't that you're not good-natured, but you love picking fights with me. You love coming up with reasons to dislike me. You set ground rules and formulate game plans you know I can't possibly follow just so you can call me on it when I—"

  "No touching? You can't follow no touching?"

  "Now your latest plan is to decide that all I am is some sort of elaborate stage play that I'm putting on for your benefit—"

  "I'm just saying that you're better like this,” she interrupted as she stuck a cucumber slice in her mouth.

  The simple honesty in her statement, so without heat or rancor, gave him pause. “What?” he asked.

  "You're better when you lose your temper. You should do it more often."

  Gray opened and closed his mouth. “You were provoking me?"

  "You're pretty easy to provoke."

  Most people didn't think so. In fact, he was famous for his calm, even keel. Aubrey was effortlessly capable of locating every damn one of his buttons—and that realization irritated him even more. He turned back to his cheeseburger.

  "And now you're sulking,” said Aubrey.

  "I am not sulking,” he retorted around a mouthful.

  "Said he, sulkily."

  "Stop it, would you?” he demanded crossly.

  "I even like you better sulky. This is better than all that charm. That's why I don't like you sending me flowers. You send flowers because it's your set piece. I could interview every woman you've ever slept with, and you've sent every one of them three dozen red roses, haven't you?"

  "That's where you're wrong. I haven't,” he informed her smugly.

  "Two dozen?” she suggested sweetly, arching an eyebrow at him.

  Gray glared at her and sat back. She was absolutely ruining his lunch.

  "You're a little bit of a coaster, you know,” she remarked thoughtfully.

  "I'm a what?"

  "You coast through life. You've found out what works for you, and you just figure you'll keep doing it again and again."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "It makes me feel like everything you say to me, you're just adding ‘Aubrey’ where it says ‘insert girl's name here.’ Of course it works. It's supposed to work. But that's why I dislike you. It's not because you can't abide by my ground rules.” She turned back to her salad.

  Gray regarded her. “So you dislike me because I'm too good at what I do."

  "That's not what I said."

  "That's what it boils down to."

  "I don't actually dislike you. I just ... The more I get to know you, the more frustrated I am by you."

  "Frustrated?"

  "Do you know what comes up when you Google your name?"

  "No idea."

  "Sixty thousand web pages saying, ‘Gray Delamonte was seen with so-and-so.’ As if that's all you do. Well, I've spent the morning with you and it isn't all you do. You run a complex company. And pretty well, from what I've seen. You're obviously smart."

  "I'm a Harvard Business School graduate and a Rhodes scholar. I don't need you to tell me I'm smart."

  "So why don't you date smart women?"

  "You think just because the women I date are beautiful they can't also be smart?"

  "I think you don't actually date women. By your standards of dating, Gray, you and I are practically engaged."

  He almost choked, but recovered quickly. “So ... what's the problem with that? Just because I've never—"

  "It's sad, that's all. You're bright and charming and very kind to people you love. You'd make a good husband. You'd make an excellent father."

  "I really don't understand how you can tell me that I'm only going through the motions with one breath and then with the next breath tell me how spectacular I would be at playing the family man. That is a part that can't be played, Aubrey. You have to have your heart and soul in it, or you shouldn't even attempt it. That's why I've never gotten married, that's why I've never had children. Because I do this.” His hands swept around the office.

  "You don't think you could do both?"

  "I think Hugh did both very well. I think that, unfortunately for me, I'm not Hugh."

  She'd hit a chord. She saw that instantly. And maybe she shouldn't have gone that far. She had just meant to probe at him a little bit. She hadn't meant to tread on his Achilles heel, and she felt repentant for having unexpectedly stumbled upon it.

  Gray went to a lot of trouble to keep himself opaque. While her goal had been to render him more transparent, she was a little ashamed at having actually made headway. She wasn't sharing all the secrets of her inner soul with him. Why should she force him to reveal all to her so she could package it in a painting
?

  "Gray—"

  "We're done,” he said abruptly and stood.

  "Gray, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

  "It was exactly what you meant to do, Aubrey, and you're not abiding by your own ground rule."

  "What ground rule?"

  "The one where I wouldn't even know you were here. Do you know what that means?"

  She stared up at him, trying to read his thoughts. “N-no."

  "That I don't have to abide by the ground rule either.” He reached down and took her hands and pulled her up to stand next to him.

  "Not knowing I'm here?” she asked in confusion.

  He shook his head. “No touching.” And then he leaned down and licked her neck.

  She gasped in utter surprise. That she had not expected.

  His tongue slid over the pulse point in her neck. She felt it race in response, so much so she felt dizzy and short of breath.

  He growled—no other description for it but that. And actually bit underneath her jaw. There was the sound of a whimper. She thought it eminently possible that she had made it.

  "Do you feel that?” His voice whispered into her ear, rushing along with his breath, and she felt like she was struggling upward through quicksand.

  "What?” she croaked, her mouth dry.

  "How your heart is pounding. You're so damn frustrated with me because you won't let me near you."

  It could possibly be true. Certainly she was willing to believe just about anything at that moment, his breath hot and intimate on her neck.

  "Let me...” His hands cupped her breasts, his fingers rubbing her stiff nipples through her shirt.

  "Mmmm,” she moaned, her knees buckling, as she sank down to the couch.

  His own heartbeat pounding in his ears, Gray followed her down, pulling out her hair clip, tangling his hands in her hair. There wasn't room for him on the couch, he realized. He couldn't very well sit on top of her, and she was indeed sitting. He found himself kneeling on the floor in front of her. She needed to shift position. He needed to get her to move. “Aubrey—"

  She pulled at his tie, pulled him up and over to her, and he nuzzled under her ear, and she shifted for him, sprawling further onto the couch, and he balanced precariously over her, turning his attention from her ear to the hand she laid against his cheek, swirling his tongue around her index finger.

  She made absolutely hands-down the most delicious sound he'd ever heard in his life. She shifted restlessly under him, using her free hand to bunch his shirt behind his back.

  He nipped at the palm of her hand and a slow persuasive pulse of pleasure washed over her and, eyes closed, she smiled. He was absolutely right. This was the problem. Why had she been fighting this ... this ... well, bliss so hard?

  "Aubrey,” he said against the palm of her hand.

  "Gray,” she answered on a happy little sigh.

  "We can't do this here, darling. Let's go to my suite. I'll—"

  She opened her eyes. He was still nuzzling at her hand, mumbling the words, and she realized they were on the couch in his office. He had had her halfway to heaven, and had not lost the smallest bit of rational thought function.

  Of course not. Because he was back on his terms. He was back to his well-rehearsed lines. Back in familiar territory.

  "Stop,” she said firmly.

  He obeyed—mainly, she thought, because he was shocked. He lifted his head and blinked at her in confusion. “What?"

  "Stop,” she repeated. “Stop. Get off me.” She shoved at him ineffectually.

  "Aubrey...” He sighed, but he did sit up.

  "Why would you do that?” she asked shakily, trying to shrink away from him into the couch.

  "You asked me to."

  "I did not. You ... You ... licked me."

  "Yes, I seem to recall that you like that. My memory was correct. I stopped because you asked me to. I started because I wanted to. And you want me to. And if I waited for you to ask me to start instead of stop, we'd both be too old to enjoy any of it."

  "I don't want you to. I mean, I do want you to, but I don't want you to."

  He sighed again. “You are driving me mad. Let's stop talking and go upstairs."

  "No. No."

  "Tell me why not,” he demanded.

  "You tell me what's going to happen after we have sex."

  "Well...” He tipped his head and considered. “I'm thinking we'll doze for a bit, and then have sex again.” He brightened. “It'll be a hell of a lot of fun."

  Fun. Fun. Fun and games. Damn him to hell. “I can't paint your portrait,” she said.

  "What?"

  "I don't have sex, Gray."

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Since when?"

  "If I paint your portrait, we'll end up in bed. And that's where you'll be having sex and I'll be..."

  "What?"

  Making love, she thought. She would be making love to him. To a man who had just told her, hadn't he, that he wouldn't be a husband or a father.

  "You'd be enjoying it, Aubrey,” he supplied for her when she couldn't answer.

  "I have to go."

  She fled.

  * * * *

  The lobby was full, and she needed the lobby to be full, because she needed to get lost. She didn't want Gray to be able to find her. She couldn't go back to her room. That would be the first place Gray would look, and she couldn't—

  "Aubrey!"

  Someone shouted her name. It wasn't Gray. She turned her head in that direction and stopped dead.

  Paul was waving at her, his hand firmly ensconced in a hand that belonged to that stupid blonde model he was dating. Could her life get any worse? she wondered despairingly. Nevertheless she plastered a smile on her face and tried to be gracious. “Paul."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm working here. I mean, painting here. What are you doing here?"

  "What are the chances of the two of us running into each other?” Paul asked, smiling broadly, obviously delighted to be showing off his beautiful girlfriend. “I had no idea you were here. Brandi and I just got married.” Beaming, he held up his left hand.

  Aubrey stared at the wedding ring. And kept staring.

  "Have you met Brandi?” Paul asked.

  "With an i,” Brandi informed her.

  "You got married?” Aubrey asked, dazed. She was still stuck on that little detail.

  "Well, yes,” said Paul. “I mean, Aubrey, sooner or later—"

  "Sooner or later?” she echoed. How long had he and Brandi—with an i—even been dating? She and Paul had dated three years before becoming engaged. And then had been engaged three more years, while she tried to convince him to set a date. All in all, they had been married less time than they'd been engaged.

  "It was so romantic,” gushed Brandi. “Paul's idea. Eloping. Isn't that romantic?"

  Paul. Staid, predictable, never-do-anything-spontaneous Paul.

  Eloped!

  "Aubrey.” Gray came panting up to her, looking almost respectable except for the askew tie and the tousled hair. She stared at him without comprehension. “I'm sorry that I—I mean, I know that I—Could we maybe talk about—"

  She cut him off by kissing him. She had to stand on tiptoe to do it, but she fastened her hands into his hair and kissed the breath out of him.

  He tasted absolutely divine. And, after a moment of just standing there like an idiot, he took the bait and kissed her back.

  Yes, perhaps she was not acting rationally here ... Because he kissed her back—hard, hungrily, ravenously—and she was in great danger, there in that public place, right there in the lobby of his hotel and casino, of wrapping her legs around his waist. He was just that great a kisser. Before she lost her head completely, she drew back.

  Gray blinked down at her, looking confused. And a little angry. “What the hell—?"

  "Paul, Brandi, this is Gray,” Aubrey told them.

  "Huh?” said Gray, finally taking note of other people present.

>   "Paul,” Paul repeated for him helpfully, as he held out his hand. Gray shook it in an automatic reflex action. “Aubrey's ex-husband."

  Gray blinked. Then he said slowly, “Oh. Yes. Paul. Of course."

  "And this is Brandi,” Paul said, presenting her. “We just got married."

  "Oh, you just got married! Congratulations! Are you staying here at the Bienvenue?"

  "Yes,” Paul affirmed.

  Well, wasn't that just lovely, thought Aubrey sourly.

  "Great,” Gray smiled, all smooth politeness. Playing his part very well. “I hope you enjoy your stay. You'll pardon me, I hope. I need to talk to Aubrey for a second."

  "Of course,” Paul replied, although he looked a trifle confused.

  Gray took her hand and pulled her off toward the elevators, sending a jovial little wave back to Paul and Brandi. “How did I do?” he asked, as he called for the elevator. “Did I play the boyfriend well enough for you?"

  Was he talking to her? She blinked at her reflection in the highly polished elevator doors. “He got married. Eloped! Paul!"

  Gray lifted his eyebrows and ushered her onto the elevator.

  "And her name is Brandi,” she said to no one in particular. “With an i. Her and that stupid with an i stuff. I've met her before, you know, and she acts like she's never seen me in her life."

  "Come on,” Gray said, taking her hand and pulling her off the elevator, toward the service elevator.

  "Where are we going?” she asked as he ushered her onto this elevator.

  "My place. This is the way to my place."

  She nodded vacantly.

  He frowned as the elevator opened on his foyer. “We need to talk,” he said, walking briskly into his apartment.

  "No. No. You were right. We need to have sex. Let's have sex."

  He turned back to her, just in time to watch her take her shirt off. Oh, damn it to hell. The woman was not seducing him again.

  "No, we do not need to have sex, Aubrey. We need to talk.” He picked up her shirt, went to give it back to her, but she had wandered into his living room.

  "Can we have sex in front of the Gainsborough?” she asked brightly. “I always wanted to have sex in front of a great painting. Paul was always too timid to have sex in the museum. Now he's gone and eloped."

  "Pull yourself together, Aubrey,” Gray told her, trying to be harsh so she would stop babbling about places where they could have sex. He pulled her shirt over her head.