Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  Aubrey was neither surprised nor offended when he fell asleep without a further word. She had known he was exhausted. She knew it was the reason why he had said the things he'd said, acted the way he'd acted. She'd caught him with his defenses down. He would get a good night's sleep, and in the morning he would be cheerful and jovial and companionable.

  But he would not say Aubrey, you're mine...

  With a small sigh, Aubrey burrowed closer to him and enjoyed the gentle rhythm of his slow and steady breathing. There was no better place in the world, she decided, than being sprawled over Gray Delamonte, pillowed comfortably on his chest, with one of his hands absently resting on the small of her back as if to keep her close. She wondered vaguely how many other women had had similar thoughts. She also wondered why she was convincing herself it didn't matter.

  At what point had she fallen in love with this man? Or had she been in love with him, not knowing it, all her life? And what the hell did it matter when it happened? It just happened. Against all her better judgment.

  She couldn't very well undo it now. She cared about him. She cared about all the trivialities of his life just as much as she cared about the major crises of it. She liked to make him smile and she loved to smile at him. She thought she could just sit around and smile like an idiot at him all day and consider it a day well spent.

  And he was sleeping—not lying awake worrying over things that weren't his fault and couldn't be changed. She considered that an excellent thing.

  With another sigh, heavier this time, she slid off his chest. He didn't wake up. He stirred a bit, but stayed sound asleep. She pulled on her clothing and paused to look down at him. And her fingers itched for a pencil.

  Moving decisively, she went to his desk, found a heavy piece of stationary and a pencil that she carefully shaved to make a point soft and broad enough for her purposes. Then she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him and sketched him in sleep, with quick, sure strokes, and by the time she was finished she was pleased with it. It captured more of him than the first portrait she had started. Maybe, she admitted, it captured more of her as well.

  She left the sketch on his coffee table for him, then retrieved the bedspread off his bed and laid it gently over him. It was finally, at that point, that she noticed the spilled crème brulee. She cleaned it as well as she could before leaving.

  Morning would bring what morning would bring. But she needed to prepare for it. Spending the night wrapped in his arms wasn't the best way to do so.

  * * * *

  February 24, 2004

  Gray woke feeling stiff and sated, and both those conditions indicated that the entire interlude with Aubrey the night before had to have been more than just a vivid dream. He'd been half afraid that the adventure of the night before had been so unexpected and thoroughly unprecedented that he might have just conjured it up out of his imagination: Aubrey here when he got home, cooking him dinner, setting about seducing him.

  Seducing him! And there he had been wracking his brains over how to get the girl to stop skittering around him, and in one fantastic night, she had not only solved his problem but definitely taken the upper hand. What a woman!

  Stretching under the bedspread—where had the bedspread come from? must have been Aubrey—kneading his stiff neck with one hand, Gray frowned at the ceiling and considered the fact that he had, for the first time in his memory, simply sat back and enjoyed. Had, indeed, been powerless to do anything more than enjoy. Aubrey, with very little effort as far as he could tell, had managed to erase everything he'd ever learned in bed.

  These were things that had to be considered. These were things that made him feel confused and even slightly shaken. As did the happy, warm feeling that was still settling over him when he recalled walking in to find Aubrey on his couch. Such a tremendous jump of sheer delight. Fierce, stubborn, clever Aubrey, who never failed to fascinate him no matter what she did.

  A twinge of uncertainty worked its way through him. He might just be in over his head here. What the hell should he do about it?

  Nothing, he decided. Absolutely nothing ... at least for the moment. He would get up, take a shower, check on Sophie, let the whole thing simmer on the back burner of his mind until he could figure out what to do. Until the answer just came to him. He was confident it would come. He seldom remained confused for long.

  He sat up and saw the sketch of him lying on the coffee table and pulled it over to him. In the sketch he was sound asleep, utterly relaxed, looking strangely defenseless and yet, at the same time, commanding. It was quite an intriguing sketch and, if indicative of what Aubrey was capable of, promising.

  It was also a little unsettling, to think that she had sat there watching him sleep when he could have at least said something to her before rolling over and snoring. He supposed he would have to make that up to her. He wondered vaguely how much more he would end up making up to her. He wondered how broadly she would start to drop hints about rings. He wondered—oh, God—whether she would say anything to his mother. That was all he needed.

  He lost himself in the routine of his day, stopping by his mother's before he left for work. His mother told him Sophie was still sleeping but seemed better. Kaye was already at his mother's suite. She gave him a narrow-eyed glare that had Gray nervously adjusting the knot of his tie. He made a mental note to ask Aubrey just how insane her best friend was. Because she seemed pretty far gone.

  He was later than usual to his office, largely because he'd slept later than he'd intended to. Another alarming anomaly of the morning, since his internal alarm clock was usually flawless. Marjorie was already there and she said, without looking up, “Mark and Danny have both been looking for you all morning."

  Gray rolled his eyes. “I'm only about an hour late. It can't possibly have been all morning."

  "Well, it was a while,” Marjorie informed him, radiating displeasure.

  Sighing, Gray went in search of them and ran across Mark first, in his office, drumming his fingers on his desk while he watched surveillance videos.

  "Looking for me?” Gray asked, after rapping his knuckles briefly on the door.

  Mark looked up. “Yeah. Where have you been?"

  Gray tried to give a negligent shrug as he sat opposite Mark. “Around."

  "How's Sophie?"

  "Fine. I mean, the baby's fine, and they don't think there's any reason why she should have any more close calls. She's back here at the hotel."

  "Good. She probably needs to be around you guys. Pregnant women can be hysterical."

  "Speaking of, how's your pregnant woman doing?"

  "She's no longer hysterical, she's just impossible. I think she just wants to have the whole thing over with. Our son is not cooperating."

  "What's his name this week?"

  "Hunter."

  "Ah,” said Gray after a second.

  "I think it all depends on what week he's born. If he can just hold out until next week, maybe I can convince Monica to go with Brian."

  "Brian's nice."

  "Yeah, I think so, but Monica...” Mark trailed off, aware suddenly that Gray wasn't listening. Was, in fact, not even pretending to listen. Was staring at a point on the floor looking worried and perplexed. “You okay?"

  "What? I'm fine.” Gray shook himself out of it. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  But Mark had by now caught onto the fact that there was something off about Gray. “Why were you late this morning?"

  "Yesterday was a long day,” Gray replied shortly. “Aren't I allowed to sleep in one morning?"

  "Sure you are,” Mark agreed jovially. “Yesterday was a long day. There was Sophie. There was money-laundering. There was Aubrey.” Bingo, thought Mark, watching the small flicker of reaction cross Gray's face. “We've talked about Sophie. Before we move on to the money-laundering, perhaps you'd like to talk about Aubrey?"

  "There's nothing to talk about. What's your plan for the money-laundering?"

  "Ho
w's the portrait coming?"

  "Great,” Gray snapped.

  "For a man who got extra sleep today, you're awfully cranky,” commented Mark mildly.

  "I don't want to talk about Aubrey."

  "No one said you had to. Calm down."

  "Do you think we can talk about the enormous crisis looming in front of this hotel instead of my sex life?"

  "Sure,” said Mark pleasantly. “Although I don't have any brilliant ideas about the money-laundering. You and Danny are both obviously right, that it's somebody high up in the hierarchy—but that makes it more difficult, don't you think? I would suggest that we try to feel out all the people we think it could be, but Danny and I made a list last night and..."

  "Well, who's on the list?"

  "You and Danny are numbers one and two."

  "Okay, well, let's move past that then, because we know it's not me and we know it's not Danny."

  "But how do we know that?"

  Gray paused. “Well, we know it's not me, right? Right?” he said sharply when there was a moment of telling silence.

  "I'm pretty damn confident it's not you,” Mark replied carefully. “But until I can prove it's someone else, you're going to be at the top of the suspect list."

  "Well, then, you'd better come up with how we're going to prove it's someone else. I don't need the FBI sniffing around here throwing up dust so that the real culprit can slink away."

  "Maybe we should call in the FBI,” Mark suggested in a small voice.

  "Call in the FBI? No."

  "Tell them that we've uncovered this irregular activity—"

  "I said no. Did you not just tell me that I'm on the top of the suspect list?"

  "Yeah, but Gray, if you're innocent—"

  Gray barked out a laugh. “Give me a break, Mark. I am innocent, but I don't want to test the system. Let's go on to Plan B."

  Mark was silent for a long time. He looked almost grim. “It's going to require heavy investigation. Very heavy."

  "So what's the problem? You know what you're doing. I give you carte blanche."

  "It's just that it's going to take time, Gray, and—"

  "So take the time.” Gray stood. “We'll keep this quiet."

  "Gray, things that you try to keep quiet have a way of—"

  "We keep it quiet,” he repeated. “For now, at least. The company's doing a public offering in a few weeks. I don't need negative publicity."

  "Negative publicity?” Mark echoed. “Would you listen to me for just a second? This isn't about negative publicity. I am trying to keep you out of prison, Gray!"

  "I'm not going to go to prison for something I didn't do. I don't want to test the system, but I'm pretty sure that—"

  "If Halcourt is behind this, and if Halcourt wants you put away, I don't think you're going to have much choice."

  That stopped him. “Why the hell would Halcourt want to frame me for money-laundering?"

  "Because you don't money-launder. If he could get someone in your position who would..."

  Gray's eyes narrowed. He sighed. Then he said firmly, “No FBI. Not right now. Do your heavy investigating. At least to the end of the week."

  "The end of the week? Gray, I've been on this since—” He cut himself off abruptly. Wouldn't be good to tell Gray at this point that he'd been investigating the money-laundering at the Bienvenue since he'd started working there and that, in nearly two full months, he hadn't made any progress at all. Damn it. This whole situation was getting worse instead of better, and Mark suspected it had much farther to go before things started looking up. “Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “The end of the week. And then we'll reevaluate. And I swear to God, we're going to have this discussion again."

  "Fine,” said Gray. “Was there anything else?"

  "Not right now."

  "Good. I'm going to my office. I'll be there all day."

  "No portrait sittings?"

  "Something tells me Aubrey might have it in her head to avoid me today,” said Gray grimly as he headed out of Mark's office. He ran into Danny in the hallway. “Were you looking for me?"

  "Yeah. Did Mark talk to you about the, uh, problem?"

  "Yeah.” Damn it, it was barely ten o'clock and he was already feeling exhaustion lick its way up the base of his spine. “We've discussed it. Come to my office and tell me your thoughts."

  Danny followed Gray and closed the door behind him. “I don't have any thoughts. Or ideas. Or suspects. Mark and I sat around last night after you—By the way, how is Sophie?"

  "She's fine. It was a false alarm."

  "We made a potential suspect list. But guess who tops it.” Danny waved his hand between the two of them.

  "So I've been told. And I've got to tell you, Daniel, if you are money-laundering, you could at least cut me in on the take. I mean, I think it would only be polite."

  Danny didn't even grin. “Don't joke about this, Gray. This is damned serious stuff."

  Gray sighed and looked his trusted employee in the eye. “Yeah, it is. Damned serious stuff. And we've got to get to the bottom of it."

  "We will,” Danny replied firmly. “We will."

  Chapter Nineteen

  The disaster movie The Day After Tomorrow should be about the day the Sox blew Game 7 to the Yankees last year, not global warming.

  —Bill Reynolds, Providence Journal, June 5, 2004

  Aubrey worked a little on Moira's portrait. She worked far more on Gray, sketching study after study of him from memory. Her mother called, but she avoided talking to her. She wasn't really in the mood to talk. She was lost in the sketchbooks. Absolutely buried in them. The same way, she reflected, she'd been completely buried in him the night before.

  There was a knock on the door around noon, penetrating Aubrey's haze of productivity. She blinked at it, thinking, Gray. Her mouth went dry and her heart raced not altogether unpleasantly as she stood and carefully walked over to the door and peered through the peephole.

  Not Gray. Kaye. And Aubrey was—yes, damn it, disappointed. After everything that had happened the night before, he could have at least sent flowers, for God's sake.

  She opened the door and tried to look happy to see Kaye.

  "Hey.” Kaye sent her a smile that looked on the edge of tired. “What's up?"

  "Working.” Aubrey waved her hand vaguely. “What about you?"

  "Also working. Finally finished what I came here to do. Moira and I worked all morning. I'm sorry I've been taking her away from the portrait."

  Aubrey shrugged. “No problem."

  "I'm leaving for New York tonight. Going to take the red eye. I'm going to pack and then go to the airport and see if there's any chance of going standby on an earlier flight."

  "Tonight?” Aubrey echoed. For some reason, she had not expected Kaye to leave so soon.

  Kaye smiled apologetically. “I know. It's quick. But I miss the baby. I miss Steven. And I'm really done here. Except for you. Where'd you go after I left last night? I tried to find you again after I walked Steven through putting the baby down."

  "You did?” Aubrey started pulling together the scattered sketches she'd made. “Where was I ... Oh yes, I went up to Gray's suite to seduce him,” she answered lightly. “Where did you think I'd gone?"

  Kaye chuckled. “No, seriously, where'd you go?"

  "I am serious,” Aubrey insisted. “That's where I went.” She concentrated on continuing to gather together the sketches, aware she'd succeeded in causing Kaye to gape at her. “Admittedly I didn't initially go there to seduce him. I went because I was worried about him. I mean, about Sophie. Well, I was worried about Sophie and also how he was handling the guilt over anything that might be happening to Sophie so I went up to talk to him."

  "And?"

  "Well, he wasn't there. And do you know what I did?” Aubrey gave up on the sketches and flounced on the couch, looking displeased. “I cooked him dinner,” she spat out in disgust.

  Kaye blinked, then shook her head in eviden
t confusion. “Wait. You're going too quickly for me here.” She sat on the couch next to Aubrey. “You cooked him dinner? Where?"

  "At his place, of course,” Aubrey answered as if that were the least important detail.

  "His place? But you just said he wasn't there."

  "He wasn't."

  "So how did you get in?"

  Aubrey shrugged dismissively. “I have a key."

  "You have a key? Gray gave you a key to his place?"

  "No. His friend did. Look, it's kind of a long story how I came by this key and that's not important anyway. Didn't you hear what I just said? I cooked him dinner!"

  Kaye was silent for a second. Then she said slowly, “Okay."

  "Don't you want to know why I would do something like that? I mean, here I am, in a strange man's apartment—"

  "He isn't a strange man."

  "—and he isn't there, and what does it occur to me to do? Hey, he'll be hungry. And he doesn't seem to eat in a healthy manner. I'm sure he hasn't had a home-cooked meal in weeks. Maybe months. Possibly even years. I'll make him dinner."

  "It sounds like a nice gesture, Aubrey. Didn't he appreciate it?"

  Aubrey snorted. “Oh, yeah. He loved it. I've never seen food disappear so quickly. But don't you see the problem here, Kaye? Why would I make him dinner?"

  Kaye obviously had no idea how to answer.

  "I'll tell you why. Because I love him."

  Kaye did not look shocked by this revelation. “Aubrey, I told you you did."

  "I thought you were joking. Or wrong. Or something. Not ... not right. Do you realize what a disaster this is? I am in love with yet another man who is incapable of loving me back. And do you know what's even worse? I think I'm even more in love now than I ever have been before in my life. I mean, look at these.” Aubrey picked up the sheaf of sketches, waved them about dramatically. “They're Gray. They're all Gray. I never sat around drawing Paul like some starry-eyed adolescent."

  "Aubrey—"

  "So last night I'm sitting there watching him eat this meal I made for him and I'm thinking, Well, look at that, Aubrey girl. You've gone and fallen in love with this man. Isn't that just great? And do you know what it occurs to me to do? Might as well sleep with him then, right? Damage is already done, might as well have a little fun. So I actually seduced him."