Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  Punching in 1918 automatically, she wondered if she ought to take a photograph of him and use that. The spontaneity, she thought as the elevator doors opened on his foyer, would suffer ... but he was busy and would grow impatient with her and pretend not to be, and anyhow, if he was going to have free time, she wanted him to spend it—

  The hand reached out, coming from nowhere, and before she knew anything had happened, she was flattened against the wall and a firm black-gloved hand on her throat was cutting off her air supply.

  She tried to gasp, tried to do something, anything, but found herself frozen there in abject terror, staring straight into pale blue eyes. The man holding her against the wall swore in a tired manner, as if she were an unwelcome errand to run.

  She could feel panic licking through her. She needed to breathe. Black unconsciousness was threatening. She flailed helplessly against him, but he was so much stronger it was practically comical. She dropped the frame, heard it clatter against the marble floor, groped desperately against the slick marble wall for leverage so she could be a little stronger and get the man off of her. She closed her eyes, desperate that the last thing she see not be this man with his impassive, disinterested, bored blue eyes watching her choke and gurgle for her last breath.

  Her hand unexpectedly encountered the lip of something smooth, heavy. She gathered her strength, gripped hard and swung the object in an arc toward the man. It shattered, hopefully against his head, and his weight slumped against her, his hand slipping from her throat.

  She sucked in air greedily, trying to gather enough energy to shove the man's dead weight off her. In the end she just stepped aside and he fell to the floor in a heap. Feeling strangely dispassionate, Aubrey dropped whatever she was still holding, the last remnant of whatever she'd shattered over his head.

  Then suddenly, knocking her sideways, the terror came back. What if there was someone else in the penthouse? Desperate, she punched the button for the elevator, fell into it and punched any buttons her fingers encountered frantically. She could not get down to the lobby quickly enough, she could not get to Gray quickly enough.

  Once she got to Gray, everything, she thought, would be okay.

  * * * *

  Behind steepled fingers, Gray frowned darkly. He was not in the best of moods. He had managed to avoid the showdown with Mark for the better part of the day, but now he was finding himself cornered by him.

  "I have a hotel to run here,” he informed Mark brusquely.

  "You're not going to have anything to run if you don't nip this in the bud,” Mark retorted.

  "I'm trying to nip it in the bud."

  "I tell you, I can't figure out who's behind this."

  "You haven't exactly tried very—"

  "Am I interrupting something?” asked Doug as he sauntered in, looking cool and calm and thoroughly unconcerned.

  And Gray's day just kept getting better. “Where the hell have you been?"

  Doug looked mildly annoyed at being addressed in such a manner. “Around."

  "I've been trying to find you. I left you messages. Sophie was in the hospital."

  "I know. I got your messages. I just came from seeing Sophie. She seems fine."

  "Well, she—” Gray cut himself off and looked at Mark. “Do you think,” he drawled sarcastically, “that we could finish this—"

  "I'm sorry to interrupt,” said Jim, one of the security employees under Mark, sticking his head in the door, “but there's a girl practically clawing down the door downstairs trying to get up here to see you, Mr. Delamonte."

  "What?” asked Gray, trying to figure out exactly which girl that would be. “Who is it?"

  But the answer became clear because Aubrey suddenly darted around Jim, threaded her way past Doug, making a frantic beeline for Gray and not stopping until she had launched herself onto his lap, curling into a ball and trying to bury her head in his chest.

  Bewildered, Gray caught her instinctively. “Aubrey, what—"

  "Oh, Gray, oh, Gray, oh, Gray, oh, Gray..."

  Mark, Doug, and Jim stared at her. Gray couldn't really see her, due to the fact that she was hugging him so tightly he could barely tilt his head to look down at her.

  "All right,” he said, lifting his arms to enclose her safely. “All right. What is it?"

  "I think,” she squeaked, “that I just killed someone."

  Gray shook his head. He must have fallen through a rabbit hole that morning, he decided. “What did you just say?"

  Aubrey drew back from him just a bit, just enough to look up at him with those wide blue eyes. She looked pale and shaken, but she was not crying. Indeed, Gray had the impression she was almost too shaken to cry. “He was in your penthouse. He tried to kill me."

  "Tried to kill you?” Gray repeated.

  "And I hit him. I don't know what I hit him with. I think I killed him, Gray—"

  "Someone tried to kill you?” The meaning of those words hit him and fury coursed through him. Someone had tried to kill Aubrey? His Aubrey?

  "Gray—"

  "In my penthouse?” he clarified.

  She nodded wordlessly and then winced in pain, which was when Gray noticed the bruises on her throat—fierce, ugly, swollen bruises that widened his eyes and set him to cursing roundly.

  Mark had stood up and was leaning over the desk to catch what she was saying, and noticed the bruises at the same time as Gray. “I'm going up there."

  "Not by yourself you're not,” Gray informed him.

  "I'll be perfectly okay—"

  "No, I'm coming, too. Some bastard thinks he can waltz into my penthouse and start killing people—"

  "I'm coming too,” said Aubrey.

  "Oh, no, you're not,” Mark told her. “You're going to go with Doug to the doctor and get yourself checked out."

  "No, I'm going with you. I want to see for myself what I've done."

  "Aubrey, that is not a—"

  "I'm going with you,” she interrupted Gray firmly. “I'm okay."

  "You're not okay."

  "I panicked a little. But I'm okay now. I'm fine."

  "You've been through an ordeal—"

  "So stop arguing with me, then.” She got up from his lap, tossing her head as a gesture of defiance, and then bit her lip when it sent stars dancing in her vision.

  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. But she was vaguely embarrassed at how much she had just fallen apart. She would go upstairs and walk Mark through exactly what had happened. It would be the best thing for her murder defense.

  Gray looked up at her, scowling in annoyance, but he seemed at a loss for what to do other than order her to stay put or go with Doug.

  "What the hell is going on?” asked Doug in obvious confusion.

  "As soon as somebody figures that out,” Gray replied, sighing heavily as he stood up, “we'll be sure to fill everyone in."

  Mark led the way to the penthouse. Aubrey followed behind him, holding her head high, taking determined steps, and Gray thought that she was forcing herself through this. He would have liked to pull her back into his arms and smother her with kisses and tell her not to worry about it—but he wasn't sure if she would appreciate it at the moment. His window of opportunity for playing the understanding, comforting lover seemed to have closed, and he was slightly irritated with himself for not having seized it better than he had.

  His gaze fell to her throat, swollen now, not at all like the lovely ivory curve he had kissed just the night before, and his hands fisted involuntarily and he decided it was almost a good thing that Aubrey had killed this strange intruder because, at the moment, Gray felt quite appropriately murderous.

  They stepped into his foyer, littered with countless pieces of jagged fine porcelain.

  "A vase,” Aubrey said. “That must be what I hit him with."

  "Okay,” Mark agreed calmly. “But where is he?"

  Aubrey, eyes wide, looked around the deserted foyer. “He was right here. I left him right here. He was dead. H
e—"

  "He's not here now,” Mark noted.

  "But how could he—"

  "You must not have killed him. You must have just dazed him. Just long enough for you to grab the opportunity to get away. I'm going to check the penthouse, just to make sure he's not still hanging around.” Mark's hand nudged into his jacket, pulling out a gun that Aubrey hadn't even realized he carried.

  Aubrey stared at the spot where she had left the man. Or, at least, where she was fairly sure she had left the man. He had had her against that wall ... hadn't he? Trying to squeeze the very life out of her. Wasn't that what had happened? Wasn't it?

  Feeling suddenly uncertain, Aubrey lifted her hand, lightly touched her neck, and winced. Yes, damn it. Yes, that had happened.

  "What's this?” Gray asked, drawing her attention back to him, picking up her ill-fated frame from the middle of the floor.

  "Oh. A frame. That's why I was here. I went to the museum with your mother and I bought the frame for your watercolor and I was going to surprise you and then..."

  "We'll go put the watercolor in it,” said Gray, deciding that Aubrey needed to get out of this foyer. Obviously, this foyer was full of terrifying and very vivid memories for her. He took her hand, squeezed it reassuringly, and pulled her toward the bedroom.

  Mark came out of the media room. “Where are you going?"

  "The bedroom,” Gray answered.

  "I haven't checked the bedroom yet,” said Mark, leaping in front of them to lead the way into the room, gun drawn.

  Which was the point at which Rosie drawled, “My, my. This is a little over the top, isn't it?"

  She was completely naked, sprawled on the bed that had never been made that morning, and she looked completely unconcerned at finding herself being gawked at by three people, one of whom was holding a gun on her.

  Gray recovered first, shooting a quick look at Aubrey, who didn't seem to know what to make of the event. “What are you doing here?” he snapped at Rosie. “And where are your clothes?"

  "Gray, darling, the point is that they're not on me,” she informed him as if he were completely dense.

  "How did you get in here?” Mark demanded.

  "What do you mean, how did I get in here?” Rosie looked distinctly bored by everything that was going on. “I took the elevator, of course."

  "Where'd you get the key?” asked Mark.

  Rosie regarded him blankly. “What key?"

  Gray located her tiny lacy bits of clothing on the opposite side of the bed and retrieved them. “You didn't need to stick a key card in the elevator to get it to work?” he asked in surprise.

  She blinked at him. “No."

  "What about the PIN number?” said Mark.

  "The what?"

  "Did you see anybody here? When you got here?"

  "No.” Rosie looked frankly bewildered.

  "How long ago was that?"

  "It was ... not long. Just long enough for me to get a little bored. So it's a good thing you've arrived, Gray. I've come up with all sorts of delicious—"

  "You need to get dressed,” he said, tossing her clothes at her.

  "I'm going to take Aubrey down to see the hotel doctor,” Mark announced.

  "I don't need to see the hotel doctor,” Aubrey interjected dazedly, blinking at the naked woman in Gray's bed as if she still didn't quite know what to make of her. “There's nothing wrong with me."

  Mark snorted. “Other than the fact that you can't quite figure out yet what to do about finding a naked woman in your boyfriend's bed. I've got to think if there was nothing wrong with you, Aubrey, you would have at least slapped him across the face by now."

  "Thank you, Mark, for all your considerable help,” Gray interjected dryly, although he agreed with Mark and was actually even more worried to see Aubrey standing so impassive and reactionless.

  "We'll take off, let Gray deal with this,” Mark told Aubrey, cupping an encouraging hand around her elbow.

  "Okay,” Aubrey decided—because she felt like she couldn't handle whatever sexual intrigue was going on right at that moment. She had just almost been killed. And the man who had tried to kill her was still wandering around out there somewhere. That was practically worse than thinking she had killed him.

  Gray walked across the room. “This won't take long. I'll be down in just a minute."

  "Fine. Take as long as you like resolving...” She narrowed her eyes a little bit at Rosie, then looked back at him. “I'm a little fuzzy now, but I won't be for long."

  "I'm enjoying the reprieve,” he assured her gravely. Then he kissed the top of her head.

  Mark led her away, and Gray turned immediately back to Rosie. “I cannot deal with you today,” he bit out. “You need to get dressed and go away and leave me alone. Do you understand?"

  "Who the hell is that?” she retorted, looking furious with him.

  As if she had any right to be furious, Gray thought in amazement. The woman who should have been furious—the woman who had slept in that very bed the night before—was too shaken to take him to task over another naked woman in his bed. But this woman who had absolutely no right to be in his bed was furious.

  "None of your business,” Gray told her.

  "Are you her boyfriend?"

  "I told you, it's none of your business."

  "Oh, if she thinks you're her boyfriend, it's my business,” Rosie returned hotly.

  Gray leaned against the wall, folding his arms, and regarded her from under his eyebrows—a gesture he knew made him look bored and disinterested. “Why? Because you think I'm your boyfriend?"

  "Gray...” Rosie stuck out her generous bottom lip in her most petulant pout. “I made a mistake."

  "Oh, did you.” Gray had a very hard time even pretending to be surprised about this.

  Rosie scrambled out of the bed, trying to look elegant but failing miserably. “Marriage is ... I married the wrong man, Gray.” She came to stand in front of him, batting her eyelashes as appealingly as she could. “Oh, Gray!” In a very melodramatic fashion, she threw herself upon him. “Can you ever forgive me?"

  "Rosie,” he said as he picked her up and carried her over to the bed and dropped her onto it unceremoniously, “there's nothing for me to forgive, because I don't give a damn what you do. Do you understand? I don't mean to be harsh. But not being harsh with you doesn't get through to you. Marry whoever the hell you like. As long as it's not me, I don't give a damn. Now get dressed. And get out."

  "Do you really think,” she demanded of him angrily, “that I'm just going to slink into the shadows that easily? You've forgotten what we're like together."

  "No, the problem is I remember what we're like together. You're great in bed, sugar, but I don't like you very much out of it. That's a problem for you, as far as getting one finger on one cent of my money goes."

  "Do you think it's about the money?"

  "Did your new husband keep his wits about him long enough to make you sign a pre-nup?"

  "Go to hell!"

  "You can see yourself out. You've seemed to do a very good job of seeing yourself in. And one more thing.” He pinched her chin between his thumb and index finger, tight enough to make sure that she had to look at him. “If I find that you have anything—anything—to do with anything going wrong at this hotel lately, but especially with the fact that someone attacked Aubrey today, I will tear you limb from limb."

  * * * *

  "I'm not going to the hospital,” Aubrey said staunchly as they walked hand-in-hand to the elevator. “And please don't badger me about it. I'm tired. I've had a long day. Let's just go up and go to bed."

  "The doctor said—"

  "The doctor said I was fine,” she pointed out.

  "He said fine as far as he could tell, but he admitted that he doesn't have any experience in this sort of thing, and—"

  "I'm just tired, Gray. I'm just tired."

  "We could drive to the hospital and then when we get there, you could decide whethe
r you felt like going in."

  "Do you really think I'm going to agree to that?” She called for the elevator.

  Gray watched her, feeling helpless. He did not like the fact that she still seemed numb. He had a vague idea that she should have been in the middle of a glorious spat of temper over Rosie. He had a vague idea that he ought to be enjoying coaxing her out of it. And instead they were both standing by an elevator feeling completely spent.

  "Hey,” said Mark, coming up to them.

  Aubrey smiled at him. Gray just said, “What have you got for me?"

  "Some stuff.” Mark looked at Aubrey. “Is it okay if I borrow him for a second?"

  "Sure,” Aubrey replied agreeably. She looked at Gray. “I'll just...” She trailed off. She wasn't sure if she wanted to go to his suite to wait for him. And that was pathetic. She couldn't turn into some pathetic, sniveling ... “I'll wait for you in your suite."

  "It's not a good idea,” Gray decided. “Why don't you—"

  "You can't keep me in eyesight for the rest of time,” she pointed out. “I will be fine."

  "Aubrey—"

  "I will be fine.” She smiled brightly at him, not quite pulling it off, and leaned up to kiss him quickly. Behind her, the elevator dinged open. “I'll see you up there."

  "I won't be long,” he said.

  She winked just before the doors closed.

  "You didn't tell me you were sleeping with her,” said Mark.

  "What?” Gray rubbed at his temple. “What does it matter now?"

  "I just thought you'd be so giddy in your triumph that you'd be ... You're right. It doesn't matter. They got into the programming of your elevator, shut off all the safety mechanisms."

  "It's up and running now?"

  "Yes, all fixed. No one's come in. And only Rosie's come out."

  "Oh, good. She did leave."

  "Yeah. I would never have let you let Aubrey go up if she hadn't."