Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  "You want me to make reservations at Picasso's—"

  "In my brother's name. And then reservations for me elsewhere."

  Marjorie radiated a slight disapproval and a profound confusion. But she said, “Certainly, Mr. Delamonte,” and retreated from his office.

  Gray reached for his phone, dialed his brother's cell phone, said when Doug picked up, “I need you home tomorrow night."

  * * * *

  February 14, 2004

  Sweep was required. Some sort of sweep. Aubrey regarded her canvas with head tilted and eyes narrowed and decided that sweep was definitely the right word.

  Now if only she knew how exactly to achieve the sweep that she wanted.

  She'd been trying to sketch it out before putting brush to canvas and was not having the best success. Maybe a day off would help. Moira had given her the day off. Because it was Saturday. But—and this was worse—it was also Valentine's Day, and the last thing Aubrey wanted to do was sit around thinking about how it was Valentine's Day and she was absolutely alone in a city where every other couple was busy getting married.

  She had to paint something. Maybe Moira's portrait was not the best thing to work on. Maybe instead she could just paint for herself. She hadn't painted a canvas just for herself in a long, long time. Really since the divorce. Because she had tried after the divorce and everything had been so slashing and angry that, instead of relieving her depression, the paintings’ dark broodingness afterward made her feel even more depressed. But maybe now she could paint for herself and it would be therapeutic. Exactly the way painting was supposed to be.

  The thought gave her a little twinge of anticipation as she put the easel away. Before she embarked on a painting of her own, however, maybe she would stop by one of the museums highlighted in the brochures Gray had sent her. Inspiration. New and different paintings she had never before admired.

  She was hifting through the brochures, studying the descriptions of the collections, trying to determine which were located closest to the Bienvenue, when there was a knock on the door. Feeling in a light-hearted mood already from her resolution to visit a museum and paint for herself, she thought with amusement that she got more visitors here in Vegas than she did at home in New York.

  A peek through the peephole revealed Doug, holding an enormous bouquet of red roses and looking glibly handsome, and she sighed and rested her forehead briefly against the door. Just what she felt like dealing with—Doug and the inevitable romantic entanglements that were going to come with him. Great.

  But she opened the door and forced a smile. “Doug! What a surprise!"

  He grinned back at her. “I know. Isn't it? For you.” He offered the roses with a dramatic flourish.

  "Thank you,” she said, accepting them and smelling them for his benefit. “I didn't think you'd be back from St. Paul so soon.” She tried not to make it sound like it would have been better if he'd stayed away longer.

  Doug, she decided, was good at hearing only what he wanted to hear, because he just replied, “Gray called and said I could come home early. I think he felt bad about sending me away right after I'd met you.” Oh, God, thought Aubrey. “He even arranged for dinner tonight."

  Aubrey blinked. “Dinner?"

  "Yes. At Picasso's. He seemed to have some idea you would enjoy Picasso's. It was really very nice of him to throw his name around for me. We'd never have got reservations at Picasso's if Gray hadn't—"

  "Gray made reservations for us at Picasso's?” Aubrey clarified.

  "Well, yeah—"

  "Why would Gray do that?"

  "I told you. He feels bad about sending me away—"

  Aubrey snorted. She doubted Gray felt bad about doing that. Doug, she thought, needed to be sent away more often.

  "You don't think that's true?” Doug demanded, but he sounded more genuinely perplexed than irked.

  "I don't think it makes much sense for Gray to be arranging dates for us.” Sending her museum brochures. Sitting across from her while she babbled sleepily, looking an absolute wreck. She and Gray needed to set ground rules, she decided. She had thought the ground rules would be simple: just stay away from each other.

  Obviously Gray had different ideas.

  "You don't want to go to Picasso's?” said Doug.

  He was completely missing the point. But then, it would probably be difficult to get the point, as he had no idea she had anything but the most casual of acquaintances with his brother. Which, really, aside from the sex, was true.

  "It isn't that I don't want to go to Picasso's,” she answered carefully. “It's just that I'm not sure I want to go on a date your brother arranged for us."

  "I will concede that Gray isn't known for his romantic instincts. However, he seemed quite sure that you're fond of art. And that makes sense to me, given that you're a portrait painter."

  "Well, I do like art, but that doesn't mean—"

  "Then you'll love Picasso's. You'll really enjoy it. And don't worry. Gray won't be crashing our party. He's taking Hannah somewhere else."

  She really didn't understand Gray. Arranging dates for her with his brother while he was also arranging dates for himself with other women.

  Why was he doing that? Why was he doing any of this? Yes, ground rules, she thought. They were in desperate need of some ground rules.

  "The reservation's at seven,” said Doug. “Can you make it?"

  "Uh, seven,” said Aubrey. “Sure."

  "Good.” Doug flashed her that handsome smile of his. “I'm looking forward to it.” He leaned toward her. It flashed through her head that he was going to kiss her. She experienced a moment of panic, then he did kiss her, and she froze and wished she felt inspired to respond. Not that he seemed to notice. He drew back and winked at her. “Bye."

  "Bye,” she managed, watching him walk off. Then she turned back into her room and dropped the roses on her coffee table. And wished she had some way of getting in touch with Gray.

  The lobby, she thought. Definitely her safest bet.

  * * * *

  Gray swung his head into Mark's office. “Someone said you were looking for me."

  Mark didn't glance up from the television screen he was watching. “I was looking for you."

  "Why? I thought you'd be heading home by now."

  "I'm on my way out, but this caught my eye and I thought I'd share with you. Your ladylove is acting strangely."

  "My what?” repeated Gray, walking over to the television screen and leaning over Mark's shoulder.

  "This ladylove,” Mark clarified, pointing to Aubrey's figure. “Not Hannah and not Rosie."

  "I don't have a ladylove,” said Gray. Aubrey was standing in the lobby, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, glaring at the people walking through. “I think she's scaring away the guests."

  "She's not happy."

  "No."

  "That probably has something to do with you,” Mark remarked after a moment of silence.

  Gray had been thinking the same thing, so he demanded defensively, “What makes you think that?"

  "Because you have a talent for making women furious with you."

  "That happens just before they rip my clothes off."

  "Sure it does. Go downstairs and smooth it over before she ruins your casino take for the weekend.” Mark leaned over and switched the television screen off.

  "This doesn't have anything to do with me."

  "Maybe it has something to do with those museum brochures."

  "Why would museum brochures upset her?"

  "Women are curious creatures, my friend."

  "Totally not worth the time,” Gray grumbled, watching Mark lock up his office.

  "Things should run smoothly,” said Mark, ignoring him, as they walked toward the elevator. “Lucy's VIPs seem happy."

  "Danny's coming back from St. Paul on Monday. I talked to him yesterday."

  Mark punched the elevator button. “How's Doug doing?"

  "I brought him back
here."

  "Why?"

  Gray lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I don't know.” They stepped onto the elevator.

  "Did he seem to be trying in St. Paul?"

  "He did, strangely enough. First time I've ever seen him try. I think getting sent to a backwoods like St. Paul frightened the hell out of him."

  Mark chuckled. “Maybe you should do it more often."

  "He seldom goes where I tell him. Usually he pouts. I haven't quite figured out why he went this time, to be honest."

  The elevator doors whooshed open, and they moved out from behind the front desk into the lobby proper, at which point Aubrey caught sight of them and began stalking across the lobby toward them.

  "I think she was waiting for you,” noted Mark.

  Gray watched her approach with a bit of foreboding. “Maybe she was waiting for you."

  "Can I talk to you for a second?” Aubrey demanded clearly of Gray, as she got within shouting distance of them. Several people in the lobby turned to stare. Gray winced a bit.

  "No, I think this is all yours,” said Mark in amusement.

  "Aubrey,” gushed Gray, because he didn't want to fight with some sort of irrational female and he was going to use every ounce of charm to avoid the possibility. “Did you get the brochures I sent?” Mark was trying to slink away. Gray grabbed his elbow in a pinching grip.

  "Ow,” said Mark through his teeth and tried to jerk his arm away.

  "This is Mark Dailey,” said Gray. “He's head of security here."

  Aubrey spared Mark barely a withering glance. “I need to talk to you,” she said to Gray.

  "I do hope your stay is going well,” said Gray, over-extravagant politeness dripping off him.

  "Drop the damn bellboy act,” snapped Aubrey.

  Gray frowned. He also let go of Mark, who said, “Have fun,” cheerfully and scurried off like the coward he was.

  "What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked her crossly.

  "Wrong with me? Wrong with me? Did you make reservations for me at Picasso's?"

  "I thought you would like Picasso's."

  "That is irrelevant."

  "What's irrelevant about it?"

  "I can make my own damn reservations."

  "Oh, for God's sake,” muttered Gray. “I'm not having an argument with you because I tried to do something nice for you. I am sorry for that foolish tendency. Hopefully I'll be able to suppress it in the future. Now if you'll excuse me, I want to do a walkthrough of the casino before I finish for the day.” He took off, walking swiftly, because he knew he was taller and should be able to leave her in the dust behind him.

  Aubrey, he should have known, broke into a flat run to catch up to him, bobbing along in his wake as he wended through the casino. “Why should you do something nice for me?"

  "You're a guest in my hotel,” Gray replied blandly, cutting his eyes over the blackjack pits. “I try to be nice to guests in my hotel."

  "You're making dates for me,” she protested.

  "I thought you liked my brother."

  "Your brother's fine. I don't want to date your brother."

  That made Gray chuckle, totally against his will, as he walked them through a bank of Wheel of Fortune slot machines. “You don't have to date my brother. You'll like Picasso's, and I thought you would also like the company."

  "Oh, so now I'm so pathetic that I need you to find friends for me?"

  "You don't know anyone in Vegas,” Gray answered, pausing to glance at the roulette wheel. “I thought I would help you out. I'd take you myself, but—"

  "You're going on your own date,” she supplied.

  Gray shot her a glance over his shoulder. He was keeping up a brutal pace, and she was at a half-jog to keep within earshot. Her copper hair bounced all over her head. He had to smile.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “What?"

  "Nothing."

  "I don't think this is funny, you know. I think this is serious."

  "I don't even know what you're talking about, Aubrey."

  "You cannot be making dates for other women while you're going out with ... other women,” she finished lamely.

  "I'm not dating both of you,” he pointed out reasonably.

  "That's not the point. You shouldn't be planning dates for other people. It isn't done."

  "How many times do you want me to apologize for that?"

  "We need to lay some ground rules,” she said, panting—because he was still walking at a furious rate.

  "I thought we had laid ground rules."

  "What do you think the ground rules are?"

  "I treat you like my mother's portrait painter."

  "That's not a good ground rule,” said Aubrey.

  Gray finally, thank God, stopped walking, in front of the sports book, turning to look down at her with a frown. “What's wrong with that ground rule?"

  Sure, he thought that ground rule was perfect. He seemed to think it was no big thing that they had slept together. She couldn't think that way. He'd seen her naked. He'd been inside her. It was pretty damned embarrassing, honestly, to face him in the light of day.

  She had slept with two men, pathetic as that was. She had divorced one. She didn't think she was going to be capable of being casual friends with the other.

  He was obviously more sexually experienced than she was. He was used to licking a woman's body and then shaking her hand the next morning and promising to have coffee sometime. She was stuck on the memory of his tongue sliding over her skin, of her whimpering in the helpless pleasure of it.

  Good God, she could not be friends with this man.

  "We need to not see each other again."

  He blinked and ducked his head down, as if her voice had obviously got garbled while drifting its way up to his height advantage. “I'm sorry?"

  "I really don't think we should see each other again. I mean, that was the plan, wasn't it?"

  "What plan?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

  "The plan. When we slept together."

  "Did we have a plan when we slept together? I don't recall pausing to write out a plan. You didn't give me time."

  She frowned darkly. “I didn't give you time because I didn't think we'd ever see each other again."

  "Granted,” he said. “But I don't know what you expect me to do—"

  "We'll just respect my ground rule."

  "That's the not-seeing-each-other-ever-again ground rule,” he clarified flatly.

  "Yeah,” she affirmed.

  "Aubrey, I know this might be difficult for you, but be reasonable for a second.” She started to protest that, but he plowed over her. “My mother is obviously fond of you. And it turns out my mother's fond of me, too. And we also live in the same hotel. How long is it going to take you to paint my mother's portrait?"

  "I don't know. Three or four months?” she answered in a small voice.

  "Yeah. And it's not like I haven't tripped over you a dozen times in the past two days. This ground rule of yours is going to work out really well."

  "Well, we can't be friends."

  "I didn't say we had to be friends. I'm only trying to—” Gray cut himself off, catching something out of the corner of his eye that he decided needed attention. He turned his head, staring at the television.

  "What?” demanded Aubrey.

  "Come here,” he said, searching blindly for her hand, finding it, pulling her across the sports book until they were standing directly in front of the television.

  Aubrey fell silent, staring up at the television. “That's...” she said after a second. “Isn't that A-Rod?” He didn't bother to answer, because she obviously knew it was. There was another moment. “Wait, are they having a press conference? Is this a press conference? Why is he...?"

  Gray spat out a swear. “This television,” he barked at the floor host in charge of the sports book, who had been waiting anxiously for Gray's seal of approval on the sports book operations. “I want the sound on it. No
w."

  They typically left the televisions on mute, but the floor host went scurrying to obey.

  The sound kicked on after a second, but neither one of them needed it to know what was going on, and Gray wished suddenly that he hadn't asked for it, because it was like rubbing their faces in it even more obnoxiously.

  He could feel Aubrey's fury gathering next to him, flowing to him through their joined hands. For a little pixie, she could radiate fury, vibrating with the energy of it. He supposed that was the redhead in her, and he was reminded again why he had always loved redheads. So full of passion. Aubrey even more so than most. What, after all, had she just been arguing with him about?

  And passion over baseball, which was so incredibly marvelous that he could have melted at her feet. He decided it was a good thing that Aubrey didn't seem to have it in her head to toy with him, because he was already halfway to walking over coals for the woman.

  "Why would they want A-Rod?” she asked and her voice was low and husky, which made him think again of sex.

  Sex drowning out the Yankees beating the Red Sox. He was developing a habit of sex with Aubrey being his preferred method for getting over the innumerable, inevitable disappointments of being a Red Sox fan. He forced himself to answer her question with something that wasn't a proposition.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, that's pretty easy, don't you think? They want him because we wanted him."

  "But they have Jeter!” She turned to him, confused. “Are they trading Jeter?"

  "A-Rod's going to play third,” said a man sitting at the bar, trying to be helpful.

  It was Aubrey's turn to swear. Then she startled Gray by pulling him back, away from the bar, steering him out toward the casino proper.

  "Where are we going?” he asked in surprise.

  "I don't want you to kick anything. We're going to a nice open spot where you can't kick anything."

  He laughed. “I wasn't going to kick anything."

  "I'm not so sure.” They were still walking hand-in-hand. “You had that look about you.” They entered the lobby—a nice open space. They stopped walking, but she did not drop his hand, and she wasn't really sure why. It would be easy enough to drop it.

  "A-Rod to the Yankees.” He sighed. “Okay, maybe I was getting ready to kick something."