"I told you my editor was flying in."
"Yes. You did. I didn't know that was this weekend."
"Yes. She just landed this morning. I told you we were going to brunch with her."
Gray thought back in time. “No, you didn't,” he decided after a moment. “You told me you were going to brunch with her. I don't want to brunch with your editor. I don't want to make small talk with your editor."
"Well, you no longer have a choice."
"Why don't I have a choice?"
"Because Kaye is one of Aubrey's best friends, and you can't hope to catch a girl if you haven't proven to her friends that you're charming and worthy of her. Did you comb your hair at all this morning?"
"I never comb my hair."
"I know,” his mother lamented.
"I have several things to say—"
"They can wait."
"First of all, I am charming and worthy of Aubrey."
"Of course you are, darling."
"Second of all, I am not trying to catch Aubrey.” Well, not the way his mother thought, anyhow.
"Gray.” She scowled. “Don't be stupid. The girl's mad for you. You could have her by simply snapping your fingers. And she would be perfect for you. You'd be a fool not to grab her up."
"What makes you think she's perfect for me? You thought Hannah Dunbar was perfect for me."
"I was wrong about Hannah Dunbar. Oh, Gray, you're not leading Hannah Dunbar on, are you?"
"And third of all,” Gray continued, “what makes you think I need friend approval before I get Aubrey?"
"Because Aubrey, unlike those other creatures you date, has a little bit of class. She's going to want a second opinion of you. Which is why you can't show up looking like an unmade bed."
"Isn't your editor going to be tired?"
"Perhaps, but she insisted that we do brunch. I told her I'd invite you along, and I think she's eager to meet you. Aubrey must have told her lots about you."
Gray refused to get drawn into this grade-school exchange of gossip. “Why did you tell them I would go to brunch?"
"I already explained that to you."
"I don't call that an explanation. What if I had made plans?"
"You never make plans on Sundays. You always sit around doing nothing. It's incredibly boring."
"No, it's resting. I rest on Sundays."
"You can sacrifice one Sunday in Aubrey's cause,” she informed him.
"My God,” he groaned. “Now she's a cause?"
His mother sat beside him on the couch and gave him her grave and hopeful look. “I'm serious, Gray. I really like her. And I think she ... I mean, I think you're drawn to her. Even though you're sitting here trying to deny it.” His mother smiled suddenly. “I forgot to tell you what I found out about her for you."
"What's that?” he asked, because he knew he was meant to ask it.
"She's a Red Sox fan. Isn't that fabulous, darling?"
* * * *
It was so good to see a familiar face. Aubrey launched herself into a fierce hug with Kaye and told her that.
"Even if that face looks exhausted?” Kaye asked wearily.
"Oh, you don't look exhausted. You look fantastic.” They started walking toward the baggage carousel. “Tell me how the baby is."
Kaye sent her a smile that was full of pride. “Oh, he's so great. I brought newer pictures."
"More pictures?"
"We take pictures every day. It's so pathetic."
"No, it's not pathetic. I think it's wonderful. It'll be good for you to talk to Sophie. I mean, she's back at school now, but I'll be able to tell her how happy you are—"
"Talk to Sophie?” Kaye echoed blankly.
"Oh,” Aubrey realized. “Moira hasn't said anything."
"Said anything about what?"
Aubrey hesitated. Then she said, “Okay, but you can't tell anyone. I guess they're trying to keep it quiet. I just thought she'd say something seeing as how it bears on her memoirs."
"For God's sake, Aubrey, what is it?"
"Sophie's pregnant."
Kaye took a moment to absorb this. Then she remarked, “You're right. That does bear on her memoirs."
"Gray had me talk to her, but I'm not sure I was helpful. You would have been helpful."
"Gray had you talk to her?” Kaye asked, inflecting a world of meaning into the first word.
Aubrey blushed. “Oh, God. Please let's not gossip about Gray like—"
"What's the latest? You're painting his portrait?"
Aubrey grimaced. “I know. I've lost my mind. But he offered me a million dollars, Kaye. Think about that. A million dollars."
Kaye did think about it. “He must want you badly."
"Yes, he values my sexual services at a million dollars. Lovely to know."
"I didn't mean it that way. And I'm sure he doesn't mean it that way. I simply meant to say that he's going through a lot of trouble to get you to spend time with him."
"I've noticed. And I reiterate that I'm not sleeping with Gray Delamonte again."
"Not unless he asks really nicely."
"No. Not even then. Not ever."
"Or unless he shows up with a diamond. Would that change your mind? Making it official?"
"No. I of all people know that marriage isn't a guarantee of forever. He just isn't the sort of man a smart woman gets herself involved with. He's a heartbreaker."
"I can't wait to meet him."
"Yes. You have fun. Luckily, after my insanity in agreeing to paint him, I've managed to avoid him. Moira's portrait has really picked up the pace. I've been inspired. I had the idea of emphasizing the willowy nature of her figure by painting her next to ferns. I'm trying to make sure that I only see Gray on my terms, when I've planned it and prepared myself."
"Because you're trying to avoid him as much as possible..."
"Because he has this annoying habit of turning up when I look like hell. It's really not fair.” Aubrey was watching the baggage carousel, but Kaye's silence finally forced her to looking up at her friend. “What?"
"Nothing."
"What is it?"
"You've got it bad.” Kaye smirked.
Aubrey groaned.
* * * *
"I don't have anything to wear,” Aubrey wailed, throwing clothing pell-mell out of suitcases and closets.
Kaye surveyed the mess philosophically. “No, you don't. It's really sad for you."
Aubrey glared at her. “This is your fault, you know. Telling Moira I'd go to brunch with you and her and Gray. You've lost your mind."
"I haven't lost my mind. Four rounds out a table nicely, don't you think? I want to meet him. I want to see the way he looks at you. I can tell a lot about a guy from studying the way he looks at a woman. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity."
"It's not the perfect opportunity,” Aubrey muttered, head deep in the suitcase she'd already looked through three times. “I'm spending all day with him tomorrow. You couldn't stop by tomorrow?"
There was Kaye's typical processing pause. “You didn't tell me this."
"I...” Aubrey waved her hand. “It's for the portrait. I'm doing a tag-along. I didn't realize you were coming to Vegas so quickly or I wouldn't have agreed on Monday, but I don't want to change it. The sooner I get started on the portrait, the sooner I can finish the portrait.” Aubrey came out of the suitcase, sighing, and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. “And look at my hair. Oh, this is a disaster."
"What do you care, anyway?” Kaye asked lazily, sprawling on the bed. “You keep telling me you don't want to sleep with him again."
"I don't want to sleep with him again. That doesn't mean I don't want him to want to sleep with me. In fact, it would be insulting if he didn't want to sleep with me. Like I'm that bad in bed? He better be trying to seduce me."
"So you want the man to seduce you, you just don't want him to be successful,” Kaye clarified slowly.
"Precisely."
&
nbsp; "You have very much lost your mind, Aubrey Thomas."
Aubrey, scowling, prepared to tell her off, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Oh, no,” Aubrey said, looking anxiously toward it. “That must be Gray."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because I look awful, and that's always Gray's cue to show up on my doorstep.” Frowning, she hurried to the door and peered through the peephole. Yes, Gray was there, dressed in gray pants and an impeccable pristine white button-down shirt that emphasized how dark his hair was. He looked calm and polished and pulled-together, and Aubrey decided she couldn't answer the door the way she was. She went running back to the bedroom.
"Well?” Kaye asked.
"It's Gray.” Aubrey pulled Kaye off the bed. “And you're answering the door."
"What?” Kaye asked in bewilderment as Aubrey shoved her out of the bedroom.
"Entertain him. Believe me, it's not hard. I need to change."
Kaye rolled her eyes as Aubrey slammed the bedroom door shut and went over to the door, opening it just as Gray started to knock again.
The woman who answered the door was not Aubrey. She was much taller than Aubrey, slender in a way that reminded Gray of his mother, and blonde. She said, “You must be Gray. I'm Kaye. I've heard so much about you."
"Oh.” Gray shook the hand she offered. “Likewise."
"Won't you come in?” Kaye asked politely. “Aubrey isn't ready yet. She just realized we were going to brunch. I must have forgotten to tell her."
"Forgetfulness is going around today,” Gray muttered dryly as he closed the door behind him.
"Pardon?” Kaye asked. She had walked over to the couch, sunk onto it.
"Nothing,” he told her, turning. “It's lovely to meet you at last. My mother raves about you. She's so thrilled to death to be writing her memoirs.” Gray sat next to Kaye and glanced at Aubrey's bedroom door as what sounded like a shoe ricocheted off it.
"We're thrilled to death to be publishing them,” replied Kaye calmly, as if no violent thuds were coming from the other room. “We'd love to publish yours as well."
Gray smiled tightly. “I cannot imagine why, and therefore I have no plans to write any memoirs."
There came another knock on the door and Gray, relieved to have a reprieve in the conversational topic, got up to answer it.
"Are they ready?” his mother asked him, gliding into the hotel room and smiling at Kaye. “Kaye! It's splendid to see you again."
Kaye had risen and was now kissing the air around his mother's cheek. “And you,” she said.
"How is that baby of yours? Did you bring pictures?"
"Oh, of course."
"But where's Aubrey?"
"She's still changing."
Moira glanced at her watch. Then she said to Gray, “Would you wait for her, darling? I wouldn't want us to lose our reservation."
Since they basically owned the hotel, there was very little chance they were going to lose the reservation; but the one good thing about wanting to get into bed the same woman his mother wanted him to bring into the family was that she occasionally could orchestrate brilliant encounters for him to capitalize on. “Sure,” he said agreeably and sat on the couch to show his willingness.
"Fantastic. Let's go catch up, Kaye,” his mother said and pulled Kaye out of the suite.
Sighing, Gray waited. And waited. Finally he found the remote control and turned on a football game. At long last, the bedroom door opened, and Gray looked up.
Aubrey's head was peeking around it, hair damp and messy. “Where is Kaye?” she asked him politely.
"She went down to brunch with my mother ages ago. What are you doing in there?” he asked curiously.
"I'm getting dressed."
"You've been getting dressed for the past half hour."
"Can you go get Kaye?"
"Go get Kaye?” he echoed. “Why?"
She glared at him. “It's a ... woman thing,” she informed him huffily. “Please go get Kaye."
"I'm not going to get Kaye.” He shut off the football game and stood up, heading toward her. “Surely you can solve the ‘woman thing’ yourself. Kaye and my mother are waiting for us. Now hurry up."
Aubrey regarded him, chewing on her lower lip. He came to a stop in front of her bedroom door. The whole point of this fiasco was to look nice in front of him and she couldn't manage it without Kaye and if he didn't go get Kaye for her then she would have to change into something else.
Oh, damn it all. She turned and presented him with her back. “Could you button me, then?"
She nudged the door open a little wider, presumably to give Gray more access; but Gray, mouth dry, just stared at her. She was clutching a shirt to her that buttoned with a row of numerous tiny buttons down the back, none of which was buttoned, so that the shirt gaped open, revealing an enticing expanse of smooth naked skin that Gray could suddenly, most vividly, feel under his hands. Below, she was wearing white pants that hugged her figure in the most alluring fashion.
"Well?” Aubrey demanded.
Gray looked up. Aubrey had turned her head and was frowning at him. He cleared his throat, feeling guilty at having been caught ogling in such an adolescent manner, and reached for the buttons. The shirt was a floral print, light and gauzy and flowing, soft and seductive in an understated, romantic way that Gray decided was too effective by half and ought to be outlawed. He started trying to fasten the buttons but they were tiny, and his fingers were big, and his hands might actually be less than steady.
Her skin was hot. His fingers brushed against it and she flinched just a bit but she did not sway away from him, and he took a step closer and a deep breath and his time while he buttoned the buttons. Slowly. Carefully. Her breaths were light and feathery and he was painfully aware of them in the silence of the room.
He leaned down, hands lingering over the last few buttons, and breathed ever so gently into the hollow behind her ear. Her breath caught.
"Can I ask you something?” he asked in a low, husky voice that flushed heat over her.
"Mm?” she managed, as his hands kept whispering over her back, light and warm on the buttons.
He—just barely—restrained from nuzzling her hair. He also tried desperately to recall himself. He wanted the woman, but he didn't want to have her while worrying about her best friend coming back and looking for her.
Time, he reminded himself. He had plenty of time here. Time to slow down, do this right, not give her any excuse to say anything accusatory about him in the aftermath of it. He was going to take his time, damn it.
He straightened a little and tried to make his voice sound normal. “Why is your hair wet?"
Aubrey blinked, her bubble of mesmerized seduction abruptly broken. That was what he wanted to ask her? That? She refused to dignify such idiocy with an answer. “Are you done buttoning yet?"
"Yes,” he replied—reluctantly, it seemed to her.
"Good.” She moved away from him, keeping her chin primly raised. “I need to dry my hair."
He smiled at her, an alluring, exasperated, magnetic smile. “We're already late. Your hair can wait.” He reached forward, caught her hand in his.
"But—"
He tugged, propelling her forward. “You look perfect."
That was an obvious lie. “Gray—"
"The portrait of Sophie is coming along,” he noted, pulling her inelegantly in his wake. “But you haven't worked on my portrait at all."
"I told you I'm not happy with your portrait. I'm waiting until after the tag-along tomorrow.” Gray succeeded in pulling her out of the suite, and she caught the door from closing just in time. “My key,” she said. “Am I allowed to get my key?"
Gray tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. “Do you know exactly where it is?"
"Oh, for God's sake.” She sighed and wrenched her hand out of his, darting back into the hotel room to retrieve her key card.
"I'm starving,” he remarked when she reemerged.
"Yeah, well, I'm not. This was not how I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon."
"No? What were you going to do instead?"
"Hang out with Kaye. Maybe go to one of those stupid museums. I still haven't found time to go to the museums.” She stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby.
"I was going to watch football,” Gray noted wistfully.
"Yeah, well, this is all your fault."
Gray looked at her in surprise, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?"
"You and your stupid roses. You've put all sorts of ideas in your mother's head."
"I did. And I'm sorry.” He watched the electronic numbers decrease rapidly over the elevator doors. “And that was just from roses.” A smile played around his mouth. “What would happen if I was caught making out with you?"
The statement caught her so off-guard that her jaw dropped and she gaped at him for a second. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Don't think it's going to be so easy, Mr. Delamonte."
He slid her a glance that seemed maddeningly smug to her. “Oh, never for a moment, Miss Thomas.” The elevator doors slid open and he stepped aside, sweeping his arm outward. “After you, please."
She stepped through, but turned back to him immediately. “You know, you had your shot."
"I believe it was more than a shot."
"What does that mean?"
"I think I capitalized pretty well."
"You fell into it. It was dumb luck. And then you went scurrying—"
Enough was enough, thought Gray in annoyance, and took her hand to pull her to a stop next to him.
She looked up at him challengingly. “What!"
"I'm sick of hearing about how I ‘went scurrying.’ Won't you ever forgive and forget?"
"No,” she announced belligerently.
"Oh, for heaven's sake—"
He kissed her before he knew what he was doing, leaned down and just took that stubborn petulant lower lip between his teeth and tugged. She gave a gasp of complete and utter surprise. He couldn't blame her because he hadn't even known he intended to kiss her, so no wonder it caught her so off-guard.
Twenty Hours in Boston Page 24