Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

"What about the man who tried to kill Aubrey?"

  "No sign of him."

  "Well, what does the elevator tape say?"

  "The security camera in your elevator was shut off."

  "So there's no feed?"

  Mark shook his head. “Not for several hours."

  "And you and your crack security team didn't notice?” Gray demanded in disbelief, his voice dripping sarcasm.

  "Your security camera isn't exactly high priority, you know. We're trying to protect an entire casino plus a hotel. We don't usually monitor very closely your comings and goings from your own suite. Especially not when we expect that particular elevator to have several safety mechanisms built in. Anyway the computer's supposed to tell us when a camera is out. They managed to override that, too. These people are nothing if not thorough,” he finished grimly.

  Gray swore. “This is getting bigger than we can handle."

  "Is that acquiescence I hear?"

  "To the FBI idea? It might be. We didn't even call the police. About Aubrey. I didn't even think of it. I mean, you were there and—"

  "I considered calling them, but we would have had to break everything open. And it doesn't really matter. Whoever attacked Aubrey is long gone."

  "Fantastic,” Gray muttered.

  Mark tipped his head back to look at the cameras hidden skillfully in the ceiling. “I'm going to throw something out there. And I don't think there's any merit to it, but..."

  "What? What are you thinking?"

  "Aubrey's arrival here has been ... coincidental."

  Gray went still next to him. He felt it. The still of the gathering storm.

  Mark forged on, still letting his eyes wander from camera to camera, searching for the comforting red gleam of operation. “She's a redhead, and a Red Sox fan, and I've been searching my brain but I cannot think of a better way to play you than to fake those two traits."

  There was a moment of loaded silence. Then Gray responded thickly, “Aubrey's not playing me. Women have tried to play me before. I've never proven myself to be a fool in that respect. I am not a man who is easily played."

  "Granted, but—"

  "She isn't faking anything here. There's no way, no way in hell, that you can fake being a Red Sox fan. There's a certain type of ... It's not like faking being in love with someone. That you can do. You can't fake the blend of optimism and pessimism that ... She's not faking. Not faking anything."

  Mark finally looked at him. “Easy, man. I was just throwing out a possibility. I don't think she is involved. I like Aubrey. I've always liked Aubrey. But it occurred to me that maybe ... I've never seen anyone get this close to you, and maybe I was so happy for you that I was ignoring what was right in front of my face. You have been untouchable for so long, and this girl has caught you so effortlessly, and it occurred to me that maybe she was just that good. That maybe she was pulling the wool down over all our eyes so damn effectively that not even my gut was kicking in. And I keep running into walls here, can't find a lead, and I thought I would just ... well, say something."

  "Aubrey's not a suspect here. She's not involved. Not with anything.” Just with me, he added silently—but he didn't want to address any of Mark's comments about being untouchable, about being effortlessly caught, at having someone closer to him than ever before. He didn't know about any of that.

  What he did know was that Aubrey wasn't playing him. He'd been played too many times not to recognize it instantly. Whatever was running through Aubrey's mind regarding him—and he wasn't really sure—he knew it wasn't a desire to put him behind bars.

  "I'm going to take the rest of the day off,” Mark said on a sigh. “I'm pretty sure the two of you are safe for the time being, and I'm dead on my feet. A little time off might refresh my perspective on this problem."

  Gray glanced at his watch. “My God, I can't believe it's not time for you to go home yet."

  "It's been a long day."

  "To put it mildly. Take off. I've been asking a lot of you lately. Tomorrow we'll...” Gray sighed heavily. “Well, I suppose we'll call the FBI and tell them our problems."

  "We'll keep quiet about people trying to kill other people. We have to now, since we didn't call anyone today."

  "We find out who's laundering money, we find out who tried to kill Aubrey. It's as simple as that."

  "You know, it could be that no one was trying to kill Aubrey. I think they were trying to kill you."

  Gray nodded grimly in agreement. “That thought did occur to me."

  "Watch your back,” Mark told him. “Watch Aubrey's back. More so than usual tonight. Every fifteen minutes someone is going to be checking in with you in some way, shape, or form: telephone, doorbell, something. If someone doesn't show up every fifteen minutes, then something's gone wrong and you need to call me immediately."

  Gray nodded again.

  "Don't worry about Aubrey. I mean, if nothing goes wrong tonight—which I don't expect anybody to try again so soon—she'll pull through all this fine."

  "She isn't fine. She hasn't said a word to me about Rosie. That is not at all like Aubrey."

  "She's in shock. Nothing's really sunk in yet. It hasn't sunk in for you yet, either. You should really enjoy this little delay, because it will knock you sideways when it hits you."

  Gray supposed it would, understood that abstractly—but was feeling so still and motionless that it might almost be nice to get knocked sideways. “Say hello to Monica and Madison for me,” he said, leaning out and punching for the elevator.

  "They miss you. You should stop by sometime."

  "I know,” he admitted ruefully. “But you can testify to how busy I've been."

  "Monica is very eager to meet Aubrey."

  Gray didn't really think he wanted to know exactly why. The elevator doors opened for him. “Tell her I'm looking forward to stopping by with roses on the birth of her son,” he told Mark as he stepped into the elevator.

  Mark grimaced. “No one's looking forward to that more than us, believe me."

  Gray grinned as the elevator doors closed on him, then leaned against the back wall and closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What a hell of a day. What a terrible, unbelievable, ridiculous day, week, month, year he was having.

  He felt heavy as he walked to the service elevator, tired, as if he were dragging himself through quicksand. He never used to be so exhausted. Now it seemed he was exhausted all the time. He wondered if it was age. He wondered, briefly, if it was Aubrey. He dismissed that idea. It was far more likely that Aubrey was the only reason he was still functioning at all.

  Once inside the service elevator, he experimented by punching the button for his floor. Absolutely nothing happened. Which was exactly as it was supposed to be. Relieved, he took out his card and entered his PIN, and the elevator whirred into obedience and deposited him in his foyer.

  Someone had swept up the remnants of the vase. It looked as if nothing interesting had happened in the penthouse all day.

  He followed the sound of the television to his bedroom. Aubrey was lying on the bed watching television. Someone had made the bed, too, and she had pulled up one end of the bedspread and was cocooned into it. He always came across her wrapped in some blanket of some sort. He made a mental note to turn his air conditioning down the next chance he got.

  "Someone just rang your ridiculous doorbell,” she said as he walked into the room.

  "That was me.” He climbed onto the bed with her.

  "Your mother called,” she said. “She wants us to go to dinner. I can't go to dinner."

  "That's fine.” He shrugged. He didn't feel much like dinner either.

  "Do you think you can call her and make up some excuse?"

  He glanced at her in surprise. “You didn't just tell her no?"

  "I couldn't just tell her no, Gray. Sophie called too. She wanted to know why you hadn't stopped by to see her."

  "Oh, damn them all.” Gray sighed. “We're moving out of here as soon as we possi
bly can."

  "You should talk to Sophie. She—"

  It hit him then, startling him, catching him completely off-guard, but a wave of red fear thundered over him with a force he would never have predicted. Aubrey was lying next to him. He could just feel the warmth of her, the comforting solidness of the bundle of Aubrey he was just growing used to having next to him, and the fear and fury of some man putting hands on that body and attempting to choke it of its spirit made him feel as if he'd stopped breathing and was unable to start again.

  He reached out, pulled her toward him, crushed her against him, and buried his head against her, trying to avoid her neck but really having no conscious thought other than that he had to have her near him, near him, as close to him as he could get her.

  There were many things about Aubrey that he could not accurately describe, but he wanted more of all of them. More of the way she looked at him. More of the way she sounded when she said his name. More of the way she felt when she brushed against him. More of the way he felt when she smiled at him. More, more, more of everything. And he had awakened that morning thinking it would be the first of many, and he had come far too close to having no more.

  "Gray,” she said, almost in bewilderment, and then reached out a hand and stroked it through the thick, dark, graying hair on his head.

  He chuckled. “Oh, Aubrey. Don't comfort me. I'm trying to comfort you."

  It was not really such a stunning thing to say, but, together with the desperate way he was holding her, it drilled into her and tapped at the nausea she'd managed to bury. She felt it let loose, trembled with it, and suddenly he was right, and she wasn't comforting him—he was comforting her. She clung to him.

  She had trembled in his arms the very first night he had held her, the very first time he had tasted her, the bitter reek of heartbreak so deep in his throat that he had wanted to drown himself in her taste to erase the memory. And he had ended up with her taste singing through him, clamoring always for more of her, and he felt helpless in the face of it.

  So he did nothing but hold her while she trembled against him, held her and tried to get her warm.

  The ringing telephone pulled her out of it. She was behaving like a complete idiot here. She couldn't spend the rest of her life shivering in Gray's arms, trusting him to keep her safe.

  Hell, he wouldn't be around that long.

  He leaned over her to pick up the phone, had a brief, terse conversation, and she stared at the television unseeingly. “I'm sorry,” he said, hanging the phone up. “Mark's having people call to make sure we're—"

  "You should call your mother,” she told him. “To tell her we're not going to dinner."

  The moment had passed, and he saw it, and he didn't know what he thought about that. He did not like clinging, possessive, needy women. It sent him tripping over his own feet in the other direction. And he thought it admirable, in a way that made his chest tight, that she was so fiercely battling her way through this, so determined to recover with nary the blink of an eyelash. But he also wanted to pull her back and enjoy her closeness and feel, damn it, that he was serving some purpose here.

  He resigned himself and called his mother, who said his name in delight and then, “Aubrey told you about dinner."

  "Yes. We can't go."

  "Now, now. The two of you can play lovebirds later."

  "We're not—I'm busy,” he explained impatiently.

  "You must come to dinner, Gray. Otherwise you'll leave me alone with Sophie and Dirk."

  Oh, that sealed it. He was definitely not going to dinner. “I can't come to dinner. I'm ... busy. We're..."

  "Is everything okay?” she asked in concern.

  No! He wanted to shout it at his mother. No, everything was not okay. People were running around trying to kill him, nearly succeeding with Aubrey, stealing money hand over fist out of his casino—"I have a situation. Several situations. All coming to a head at once. I have too many balls in the air to—"

  "What can I do?” She asked it immediately, unhesitatingly.

  "Nothing."

  "This is the problem with you, Gray darling. You never ask us for help, even when you clearly need it. You should have asked me for help long before this. You do not need to handle everything on your own. Now what can I do to help?"

  "Really. Nothing. I'll be fine. I just cannot ... You can deal with Sophie and Dirk for me for a little while, is what you can do."

  "I can do that,” his mother agreed, and he loved her more than he ever had in his life. “Don't worry about Sophie. She and the baby are both fine, and I'll make sure I keep her at bay with Dirk."

  Gray actually felt himself relax a little. He hadn't realized how much the Sophie problem had been niggling at the back of his mind. “Thank you. For just a little while. Just until I get everything under control here. Aubrey mentioned I should talk to Sophie, so as soon as I—"

  "I tell you, don't worry about it just now. I've been depending on you too much to handle things with Sophie. That is my fault. I was trying to explain it to Aubrey. I let you just handle things because I tell myself it's the way you like it, that you would rather be in charge. But I should put my foot down and make sure that you don't work yourself to death. Aubrey's marvelous, Gray. We had an absolutely lovely day at the museum. I think you should take some time just to yourself and enjoy her. Maybe take her away somewhere on a nice, romantic trip. Stay in some hotel that's not a Bienvenue."

  He was not clearing his plate to spend time with Aubrey—although the thought of being able to do so as soon as he cleared up this mess was terribly appealing. “Did you say you went to the museum with Aubrey?"

  "She didn't tell you? I thought we had a wonderful day. Really, Gray, I think she's just splendid. So well-suited to you. You should forget about Hannah Dunbar right away."

  His mother had told him so many women were well-suited to him that he didn't notice it anymore. “Uh-huh,” he agreed, thinking, Hannah Dunbar. He should maybe do something about the Hannah Dunbar situation. He had left it all a bit up in the air. “I will talk to you soon. As soon as I figure things out. Tell Sophie that I will be by to see her as soon as I can."

  "Take your time, darling. I'll hold her off. You will listen to me—finally—about Aubrey, right?"

  "Bye, Mom,” he replied and hung up the phone. “You didn't tell me you went to the museum with my mother today,” he said to Aubrey.

  She looked at him, appearing surprised. “Other stuff happened,” she noted wryly.

  "I know. I just meant—She mentioned it."

  "I bought the frame there. The frame for your watercolor."

  Gray decided they had to change the subject. “Does your family drive you as crazy as mine drives me?"

  She smiled a little, looking back at the television. “No. But then again, I haven't promoted them being as dependent on me."

  "You're saying it's my fault."

  "A little."

  "You should go home,” he remarked after a second.

  Something slithered down her spine at his words. She tried to figure out how he meant it, what he meant by it. Home, as in back to her own suite? Or home, as in back to New York? Or Maine?

  She was so tired of being involved in this quasi-relationship. What she wanted at that moment was just to feel secure and loved and safe, and not have to tap dance around whether or not the man really wanted her the way she so desperately wanted him.

  She took a moment to compose herself, then said, keeping her gaze fixed on the television, “What do you mean?” She thought she sounded admirably normal.

  "I'm saying you would be safer at home. Until this is all straightened out."

  She did look at him then, blue eyes level and frank. “And leave you here to fend off all the wolves alone?"

  "Aubrey—"

  "They're after you, not me. You're the one who needs to be worried. I should be the one worrying about you."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "That's what yo
u tell everyone. The big strong man who can take care of himself. You're going to drive yourself into an early grave, Gray Delamonte."

  "Well, that's my prerogative. Either way, I just want you safe."

  "We should change the subject,” she decided.

  "I'm not changing the subject. I'm right about this."

  "That I would be safer in New York?"

  "Or Maine,” he suggested.

  "I'm not going back to New York. Or Maine. I have a job here to finish. A couple of jobs. A couple of very lucrative jobs. I'm not going to turn tail and run."

  "No one would blame you, Aubrey. No one would think you cowardly or anything like that."

  "That's not what I'm concerned about. I'm concerned about you. You're never going to make it through the next couple of days without me.” She said it with a lot more confidence than she actually felt in the matter.

  The confidence disarmed him though, won him over, especially since he was worried she might be right. But no. She'd be safer away from Vegas. Away from him.

  Gray's suggestion, even though unacceptable, still made her feel nostalgic and more homesick than she had felt in a long time. Gray's comment about going home had struck her mainly because she felt it would be nice to go home and let her mother take care of her for a little while. She was feeling shaky. Perhaps understandably so.

  However, she also couldn't shake the thought that Gray needed her here. That Gray was walking a fine edge here and needed her. Maybe it was her own foolish delusion ... but she had no intention of leaving him until he stopped looking so damned exhausted.

  Leaning against him, listening to the steady thrum of his blood in her ears, she said, “Who was she, Gray?"

  "Rosie,” he answered after a second. “You don't remember her? You met her."

  "I met her?"

  "The first time we ran into each other here."

  She recalled that now. She frowned a little. “She was your girlfriend."

  "That's putting it generously. Once, long ago. She's a little bit of a gold-digger and she's reluctant to let me go. She's married now. You can see how well that's going. Aubrey, don't worry about Rosie. She's insane and annoying but she's perfectly harmless."