When Raji had shown up to evaluate the patient, the woman had insisted that the excruciating pain was not a heart attack. Something else was wrong.
All the other examining doctors had dismissed the woman’s elevated white blood cell count, which indicated infection, and her squeaky-clean EKG because she was over fifty and overweight, so it had to be a heart attack.
Raji had listened to the patient, palpated the woman’s abdomen, and sent her for an MRI to rule out appendicitis.
Yep, it was definitely appendicitis.
The gastro surgeon had told Raji later that the organ had been on the ragged edge of rupturing. An hour’s delay could have led to peritonitis and possibly the woman’s death.
“Doctors don’t listen enough,” Raji told Peyton. “The most important thing is to listen to the patient.”
Peyton had been running his palms and fingers over Raji’s naked ass while he listened to her, palpating the velvety skin on her butt.
The smoothness of her skin and slim curves of her ass fascinated him.
Everything about her fascinated him: her lithe curves, her intensity in her career, her sultry alto voice, her giggles when he made her happy, and her gasps when he made her come.
Every time she walked into a hotel room, coiled with tension and anger from her job, he held her down and fucked it all away until she was smiling.
Holding her down and fucking her did the same thing for him.
He ran his hand over her ass again, letting his fingers trail between her legs to stroke her pussy.
She gasped, and the bright intelligence in Dr. Raji Kannan’s eyes turned smoky with desire.
Something shifted in Peyton.
He liked seeing that, seeing her flush with desire for him.
He liked waking up with her in his bed, and he liked going to sleep with her cool body between the sheets with him. He liked drinking coffee with her and grousing about Xan’s insanity, and he liked hearing about her days and her work saving people’s lives.
He wished every day could be like this.
Every single day.
Every morning and every night.
His other hand inched over to where her hand lay on the sheets, and his fingers twined in hers.
“Raji-lee—” he started.
“So she was okay. She went home a few days later,” Raji said, moving her leg over his a little more, widening the space between her satiny thighs so his hand could slip there more easily.
Peyton knew what she wanted, and he gave it to her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Seattle
* * *
Peyton and Raji were eating a plate of doughnuts and pastries in a hotel room in Seattle, Washington the morning after he’d had a show there.
Crumbs littered the white sheets as they munched and drank coffee and laughed, naked, in bed.
Hazy summer sunlight drifted outside the window.
She had arrived at his hotel at nearly midnight the night before, toting a backpack with a change of clothes. Her body had been hunched over, knotted with anger and stress when he’d met her in the hotel’s underground parking garage to avoid any of the other band members seeing her.
He’d thrown her on the bed and screwed her, hard, in every way he could think of until she had raked her nails down his back and nearly ripped the sheets with ecstasy.
Afterward, she was exhausted but grinning at him.
Peyton liked her impish little smile.
They’d slept for a few hours before he’d ordered the coffee and pastries from room service, which they were now chewing through.
The hotel room’s door creaked open.
Shit. All the hotel rooms that Killer Valentine rented every night were identically keyed so that anyone could get into anyone else’s room immediately in case there was an emergency.
And now someone was walking into Peyton’s room.
He shoved Raji’s head down and flipped the sheets over her and his own naked body.
She protested, “Hey!”
He grabbed pillows to camouflage the lump she made in the bed and half-laid on her. “Be still.”
Andy Kumar-Glynn—of all people, Jesus, Dr. Andy—rounded the opening door. Her long, black hair swished down her back, and she fairly danced in her leggings and tunic. No more white coat for the ex-liver transplant surgeon.
Dr. Andy said, “Hey, Peys! Cadell texted me that you didn’t make it to the hotel gym and asked me to check on you. Are you dead?”
He was stuffing an almond scone in his mouth and muttered around it, “Nope. Not dead.”
“Are you going to meet the guys at the gym?”
Peyton could feel Raji breathing under his arm. “Not today. Don’t feel like it.”
Andy walked into the room toward him, letting the door slam behind her. “You’re still in bed at eight o’clock? Are you feeling okay? I have my otoscope. I can look in your ears and down your throat.”
Jesus, Andy could not come any closer. She would see the Raji-lump that he was so carefully hiding was breathing.
And if the short, breathy gasps were any indication, the Raji-lump was giggling.
Something small, gentle, and cool, something like Raji’s fingers, touched his dick.
He held his hand up. “Andy, don’t come any closer. I’m fine. I’ll be back in the gym tomorrow.”
Concern filled Andy’s big eyes. “Did you sprain something? Do you need a scrip for muscle relaxants?”
Raji’s fingers stroked down Peyton’s shaft, and his dick swelled fast. “No, Andy. I’m fine. Please don’t come any closer.”
Andy’s voice rose as her eyes widened, nearing hysteria. “Are you okay?”
Time to pull out the big guns.
Or, really, to threaten to pull out his big gun.
He said, “I didn’t go to the gym because I needed some alone time, some very personal alone time that you’ve caught me in the middle of.”
“I—I beg your pardon?” Andy asked.
Damn it. Cadell’s wife had been too damned innocent when he’d married her.
He said, “You’ve interrupted me in the middle of a very personal activity.”
Peyton glanced down at his midsection, where his dick was.
Andy’s gaze followed his look, and her dark eyes snapped back at his face. “I’m so sorry and I’ll tell Cadell that you’re skipping the gym and to mind his own business. Sorry. Really sorry.”
She fled.
The door slammed behind her.
Raji flipped back the sheets and emerged, laughing her head off. “I can’t believe you told her you were jacking off!”
Peyton fanned himself. “I need to throw the double-lock on these hotel doors. Geez, that was close.”
Raji said, “And now to make sure that you don’t get a case of blue balls after being interrupted in your attempt at self-love—”
Her warm, wet mouth closed on the head of his cock.
Peyton laid back on the pillows and closed his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A Christmas Question
* * *
“Come to Connecticut with me for Christmas,” Peyton said.
Los Angeles was still warm and dry in early November, not that Peyton could see that from the glittering lights below Raji’s apartment window.
“But it’s cold in Connecticut,” Raji said, still lounging in bed, naked. When she squirmed, the tattooed snake on her back writhed. “If I wanted to be cold, I’d go to New Jersey instead of having my mother come to California.”
“So she’s coming here?”
“Yeah, it’s all set. Amma always visits me for a few days. She also cooks a metric ton of food so that I don’t have to cook for a month, afterward.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
So it would probably be January until they saw each other again. Maybe February.
Dammit.
This craving for Raji would intensify over the weeks that they were separated, just
like it always did, until the starving dog of missing her snapped at everyone around him.
When Peyton had been with Georgie, even after she’d run away, he’d missed her in a youthful, innocent way. A puckish streak of mischief had run through their relationship. Both of them knew their relationship pissed off their parents no end, especially when Peyton had escorted Georgie when she made her debut at Cotillion so that all their friends knew.
But this yearning for Raji felt different, so different.
He longed to laze in bed with her and listen to her talk and laugh, to run his hands and tongue over her satiny skin, to trace the dark lines of her tattoos and discuss what each one meant, to revel in her triumphs and hold her when a patient didn’t make it, to sink into her delicious body, and to not leave again.
He said, “There’s a Christmas party at the Greenwich Yacht Club that I attend every year. I thought it might be fun.”
“Good God, Peys. Someone would surely recognize you there.”
“Of course, but you would use an assumed name. It’s a discreet affair. People bring their mistresses and misters all the time. No one talks. It would be gauche.”
“Rich people are weird, and it sounds hoity-toity. Why do you go to it?” She used chopsticks to eat a piece of Kung Pao Chicken from a takeout box.
“I have gone every year since I was a kid, since I was allowed out in public.”
“How silly.”
He laughed. “The canapés are delicious.”
“Oh. Canapés.” She ate an eggroll without looking up.
“There’s an open bar.”
“Now you’re talking my language. I can’t, though. Residents are always on call at Christmas. Low surgeon on the totem pole, you know. Because I’m getting higher up, I might have my choice of New Year’s or Easter off.”
“New Year’s,” Peyton said. “Take New Year’s off and meet me so I can kiss you at midnight.”
She cocked her head at him. “Peyton, are you getting all emo?”
He straightened, laughing. “Of course not. I’m a callous rock star who wants to fuck a groupie. Meet me in New York, and I’ll make you come right when the year changes.”
She ate another bite, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. “New York, huh?”
“Killer Valentine has a concert on New Year’s Day in the City.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“You can watch from backstage.”
“No, Peyton. I can’t.”
Because people in Killer Valentine would find out they were dating. “Then I’ll get you front row seats.”
“Maybe good seats, but not front row. Not too close.”
Yes, not too close, and Peyton’s heart sank. “Deal.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Into The Devilhouse
* * *
“I can’t believe this place,” Raji said, scanning the crowd packed around them. Even though it was almost midnight, people thronged the nightclub’s dance floor and crowded the balconies above. The smoke from the sizzling steaks from earlier still lingered in the air, though the excellent whiskey had washed the taste down Raji’s throat.
Peyton laughed as he held her in his arms, waltzing as a string quartet played a waltz. Speakers bolted to the ceiling and walls all around the cavernous space amplified the music to fill Raji’s ears and chest until she felt like she was floating.
A perilous tremor started in Raji’s chest again, flopping in there like a panicked trout. Her eyes burned, and she told herself No, no, no, not here, not now, not ever. Shove it all away. She sucked a deep breath in, her lungs pushing out her ribs. The slim whalebones in the black dress she wore pinched her waist as she tried to breathe, but she steadied herself.
Tonight was a night that Raji had off, a night to be savored, not to be spoiled.
Work things would not interfere with tonight.
Peyton’s strong arm clamped around her waist, and he led as well on the dance floor as he did in bed: very much in control, but not too rough. He wore a mask over the upper half of his face and nose, painted black and white with subtle shading and swirls. It was a Venetian mask, he had said, and yes, he had picked it up during Carnevale in Venice a few years earlier. The black mask matched his tuxedo, though he wore a black, straight tie with the tux, not a bow tie. “Oh, you haven’t seen even half of it yet. Save your disbelief for later.”
The crowd was a monochromatic dark sea, shining with speckles of moonlight. The black-and-white charity ball was also a masquerade, so everyone wore funereal black, ghostly white, and masks. The nightclub soared around them, an open dance floor in the middle and then three stories of white-covered tables on balconies. Waiters moved between the tables, serving supper and wine.
“I can’t believe we’re out on a real date!” Raji adjusted her mask, a silver filigree composed of metallic swirls and crystals. It looked like a face-tiara.
Below Peyton’s mask, his mouth smiled, and crinkles formed around his eyes. Even in the twilight-lit nightclub, his bright teal eyes shone in the glimmers. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Georgie told me about it. Evidently, she knows the people who own this place, so they sent her an invitation. It’s to benefit a new autism center called A Ray of Light that’s run by a friend of the owner.”
“You know,” Raji said, trying to make her eyes sparkle with mischief but unsure that she succeeded, “my hospital has a huge masquerade fundraiser next month. We could go out, eat a rubber chicken supper, and go dancing again! Two dates!”
Peyton laughed. “I’d love to. Let me check the touring schedule and get back to you. I think we could make it a habit, Raji-lee. The Met holds a masquerade ball every year, as do several charities in London. We could meet just for these masked events.”
She laughed. “It would be a shame to use this mask only once.”
“This place is very special, though.”
Raji smiled back at him, even though a part of her threatened to fall apart. “Yeah?”
His brilliantly blue-green eyes took on a wicked twinkle. “You’ll see. We have about fifteen minutes until our reservation upstairs.”
Raji glanced at the white-covered tables and hovering waiters on the balconies. “We already ate supper. I’m stuffed.”
Peyton laughed. “This place has many surprises.” He looked over her head, guiding her through the crowd as he led the waltz. He saw something, and his smile faded. “Oh, shit.”
He whipped her around sideways, so that his back was toward whatever he had seen.
“What?” Raji craned her neck to look over his shoulder at the crowd, but even in heels, she was too short.
Peyton hunched a little and kept his face turned the other way. “Xan and Georgie are here. She said they weren’t going to be able to make it. That’s why I suggested we go.”
“Xan Valentine? Where?” She hadn’t seen Xan since that time she had met Peyton at the Whisky a Go Go before she and Peyton had become an official, if secret, item. Even though she was there to hang out with Peyton, seeing the lead singer of the meteorically successful band again would be pretty awesome. “And how did you recognize them? Aren’t they wearing masks?”
“Yeah, they’re wearing masks, but I’ve been staring at his ass on stage for years now. I can recognize him better from behind than from the front. Georgie is wearing the same silver satin dress that she wore for a concert last week. Let’s go.”
She was having fun dancing with him and having a real date. “But we’re wearing masks—”
“Come on.” He held her hand and broke a path through the crowd, away from where he had been looking.
They reached the edge, and Peyton dodged down a hallway, pulling Raji after him.
She draped her arms over his shoulders, laughing. “So you told them that you weren’t seeing me anymore, I take it.”
“After we discussed it about a year ago, yes. They have no idea about this—” his hand flipped in the air, indicating something words couldn’t expr
ess, “—thing we have going on. Xan’s on the warpath, though. He’s been after me, saying that I’m traveling too much when we have breaks, that I’m never there when they’re writing songs, stuff like that. He caught me in a hotel lobby when I left to meet you last summer, and he’s been giving me the hairy eyeball ever since. He thinks I’m meeting drug dealers for coked-out weekend retreats or something.”
“I’ve been getting chewed out by friends for trading shifts, and one of my attendings thinks I’m not getting enough ‘face time.’”
Peyton grimaced. “Sounds familiar.”
“So, we’re both getting in trouble for continuing this relationship, aren’t we?” she said. “It’s really inadvisable.”
“Yeah,” Peyton said, grinning. “Makes it more exciting, doesn’t it?”
Raji grinned back. “You bet.” She paused. “Should you be writing songs with them, though?”
Peyton shrugged, still watching down the corridor as if he expected Xan Valentine to track them down. “They haven’t used any of my music. Xan and Cadell can write as much as the band needs and volumes extra, and Tryp occasionally contributes. My stuff doesn’t fit with Killer Valentine, anyway.”
“You’ve never played any of your songs for me,” Raji said.
He shrugged, still watching the end of the hallway as if he expected Xan Valentine to come raging around the corner.
“But you bring your guitar every time,” Raji said.
“I’d rather work on a keyboard, but they’re unwieldy on airplanes. The guitar is portable. Most of the time, I’m working on the sheet music for Xan’s new songs or reconsidering older ones. I rarely have time to work on my own material.”
“And you’ve only played Killer Valentine songs for me, which means that Xan and Cadell wrote them, not you.”
He glanced back at her before he resumed watching the hallway. “You like Killer Valentine’s songs.”
“But I might like your songs, too.”
A Billionaire for Christmas Page 12
