A Billionaire for Christmas

“But these aren’t teenagers. These are three rock stars in a huge rock band. The tabloids would go crazy. Those magazines and websites are all-Killer Valentine, all-the-time right now.”

The other orderlies and nurses in the operating room shuffled at the words rock star and Killer Valentine. Antiseptic smell infiltrated behind Raji’s visor, a chemical scent that overpowered even her own jasmine antiperspirant wafting out of her clothes.

Raji leaned forward from the waist. “Shhhh.” She hadn’t told anyone else about hooking up with Peyton at the wedding, just Beth.

One of the nurses glanced up at Raji, her dark eyes scanning Raji’s face for more information.

Great, now the nurse would have lots of questions that Raji shouldn’t answer.

“I’m just trying to look out for you,” Beth said. “You know how conservative the attending surgeons are. They’ll get a bug up their tushies about anything, even swearing in front of an anesthetized patient.” Beth glanced down at Mr. Washington, his face pale under his dark skin.

Raji inclined her head toward the anesthesiologist, asking for an update on the patient’s status.

The anesthesiologist, Dr. Jordan, leaned over, checked her monitors, and shrugged. The patient was doing fine. Some people just got pale when under anesthesia.

Raji said to Beth, “Come on, Mr. Washington needs some new veins. We can talk about this later.”

When Beth was looking at her, Raji moved her eyes and looked at the other nurses and orderlies around them, trying to signal to Beth that they were not alone and this was not the appropriate topic for a public conversation.

Unfortunately, Beth didn’t take the hint. “Well, no matter what, you’re not going to see him again, right? I mean one wedding hook-up won’t end your career, but bad publicity for the hospital because one of their heart surgeons is out partying with some drug-crazed rock star would.”

Raji tried to shut up. She really did. It just didn’t work. “He’s not like that. He’s not a typical rock star, or at least not a stereotypical one. If anything, he’s a preppie, and he will totally undo my hard-won reputation as edgy and exotic. He’s never done drugs. No one in that band does any recreational pharmaceuticals. Evidentally, a couple of their band members had a problem with that last year. One is dead. The other is in rehab. Nobody in KV does anything like that anymore.”

“Well, I’m sure he drinks too much,” Beth said. “He’s probably a free-love hippie and smokes and drinks and screws groupies every night. You don’t want to pick up something.”

Free-love hippie? Most cardiac surgeons had a stick up their asses, but Beth’s butt-stick seemed unusually thick today.

The OR nurses were staring at Raji, waiting to hear if Beth was right or wrong.

Raji sighed. “He’s not like that. First of all, he’s from Connecticut. He’s, like, an Old Money Connectikite. I looked up his family. They made their money privateering during the Revolutionary War. He’s a trust-fund baby and went Juilliard for classical piano performance. And seriously, nobody in that band has relations with groupies.” She would have said fucking, but there really was a policy about swearing around anesthetized subjects. “Evidentally, the only way that groupies can get backstage during a concert is by doing something,” a world of innuendo lived in that emphasis, “with a roadie, one of the technicians. The band members know that. They don’t touch the groupies.”

“Oh, baloney. He’s probably as promiscuous as any of them and lying about it.”

“He actually seems like a sweetie.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. Everybody does stupid things. I think he’s a good guy.”

“But you aren’t going to see him again, right? If you do, I might have to march in there and drag you out before you do something stupid. I have to look out for you, you know.”

“I’m not going to see him again. Besides, when would I? He’s touring in a rock band, traveling all over the world. I never leave L.A., and I work all the time. I’ll probably get to sleep for three hours tonight, but then I have a forty-eight-hour call. Heck, right now, I don’t think I’m going to get to sleep again until Thursday, maybe Friday. I don’t have time for any relationship at all, let alone one with a high-maintenance musician.”Chapter NineBeing A Rock Star SucksPeyton hadn’t scored Raji Kannan’s phone number.

She’d had several opportunities to hand it over when he’d asked. It was certainly deliberate.

That must mean she didn’t want him to call her.

So he tried to forget her.

After concerts, when Peyton was dehydrated, exhausted, and amped on testosterone and adrenaline, he showered and walked up to the VIP bar in each of the lookalike hotels where the band stayed.

All the hotel bars looked the same after a while. Rows of jewel-toned bottles lined glass shelves that were lit from below like a dragon’s hoard of jewels. Tasteful dark wood furniture covered with bland leather provided appropriate seating for the dozen or so business travelers who haunted the dim room. Air freshener splashed by the bucketful on the carpet overwhelmed the sour cigarette smoke from furtive smokers and the stale smell of business suits worn one day too many by people who refused to check in luggage.