A Billionaire for Christmas

Half an hour later, Raji stumbled in, holding her heart. “Jesus, Ram, and Zeus, Peyton. We need to be a hell of a lot more careful.”

He was wearing jeans and a tee shirt, this time, and had brewed a fresh pot of coffee for her. “More careful than what? Hiding behind locked doors with the curtains drawn?”

“Just more careful. I confiscated Beth’s key. Damn, that was close. This is stupid, isn’t it? We should just stop.”

Peyton’s heart slowed. His voice was measured, calm. “Is that what you want to do?”

“No! I just, if we get caught, what can I do?”

He handed her a cup of coffee. “That’s easy. It’s basic public relations. I’ve been watching Xan Valentine handle reporters for years now. He’s a master at it. Admit nothing. Deny everything. Distract them by jingling your keys, if necessary.”

She scowled at him. “That won’t work.”

He laughed. “Oh, my sweet child. Of course, it does. It works every time. When Rade overdosed and died, Xan put on a tremendous concert as a ‘tribute’ to him, and the newspapers were full of Xan’s triumph, not a rock star’s death by heroin and a band with a drug culture problem.”

Raji frowned. “Yeah, but you could read between the lines to get that.”

“But it wasn’t the headline. When the reporters in Europe got wind that Xan Valentine was the violin prodigy-slash-murderer Alexandre Grimaldi, he held a press conference in the middle of a concert, an insane stunt. The crowd was far more interested in whether his balls were slung in boxers or briefs than who he had been ten years before.”

Her lovely, dark eyes were still wary. “And that works?”

Peyton nodded. “When someone asks you a question you don’t want to answer, tell them what you want them to hear.”

She shook her head. “That might work with bloggers and entertainment reporters, but I don’t think doctors would fall for it.”Chapter NineteenEiffel TowerRaji wove her fingers in the chain-link fence that surrounded the second observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, pressing against the wire.

The big sunglasses and baseball hats they both wore shielded them from the autumn sun. Far below, scarlet, gold, and green puffs of trees waved along the Parisian streets. The river winding through the city scented the air with water amid the car exhaust.

Peyton stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. He had picked her up from the airport and driven straight to the center of Paris to climb the stairs.

“I can’t believe that no one will recognize you just because we’re wearing hats and sunnies,” Raji fretted.

“No one who knows us should be out here,” he whispered in her ear. “Xan has imprisoned the rest of the band in a recording studio for a demo session. There’s no chance they’ll escape. I slipped out because I’m sneaky that way and because no one cares about the bass line. Surely no one from your hospital will be at the top of the Eiffel Tower today.”

“I’ll admit, it’s a slim chance,” she said.

He turned her around and kissed her, his lips softly caressing hers and his dark sunglasses jostling her sunnies. The brims of their baseball hats bonked.

“Up to the top?” Peyton asked.

Raji consulted her phone. “I think I have time. I have to be back at the airport in seven hours.”

He kissed her again, and then said, “Then up to the top, and then back to my hotel for some Parisian afternoon delight before you have to leave again.”Chapter TwentyAutumn in ParisPeyton held Raji in his arms, still gasping.

That momentary fall into oblivion at the center of his orgasm still echoed in his head.

Raji was clinging to him, her arms clasped around his chest, her eyes closed as she panted. The jasmine perfume on her skin swelled around him from their heat.

His chest swelled with longing for her, even though they had another few hours before she had to turn around and get back on an airplane for Los Angeles.

Paris would dull without her. He would probably drink himself stupid with the roadies and contribute nothing to Xan’s marathon songwriting sessions. The weeks and months without her seemed endless.

“I—” he said, but he stopped.

Raji chuckled a little as she breathed. She adjusted her arms around his neck, smiling. “Yeah. Me, too. Wow, huh?”

That wasn’t what he had meant.

He’d been writing music lately, melodies, harmonies, and a few lyrics, all floating around his time with Raji. They sounded like ballads, sweet and lilting sonatinas.

Not shallow, not meaningless. The music rose from some deep place within him, layers of notes and emotion, and he wasn’t sure how to tell her about it.

“Don’t go,” he said.

She cocked her head, smiling up at him. “You know I have to.”

“I want you here with me.” His voice was almost breathless as he spoke.

“I’d rather be in Paris than wrist-deep in some guy’s ribs and blood, but I have to go back, even though I’d rather stay here with you, you there with your lovely green eyes and your rippled muscles and your hard, hard cock.”