A Billionaire for Christmas

“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.”

“They’re different than KV’s.”

“How?”

He looked up at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling, musing about it. “They’re lighter, more melodic, more whimsical, maybe. Xan and Cadell have the sturm und drang thing, which is great for arena rock anthems. Nobody sits down during a Killer Valentine concert. The whole crowd is on their feet, the whole time. I seem to write a different kind of song. They probably wouldn’t be as popular.”

“How many have you written?”

“Thirty or so.”

Raji’s heart surged. Thirty songs! Maybe he was going to make a break with Killer Valentine. Maybe now was the time she could open a spreadsheet on her laptop and map out a life plan for him. He needed to forge a career for himself instead of tagging along for years with Xan Valentine and Georgie Johnson. “Thirty! But you’ve never played any of them for me.”

He shrugged again. “The timing never seemed right.”

“I want to hear one. I want to hear them all.”

He looked back at her, his eyes wary. “Do you?”

“Yeah!”

“All thirty of them?”

That was a lot. “Absolutely.”

“We might have some time tomorrow morning if we can pry ourselves out of bed. Maybe one or two.”

She snuggled up to him a little more. “We’ll make time before our flights. I want to hear more than one or two.”

His arm wrapped more securely around her waist, and his head dipped beside hers as he breathed on her neck. “Assuming we’re not exhausted from tonight.”

“Got something special planned, do you?” They’d been furtively meeting in hotel rooms and crashing at each other’s apartments for more than two years. Raji knew most of his moves, probably. She liked all of them, but she knew them.

He whispered, “Come with me.”

Raji skipped along behind him, just tipsy enough from the wine to enjoy walking with him because it was fun. “Where are we going?”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Some nightclub.”

“Not just any nightclub,” Peyton said.

An enormous man with skin and hair the color of sable stood at the intersection of the next hallway. “Good evening.”

Peyton held out his phone to the man. “We have a reservation from twelve to three o’clock.”

Twelve to three? That was a long time for dessert or whatever. Raji stood and watched them.

The man took Peyton’s phone and inspected the screen thoughtfully. “Yes, you do. Come this way, sir. Welcome to The Devilhouse.”

Raji smiled and nodded, going along with it all. “Thanks!”

He led them through some very ordinary, office-looking hallways to a door. “It bolts from the inside, but we can get in if there’s an emergency. Have a nice evening, sir,” he nodded to her, “and ma’am.”

The guy walked away.

Maybe this was one of those hotel fantasy suites where it looked like they were underwater or on a deserted island or at the North Pole or something. That would be surprising.

Peyton opened the door. “After you.”

Raji strode into the room and stopped dead in her tracks. “Are you kidding me?”

Not a forest, not a harem, not an island or a heart-shaped red satin bed.

Nope, it was a medieval dungeon, complete with cases filled with an array of whips, a huge X in the corner to spread-eagle strap people to, and so many other frames and posts and things that looked like gym equipment but obviously, so obviously, weren’t. “Uh, Peyton—”

With a solid thunk, the door slammed behind her. Bolts clacked.

Raji whirled around.

Peyton towered above her, right above her, and she realized just how overwhelmingly tall he was, five inches taller than she was even though she was wearing high, high heels. When a guy is a quarter of a foot over six feet tall, he looms over everyone, and the top of Raji’s head didn’t even clear his shoulder.