A Billionaire for Christmas

She looked more like a rock star than preppie Peyton did, no matter how much the stylists worked on him.

Raji stuck one slim hand out toward him. “How’re you doin’?”

Her accent was thick New Jerseyan.

Peyton laughed and let his native Connectikite accent shine through in New Englander solidarity, which meant he swallowed his R’s like a Kennedy. “I’m Peyton Cabot, bass guitar for Killer Valentine.” Guitah. Killah.

“Oh!” Raji’s lovely, dark eyes widened. “You’re the new guy! I’ve seen six Killer Valentine concerts, but I haven’t seen you play yet!”

“I’m the new guy,” Peyton agreed. “I’ve been sitting in on the studio sessions for the demos that we’re cutting.”

Georgie leaned in, her eyes wide, and she told Raji, “Peyton traveled with us on the European tour last summer to learn the ropes. How many countries did we stop at, Peys?”

He laughed at how Georgie was trying to play wing-girl. “Twelve, maybe? Or fourteen? Fifteen if you include Monaco, but we didn’t perform there.”

Georgie continued, “Peyton played his first concert with us in Rome a few months ago. When we start touring again in a few weeks, he’ll officially be our new bass player.”

“You’re going to be on stage?” Raji asked, her eyes widening.

“Yep, every night.” He glanced at Xan, who was nodding. Peyton’s rather unusual apprenticeship with the band had woven through half the instruments before everyone had agreed that he was most needed on the bass guitar.

The bass, the guitar for guitarists who couldn’t play the guitar.

Peyton, a Juilliard-trained pianist who played three instruments at a world-class level and four more as well as any professional, was wasting his talents on the bass.

Well, Peyton had chosen to join Killer Valentine, and he honored his commitments.

Now. He honored his commitments now.

Raji said to him, “That’s so exciting! I can’t believe you just auditioned and they picked you up and you’re going to be a rock star!”

“Peyton already is a rock star,” Georgie told Raji. “He’s been debuting the demos at the small clubs around here with Xan and the guys. He’s awesome.”

Raji squealed.

Peyton laughed with her. “I’m working on it, anyway.”

The woman stepped closer to him and toyed with a button on his shirt.

He thought about stepping away, but hell, he was stag at a wedding. Raji wasn’t a groupie who had made her way backstage by whatever means necessary. She was cute, and she was flying solo at a wedding, too.

Why not live a little?

Raji asked, “So are you going to stay with Killer Valentine long-term or start your own band someday?”

“I’m signed for a year’s contract,” he said. When he looked over her head, Xan and Georgie were inching into the crowd, leaving him alone with Raji. “After that, we’ll see what everyone wants to do.”

She asked him, “You wanna dance?”

“Fuck, yeah,” he said, lowering his voice to a growl.

He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her slim form against himself.

Raji grinned up at him and bit one side of her full, sensual lower lip.Chapter TwoToastRaji was sitting with Peyton Cabot, an honest-to-Shiva fucking rock star in Killer Valentine, her all-time favorite band, at the kitchen table inside the house of Cadell Glynn, the lead guitarist for Killer Valentine.

Sur-fucking-real.

They were both glaring at a blank scrap of paper.

Peyton Cabot’s arm pressed against her shoulder.

She couldn’t stop thinking of him as Peyton-Cabot, his name all one word, kind of like if someone had introduced her to Elton-John or Jon-Bon-Jovi or Taylor-Swift or Lady-Gaga. She wouldn’t be sitting next to her casual buddy Jon or Lady. She’d have their full names in her head.

And so Raji was sitting next to Peyton-Cabot.

She was practically leaning on him.

Which was good, because writing a wedding toast felt stupid and awful. Marriage was for suckers.

Not that Raji would say that to Andy, ever. Somebody had to have a dream.

Thick muscles wrapped around Peyton’s arm, bulging at his shoulder and biceps. When they had been dancing, Raji had molested him subtly, brushing her fingers over his broad shoulders and flat, corrugated stomach. The cologne on his neck smelled like rosemary and lemon, maybe a little like black pepper, like he would taste delicious. In the darkness of the back yard, she could see that his hair was blond, but she hadn’t noticed his startling blue-green eyes until they had sat down in the brightly lit kitchen to write her toast.

When he looked away from her, musing about the words they were writing, his eyes looked aquamarine, a pale green-blue that seemed translucent.

But when he turned back, smiling because he had found the words, they turned soothing sea blue-green, shading towards teal.

Gorgeous.

Raji was trying really hard not to stare at Peyton-Cabot, the ripped and handsome Killer Valentine rock star, but every time he walked like a stalking tiger or brushed his hair out of his eyes like a Nordic god, not-staring got harder.