A Billionaire for Christmas

“But what if—”

“Stop.”

Peyton glanced around them at the empty living room with the open doors that overlooked the gray, choppy Pacific ocean. The sea breeze blew through the doors, warm even though it was January.

The baby nurses and helpers must be elsewhere in the house’s twenty thousand square feet because they were alone.

One of his arms flashed around her waist, dragging her against his chest, and his other hand snared her wrists behind her back.

She was caught, bound, and instantly submissive.

He nuzzled her neck and growled in her ear, “Walk to the car, get in, and let Selena drive you to the hospital. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Raji sagged against him. “All right.”

He spanked her ass, and she giggled a little. “No more backtalk, or I’ll fuck your ass again. Go.”

Raji got in the back seat of the car and laid her head against the headrest.

She was asleep before the car hit the end of the long driveway.

Hey, she had an infant in the house, even if Peyton and the baby nurses were doing the three o’clock feedings.

At the hospital, the attendings nodded to her, pleased that she was back to work on time. Some noted that they were impressed by her rigor.

Dr. Ellen Galweigh mentioned in passing that she’d had a difficult time on her first day back after birthing her child during her residency. Some surgeons didn’t make it back, but she was very pleased to see that Raji was measuring up.

Beth was cordial when they ran into each other, and Raji was cordial to Beth, and that was all.

Raji performed three surgeries that day and was invited to scrub in when a transplant became available for their patient who was at the top of the transplant list, a rare occurrence and a coveted opportunity.

Dr. Raji Kannan was back.

Dr. Raji Kannan-Cabot, but whatever.

She was back.

The next day, they did it all over again.

But eventually, it got easier.Chapter Fifty-ThreeThe Heart of MusicEighteen months later, Peyton Cabot debuted his first major concert at the Hollywood Bowl, the clamshell amphitheater carved into Bolton Canyon in Los Angeles.

Peyton had been working on his music since Gita’s birth. Polishing songs in the large music room of their new house while tending to her had been easy. She liked the piano and when he sang to her, so his songs’ lyrics received a lot of work. Gita had pulled herself up to standing for the first time on the piano’s legs and cruised the furniture in the music room while he played.

It was a good thing he had taken a few semesters of voice at Juilliard and been singing back-up with KV for nearly three years.

Perhaps he had been subconsciously considering making a break for it his whole music career.

When he’d played his music for some of his friends and instructors from Tanglewood and Juilliard, while they couldn’t countenance his decision to indulge in contemporary music, they had made some phone calls and introduced him to music critics for magazines and a few booking agents. Those introductions had led to MP3 files being shared with social media influencers, a few of whom decided that Peyton was the Next Big Thing.

He began to perform in a few small clubs.

Some Killer Valentine fans crossed over, interested in the ex-bassist who had gone solo. Many became an immediate, solid fan base.

The small clubs had led to larger venues, and the larger venues had created that sought-after buzz that had translated into online streaming revenue.

A lot of online streaming revenue, and shockingly fast.

Killer Valentine had taken years to build a global following.

Peyton had broken out in less than a year.

When the Hollywood Bowl, usually booked years in advance, had a cancellation, they approached Peyton Cabot to give his first major concert.

It was a dream, a psychedelic, impossible dream, a whirlwind of images and sounds.

Like Killer Valentine, Peyton hadn’t signed with a music label. Watching Xan Valentine navigate that minefield had left him wary. He had hired Xan’s producer for his recordings and kept complete control.

His music had turned out to be, as he had expected, lighter and sweeter than Killer Valentine’s and composed mostly of ballads and piano instrumentals.

Killer Valentine’s publicity problem had, predictably, passed in a month or so. The supposedly jilted pregnant girlfriend was suddenly married to the musician who defended her at every turn. With no additional clickbait such as ODs or drug-fueled hooker binges from the Killer Valentine camp to feed the media beast, it just died down. The ravenous media had moved on to the next sordid story because, just like sharks, they needed to keep swimming forward or they would die.

Peyton wouldn’t talk to Xan fucking Valentine, though. Fuck him and his PR machine.

After a few months of growling at each other through intermediaries, Killer Valentine had stopped for a tour date in Los Angeles. Georgie had called up and asked Peyton and Raji to meet her for supper, and a part of Peyton still couldn’t refuse her.