IN August, Peyton caught a flight to California to spend three whole days with Raji, cooped up in her apartment.
He’d brought his guitar and notebooks so he could write while she was at the hospital. More music had been coming to him, lately, just a phrase here and a melody line there, sometimes whole verses and sequences, but it was beginning to blossom. Even lyrics were forming in his head.
Mostly when he thought about Raji.
But who wouldn’t be inspired by the industrious, driven Raji Kannan? She was beautiful and intense, and he liked all that about her.
It was reflected in his music, and that was hardly surprising.
Their first day had been mostly spent in bed, her feminine scent of flowers and clean skin filling his head while he ran his hands and his tongue and his cock over every inch and into every place he could on her body.
The second morning he was there, Raji was flitting around, getting ready for work, while he idled at her tiny breakfast table. The long, white tablecloth had snarled around the towel tucked around his waist as he’d sat down, and he’d nearly upended the tiny table. Then, he would have had a mess and probably been naked if the towel had fallen off, too.
Her apartment was built for tiny people, from the queen-sized bed in her bedroom to the nook-sized breakfast table to the loveseat instead of a couch. He wasn’t complaining because it allowed him to spend time with her that he couldn’t otherwise, but everything was so low and narrow.
His feet stretched out on the other side of the table, his ankles and shins peeking out from under the tablecloth, and he wasn’t even stretching. His knees just had nowhere to go.
Beside him, a key turned in the front door’s lock, and it began to open.
In the kitchen, Raji spun, her eyes wide open. She ran for the front door. “Yeah? Who is it?”
Peyton stood, and his hands clenched into fists. He strode behind Raji, ready to yank her aside and pummel whoever was behind the door. He walked on his toes, ready to spin and kick the shit out someone back there.
A woman’s voice sang out, “It’s me!”
Raji turned and shoved Peyton’s chest. “It’s Beth. Hide.”
The door to the bedroom was too far away and in the direct line of sight of the front door. Not possible.
Peyton sprinted and slid under the minuscule breakfast nook table. He batted the tablecloth back into place around himself, wrapping his arms around his knees so that he was practically in the fetal position. He shoved his face between his knees, and the table rested on his broad shoulders.
His towel was gone.
He was naked.
His legs were pulled in so tightly that his thighs were squeezing his nuts, but he didn’t have enough room to reach down there and adjust himself.
Outside the curtain of the tablecloth, he heard Raji say, “Hey! What did I tell you about how that key was only for emergencies?”
“This is an emergency,” the other woman’s voice said. “I have strudel.”
“Oh, awesome,” Raji said. “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s eat it at the tables outside by the gazebo. It’ll be like a picnic.”
“The Santa Ana winds are blowing,” Beth said.
“Even better,” Raji said. “That’ll dry out my sinuses. I’ve had a snot thing lately.”
“It’s a hundred and eight degrees out there!”
Some scuffling. “I said, let’s go. Let’s go eat this outside, now.”
Beth muttered, “At least my coffee won’t get cold. It’ll probably boil dry in the cup.”
A door slammed.
Peyton counted to twenty to make sure they weren’t coming right back in and then gingerly released his hold on his legs to crawl out from under the table.
When he was halfway out, the long tablecloth draped itself over his back while he crept on his hands and knees.
The white towel he had been wearing was on the floor, halfway to the front door.
The door banged open again.
Raji skidded around the door.
A blond woman walked in right behind her.
Raji’s eyes bugged out. “Dammit.”
The blond woman was turning her head toward Peyton when Raji whirled around and shoved her out the door. “Forget it. I don’t need the coffee.”
The door banged shut behind them.
This time, Peyton snagged the towel and skedaddled into Raji’s bedroom, slamming the door shut.
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.”