THE hospital’s annual charity masquerade was held in the ballroom of one of the big downtown hotels in L.A. Enormous chandeliers like floating Mardi Gras floats glittered and threw spangles through the darkness over the people swaying on the dance floor.
Peyton wore a different tuxedo than last month. This one had a traditional tailed jacket and a white bow tie, very formal and proper. He looked every inch—and there were many, many inches in his six-feet-and-more frame—the upper-class, elite heir to an old money fortune that he was. He wore the same Venetian half-face mask as last time, and Raji wore the silver filigree mask with rhinestones again, too.
Beneath his mask and on the side of his face left bare, a pale, golden beard glinted on his cheeks and jaw, a new addition to his rock star image. His lengthening blond hair was just long enough to be gathered neatly at the nape of his neck.
When he gathered her close to his chest, the scent of his herbal and citrus cologne soothed her.
If only their night at the hospital’s charity ball could be as wonderful as that night a month ago at the Devilhouse, but Raji was going to ruin it.
Was probably going to ruin it.
Maybe she wouldn’t even mention her little pregnancy problem. After all, she had several options to deal with it. Peyton didn’t have to know about any of them.
He would probably be grateful if she never brought it up, if he never had to be involved in such a heart-wrenching decision.
And yet, she didn’t have anyone to talk to about it.
Beth would flip her fucking lid if Raji admitted she’d gotten knocked up. God only knew what she would do.
Her attendings would be icily supportive and then mark her down for not being committed enough.
Raji wished she could talk to Peyton about it because he would give her the sympathy and support she was craving, but she didn’t want to burden him with it, either.
He would have her back, but she wasn’t sure she needed to lay this on him.
So she stewed for hours about it instead.
Raji was wearing a different black dress than last time because her other dress had been too tight across the bust when she had tried it on. This dress did look awesome on her, though. Her boobs looked better than they ever had in her entire life. She was boobilicious. Might as well enjoy that part of it.
Even Beth raised one eyebrow in surprise at Raji’s voluptuous figure when she popped up with her date, Joshua, the pencil-necked anesthesiologist. “Hey, Raji! Who’s your date?”
“Um, this is—” Oh, crap. They hadn’t practiced anything. She hadn’t even mentioned to Peyton that he needed to be on the down-low.
Peyton stepped up and extended his hand. “Alexander Astor of the Connecticut Astors, not those Massachusetts ones. A pleasure to meet you.”
Beth laughed. “Beth Dansk of the New Jersey Dansks, all of us hoity-toity types off of Exit Eight-A. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” Beth barely glanced at Peyton, so she probably hadn’t recognized him.
Peyton said, “Charmed, I’m sure.” His accent was so broad with no Rs at all that it was almost Bostonian. He was chahmed, he was shu-uh.
Beth said to Peyton, “I work with Raji here at the hospital. What do you do?”
He grinned that sunny smile of his, his lips curving under his Venetian mask. “I’m a lawyer. Don’t hold it against me.”
Beth laughed again. “Where did you go to school? What specialty?”
“Yale and Yale Law, I’m afraid, and finance, the most boring of the law specialties. You must pity Raji for her poor choice in men.”
Beth was still laughing at him, though her eyes were wandering off into the crowd.
Raji grabbed Peyton’s hand to haul him away. “Good seeing you, Beth. Talk to you later.”
Peyton had played that perfectly, even down to the broad Connectikite accent that he didn’t usually have and keeping his mask angled toward Beth. With all of Peyton’s diversions, Beth hadn’t recognized the Killer Valentine rock star at all, and Raji’s secrets were safe.
Raji smiled at him.
Peyton had her back.
They danced and ate dinner at the hospital gala, never once removing their masks. Raji knew everyone there, of course, and recognized them all, even though they wore masks, too.
Everybody recognized her, too, so she kept introducing Peyton as Alexander Astor. That took care of any Killer Valentine fans they might meet.
A few of her girlfriends glanced downward at her boobs, with one eyebrow lowered, as if asking if whether Raji had had a boob job. They must know that she hadn’t, of course. A surgeon would never take the time for cosmetic surgery during her residency.
They danced for hours on the huge dance floor. The band played covers from the last couple decades.
Peyton appeared to be having a good time. He laughed at all the right times and was his usual charming, gregarious self.
For minutes at a time, Raji forgot about the thing she really should tell him.
She did ask him what he thought about the band, considering that Peyton played in a world-famous rock band and these guys didn’t know who was in their audience that night. Peyton insisted that the band was together, in tune, and had interesting interpretations of the songs, but he wouldn’t criticize them at all.
Because he was kind. Because he was sweet.
Raji needed to tell him.
Some of her friends had just gone and had it taken care of when it had happened to them, without telling anyone at all.
Telling him might not be the right thing to do.
Why would it be better to share the misery?
It would probably be kinder to not put him through it.
After they had consumed what was indeed rubbery chicken and danced the night away, Raji drove Peyton back to her apartment.
She was fine to drive because she hadn’t been drinking.
Not that it was going to matter.
She could have had a few drinks if she had wanted to, considering that she had every intention of medically solving the problem.
So when they took the elevator up to Raji’s apartment in downtown Los Angeles, a building conveniently near the hospital because Raji was on-call day and night, she wasn’t particularly worried about anything. She was just going to let him know that she had a little medical condition that she would get taken care of, and it was no big deal.
Peyton stood in her living room, stretching his arms over his head. The black ribbons from the Venetian mask that he held in one hand fluttered in the air conditioning. He pulled the covered elastic band out of his blond hair and shook it behind his shoulders. The ends trailed several inches past his collar. With his little scruff of beard, too, Raji had been teasing him all night that he looked like a noob lumberjack.
Dressed in the white-tie tuxedo and standing in her living room, Peys didn’t look like a lumberjack. He looked like a blond nobleman from the 1800s, or maybe a Viking in a suit.
He smoothed his hair to the back of his head and bound the elastic around it again.
Raji hadn’t been sure how she’d felt about “manbuns” before, but watching his biceps bulge under his tux and the formal jacket rise above his slim waist while he tied his hair back made her appreciate the hairstyle far more than she would have, otherwise.
Hey, they’d had a great night.
Now was a spectacular time to ruin everything.
Raji flipped the locks on the front door. “Hey, Peys. We kind of need to talk about something.”
He smiled and walked over to where she was standing. His fingers trailed down her bare arm. “I’ve got a better idea than talking.”
Maybe she should take that as a clue and just shut up about it. “So, you remember about a month ago when the condom broke—”
Peyton laughed. “Yeah, it was flapping around like a popped balloon, and I didn’t even notice it.”
Raji bit her lip. “Yeah, about that—”