They had, by now, developed a sixth sense; something like mutual mental telepathy.
She knew, for instance, that when his song lyrics took a darker turn and his brooding increased, he was headed for a fall. She couldn't always head it off, obviously, but she knew just the same.
For his part, he knew that, despite her extroversion and need to control her own destiny, there was a limit to her tolerance for business lunches, after-party small talk and industry chit-chat. He knew when she needed him to step up.
Tonight was one of those times.
Deacon spotted her from across a crowded ballroom thick with cigarette smoke. She wore a slinky, sleeveless white gown that dipped in front and hugged her curves in all the right places. Her hair was swept off her neck in an elaborate up-do set off by a flashy gold necklace and earrings. He watched her talking to a group of men, false eyelashes fluttering.
He didn't need to do another thing: She would feel his eyes on her soon enough. A moment later, she looked around, scanning the room, searching for him.
Their eyes met and he jerked his head - a tiny movement - toward the exit. It wasn't exactly quiet in the hallway, but at least they could talk.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"Ray, you're not fine."
She sighed and pushed a stray lock of hair off her face.
"God, is it that obvious? I must look like a wreck."
"You look gorgeous, darlin'."
She stared at the floor, then laid her hand on his forearm.
"I think maybe I picked up a virus. I'm just … whipped."
"Whaddaya want me to do?"
She looked up, her eyes searching his, then stepped closer, resting her forehead briefly against his chest.
"Please ... just get me out of here."
Most female country stars, no matter how plucky and independent they were in public, took a back seat to their menfolk, designating husbands or boyfriends to manage their affairs behind the scenes.
Not Rayna Jaymes.
She relished tangling with the executives, attorneys and radio disc jockeys powerful enough to make or break her latest singles. She had hired a manager, Bucky Dawes, a year earlier, but she had selected him for his low-key style, not in spite of it.
Both onstage and off, Deacon stood behind Rayna. Along with performing and writing with her, he was her protector, personally and artistically. The two of them presented a united front, for instance, on issues like the commercial use of their songs. They had decided early on to turn down corporate offers, no matter how lucrative, preferring simple living to artistic compromise.
On this night, it took him just 10 minutes to make her apologies, gather her things and usher her out into the lobby of the exclusive Nashville hotel where their second album-release party was taking place. The penthouse suite had been booked in Rayna's name as part of a package deal.
"Thanks. I owe you one," she murmured as they crossed to the elevators, his arm around her waist.
He punched the button and they waited. She looked over at him, smiling.
"What would I do without you, babe?"
"I promise you'll never have to find out again, Ray."
In the elevator, she stood close, leaning her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes. His arm was around her, right hand caressing her back. She turned to look into his eyes and he leaned in to kiss her.
She pulled away.
"Sorry. I really do think I'm getting sick."
"Damn. And here I thought all this was just a way for you to get me in that penthouse alone."
She smiled and laid her head against him again.
"You would think that, Deacon."
She glanced back at him and he stared at her, leaning toward her once more.
She pulled her head away again, raising her eyebrows.
"Babe, do you really want to get sick?"
"Might not mind takin' my chances, darlin'. You know when you're sick, I get a day off – right? And there are a hell of a lotta worse ways to spend my free time than stayin' in bed with you all day."
She smiled and rolled her eyes, watching the elevator ascend to the top floor.
"And what makes you think I'll let you stay with me?"
"Well, I figure you gotta give me a chance to make you feel better. And hell … I know I can at least cheer you up."
She laughed, in spite of herself, and he put his other arm around her and backed her up against the wall of the elevator, ducking his head and pressing his lips against hers, her resistance crumbling fast. He held the kiss, fingers brushing lightly over her bare throat, until the bell rang and the doors opened, revealing a startled group of foreign tourists.
Rayna hid her face in his shoulder, embarrassed, but Deacon looked at them and smiled broadly.
"Sorry, folks," he said, winking and sweeping Rayna off her feet so unexpectedly that she gasped and clutched him. "We're headed for the honeymoon suite. Y'all know how it is, right?"
They looked from her white gown to his black jacket and broke into knowing smiles. Deacon carried Rayna down the hall, both of them laughing.
"You're insane, babe."
He set her down outside the penthouse door and fished for the key, singing: "I'm crazy for trying, and crazy for crying,
and I'm crazy for loving you..."
She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. He leaned her up against the door and kissed her back.
"Thought you were contagious."
"You started it."
"What - you sayin' I gotta finish it now?"
She smiled seductively at him.
"Just open the damn door, babe. Oh, and Deacon? Don't you even think about carrying me over that threshold."