She gave the address to the driver and they took off. It was going to be a long drive. She tried not to think about the cost. She had been living on the fringe for so long, buying a vehicle was something she didn't even think about, it wasn't even on her radar. She had kinda assumed Jameson might send a car for her, but no offer had been made to do that – maybe he was more of a liberal kind of guy.
He lived all the way out in Weston, the wealthiest suburb in Boston. One of the richest towns in America. Figures. She lived in an apartment in North Dorcester, right in Boston. Kind of sketchy at times. She had been to Weston before, but with her parents, and since then, she'd never had a reason to go back.
When the taxi started pulling down a long, wooded driveway, Tate tried to not to gag at the sixty dollar tab and began rooting around in her purse. There went some rent money. She wondered if Jameson would actually give her any money, or if it had all been play. She was just starting to uncrumple some twenty dollars bills as the taxi parked, when the front passenger door swung open.
“Here you are, and thank you,” a crisp, cultured sounding voice said, followed by a hand holding out two one-hundred dollar bills. Tate and the driver stared at the cash, both a little shocked. The money was exchanged and then her door was pulled open, a hand reaching in for her. Tate took it and was pulled to her feet.
A slender man stood in front of her, wearing an impeccable suit. Very expensive looking. He wasn't a very big man in general; she was around five-foot-six, and he wasn't that much taller than her. Maybe five-foot-ten, give or take an inch. His dark hair was gelled and styled, brushed to the side. He looked like something out of GQ magazine – very handsome, with fair skin and stormy blue eyes. He gave her a tight-lipped smile.
“Hello, Ms. O'Shea. I am Sanders, Mr. Kane's assistant,” he said in a polite voice. There was a hint of an accent there, but she couldn't place it. Not Boston, but a distinct burr, something else East Coast-y, or maybe even European. His fricatives were sharp, his voice soft.
He should do books on tape.
“Hi, I'm Tatum,” she greeted him, holding out a hand. He clasped it briefly, not really shaking it, just pressing his skin to hers and then letting go.
“Welcome. Please, follow me,” he instructed, then turned to lead the way.
She hadn't gotten a good look at the house on the drive up. She gaped at it now. It was like something from a hundred years ago. Huge, and gorgeous. Lots of brick, with white pillars in the front. She wondered if Jameson had bought it when he moved to Boston, or if it had been in the family. It looked like something that would be on the National Historical Registry.
“Were you with him at the office, today?” Tate asked as they crunched across the pebble stone driveway.
“No.”
“Do you go into Boston a lot?”
“No.”
“I got the impression he travels a lot, do you go with him on those trips?”
“No.”
She smirked at the assistant's back as he held open the front door for her.
“I'm going to assume that living with Kane is what has given you this anti-social personality disorder,” she said in a sweet voice. The man didn't even blink at her statement.
“I had this disorder long before Mr. Kane. He's in the library, through that door,” Sanders told her, gesturing along the wall.
She gasped, taking in the huge entry way. Vaulted ceilings, original hard wood floors, a chandelier that probably dated back to the civil war. A huge sitting room opened off to her right, and two large, sliding doors were shut on the room to her left. Farther down the wall, just past a grand staircase, was another door, standing slightly ajar. She could see a glow, like candle light, spilling out into the hall.
Tate had come from money, grown up in a gorgeous home, but it had been a long time since that life. It felt strange now, to be surrounded by such opulence. The rug she was standing on probably cost more than everything she owned.
“You know, Sandy,” she started, reaching out and grabbing onto his shoulder. He frowned while she steadied herself and bent over, undoing the straps on her shoes. “I think we're gonna get along, just fine.”
With her shoes dangling from her hand, Tate tip toed down the entry way and pushed through the library door. There was a roaring fire in a huge fireplace on the far wall; it was providing the only light in the room. Built-in bookshelves surrounded her, and there were two huge, over stuffed, wing-backed chairs pulled up close to the fire. Off to the right of them stood a ridiculously huge, ornate, gold-inlaid desk. Jameson was standing behind it, holding some papers, and he looked up at her entrance.
“You made it. Quite a cab ride,” he commented as she walked towards him. She nodded.
“Forty-five minutes. I won't be doing that often,” she warned him.
“You'll do it often enough. Drink?” he asked, setting down his work and coming out from around the desk.
“God, yes. Your assistant gave me freezer burn,” she laughed, watching Jameson as he walked over to a small bar.
She stayed near his desk and stared at him, letting her eyes wander over his form. Every time she had seen him, he had been wearing expensive suits – blazers, ties, trousers, shiny shoes, and shinier watches. Now, he was in jeans and a plain white t-shirt. No shoes. No socks.
Tate had never once seen him so dressed down, not even when he'd been dating her sister. She was a little shocked. It gave him a whole different look. He almost – though not quite – looked approachable. He was too good looking to ever truly look like a mere mortal. But still. She found herself wanting to peel his shirt off so she could lick every inch of his skin.
“Ah, Sanders. Yes. You'll grow to love him, almost everyone does. What would you like?” Jameson asked. When she didn't answer, he turned towards her. “What? What are you staring at?”
“You're barefoot,” she blurted out, staring down at his feet. He laughed, looking down as well.
“Yes. So are you,” he replied. She wiggled her toes at him.
“Yeah, but I expect that from me. Mr. Kane doesn't walk around barefoot. He has people to walk around for him,” she teased, looking back up at him. He snorted.
“Mr. Kane's feet hurt after a long day. You look nice,” Jameson commented, his eyes wandering over her. She had put on a fitted black dress, for her cocktail hour with Ang – a little overdressed for an evening in the country.
“Thank you. I went out for drinks with a friend, before coming here,” she told him.
“Pre-gaming? Scared of coming out here?” he asked, turning back to the bar and picking up crystal bottles.
“No. Just drinks with a friend,” Tate replied, spinning in a slow circle and looking around the room.
“The redheaded roommate?” he asked. She felt something cool, and turned to see him running a glass full of ice and liquid down the side of her arm. She took it from him.
“No. Ang,” she answered, taking a sip. She tried not to make a face. Gin and tonic.
“Ah, the half-man, half-donkey friend. How was the tripod?” Jameson asked, making himself a drink, as well. She laughed.
“Careful, almost sounds like jealousy, and I got enough of that from him,” Tate joked, heading over and falling into one of the chairs. She let her shoes drop to the floor and she tucked her feet up underneath herself.
“Tripod-man is jealous? I'm flattered,” he replied, taking the chair next to hers.
“Not really jealous, I guess. Just ... cautious. On my behalf,” she tried to explain.
“Understandable.”
“So, how did you find this place, Kane? Daddy's will?” Tate asked. She knew Jameson and his father hadn't had the best relationship.
“Something like that. Had it almost completely remodeled a couple years ago,” he replied.
“Oh wow. Were you here for that?”
“For a little while.”
“So you came to Boston a couple years ago.”
“As my answer would imply.�
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She stayed silent, sipping at her drink. He had been in Boston a couple years ago, but hadn't contacted her. She still thought it was strange. If he was so into her, so obsessed with that one time they'd been together, why hadn't he looked her up? He would've had to assume that she'd still be in Boston, still going to school. She let out a sigh, tried not to think about it.
“Did you -,” she started, but then he cleared his throat.
“I didn't call you because I didn't think about it. I had just acquired a shit ton of property and money, I was a little busy. You weren't even on my radar. Women were the last thing on my mind,” Jameson said, reading her mind.
“It's probably a good thing – a couple years ago, I was even crazier than I am now.”
“Jesus.”
“I had a rough patch there, from about twenty to twenty-three. Like I was making up for lost time, or something. I just did everything and anything I could think of,” she told him.
“Hmmm, sounds interesting. Now I wish I had called you,” he responded, and she laughed again.
“What about you? What have you been doing?” she asked. He took a deep breath.
“I started my own brokerage firm, not long after I left Harrisburg. Invested in a start up film company, made a bundle. Sold my firm, moved to Germany for a year to head a new firm there. My dad died, and I inherited all of his businesses. Moved back, lived in Los Angeles for a while. Then Manhattan. Made a lot of investments. I do a lot of consulting work, now,” he summed everything up.
“Wow. I moved from one bad neighborhood to another, while you were moving across the globe,” she chuckled. Jameson nodded.
“Your life story is much shittier than mine,” he agreed. She glared at him.
“But probably a lot funner,” Tate countered, finishing off her drink.
“I highly doubt that. Have you ever had sex with a supermodel while sailing through the Mediterranean on your 250 foot yacht?” he asked. Tate thought for a second.
“No. I gave a handjob in an Arby's bathroom once, though. Kinda like the same thing,” she told him with a bright smile.
“I stand corrected. Your life leaves me in awe,” he chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Tired?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and getting comfy.
She had expected to be a lot more nervous around him. For the two years he had dated her sister, Tate had always been a nervous mess around Jameson. She was surprised to find that she felt almost comfortable. Something about knowing she was with someone that she could say absolutely anything to, anything at all, and he most likely wouldn't be shocked or offended, comforted her.
“Very tired. It was a long day. I'm also involved in mergers and acquisitions. Sometimes people are not so eager to give up their stuff,” Jameson said in a gruff voice.
“Poor baby,” she cooed at him. He snorted.
“Shut up. How is Ellie?” he asked.
She went still. She hadn't expected him to ask about her family. Sure, Tate had asked about his house and life, but in a general, “let's make conversation before I explode and rape you”, kind of way. She knew he didn't care about her, or her family.
“Fine, I guess. We don't speak. My mother gets nostalgic after a couple bottles of wine, calls me, keeps me updated on the family. Last I heard, Ellie's pregnant,” Tate replied, turning to stare into the fireplace.
“First child?”
“Yup.”
“Married, I assume.”
“Within a year of you two splitting up.”
“She was always ambitious.”
Tate didn't respond, staring at the flames. She got lost in thought. She hadn't seen or spoken to her sister in seven years. Most of the time she didn't think about it, but once in a while, the realization slapped her in the face. She hadn't spoken to her father, either, and the only times she spoke with her mother was when the woman was drunk off her face. God, she hated thinking about them.
There was coldness against her arm again, and she looked up to see Jameson handing her a fresh drink. She hadn't even heard him move. She smiled up at him, taking the glass. He didn't move away, though; just kept staring down at her. She kept her eyes trained on his while she took a drink.
“Ambitious, but boring as fuck. I think I started hating her, long before you and I happened,” he said. Tate chuckled.
“Same here,” she agreed.
“But you. You were always something else,” he continued.
“Me? You never even noticed me. You were Jameson Kane. My family practically worshiped you. I was always shoved into the background. You didn't even know my age, that night, and you had been with Ellie for two years,” she pointed out. He shrugged.
“So. I knew you were sexy. That first time I ever saw you, when Ellie brought me home to meet your parents. You walked in the front door. I can remember it so clearly – you were in tight running shorts, arguing with someone on your phone. I can remember thinking that I wanted to peel your shorts off of you and wrap them around your neck,” he told her.
Who knew?
“Huh. That would've been an interesting introduction,” Tate joked.
“And then the night you and I slept together. Ellie and I'd had a big fight. She never told me you were coming over. You walked in, in those preppy sweaters you always wore, and your tight skirt. Long, black hair. So different from her. Sitting at the kitchen table, trying to be an adult with me. You had no idea, but I knew then that something was going to happen,” Jameson said.
“No way, Kane. I was whining and complaining like a little girl. You were probably annoyed with me. You didn't even try anything, till you caught me with my shirt off,” she reminded him. He shrugged.
“What can I say, I'm a gentleman at heart,” he replied.
“Bullshit.”
“No, I guess I'm not, not even a little bit. You just ... there was something about you, the way you would always look at me. So shy. I wanted to hurt you a little bit.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Tate leaned over the side of her chair a little, setting her glass on the floor. Then she sat forward, arching her neck to look up at him. He stared straight back at her, the fire casting shadows on one side of his face and burning up the other side.
He looks like Satan.
“I never did anything to you, why did you want to hurt me?” she asked. He chuckled.
“Not like how you're thinking.”
“Then like how?”
He reached a hand out. He was gentle as he wrapped his fingers around her throat, then he squeezed, just enough for her to feel the pressure. He began pulling and she was forced to follow. He pulled her to her feet, so she was standing right in front of him. Then he applied more pressure, his short, sharp, nails biting into her skin.
“Like this,” Jameson said, still staring straight into her eyes. She took quick breaths through her nose.
“Maybe you should've just asked,” Tate whispered. “Maybe I would've been okay with it.” He shook his head.
“No. Not back then. You weren't ready, and I wasn't ready to be that person for you,” he replied. She raised an eyebrow.
“And you think you can be that person now?” she asked.
His fingers loosened and his hand trailed down her neck, then continued down to her chest. He pressed his palm flat against her, right over her breasts, and she had a flashback to their night together. She shivered.
“Yes, I do. I remember you being very concerned about Ellie, last time. Wouldn't shut up about her. I've been in threesomes where the women talked less about each other than you did about Ellie. Is that going to be an issue this time?” he asked. Tate laughed.
“You're the one who keeps bringing her up. Maybe you're actually more interested in meeting up with her,” she teased. Jameson rolled his eyes and stepped way from her, heading back towards his desk.
“God, what a horrible thought, Eloise O'Shea, seven years later. Some how, I assume she hasn't turned out quite as ... gr
own up as you,” he said, raking his eyes over Tate's body.
“I couldn't give two shits about Ellie. Maybe I should look up all her ex boyfriends, sleep with all of them, really stick it to her,” Tate snorted, picking her glass up off the floor and taking a drink.
“Please don't. I know for a fact I was the wildest person she ever slept with, and even then, I kept things on a very tight leash for her. I would hate for you to waste your time. Now, I've been thinking about our terms. Two-thousand dollars seems like an awful lot of money, when what you said is right – how do I know I'm not getting skunked? I think I need to sample the goods first,” Jameson said, sitting behind his desk. She laughed.
“You've sampled my goods once already. And the salary was two-thousand, five hundred,” she reminded him.
“Ah, yes. But those goods are out of date now, and I didn't get a nearly big enough sample. Like your mouth, for example. How can I guarantee you even know what to do with it?” he asked, steepling his hands in front of his chest. She raised an eyebrow at him and sat her drink back down on the floor.
Challenge accepted.
“You know, Kane,” she started, taking slow strides to reach his desk. “You have the strangest way of trying to get things. If you'd just ask, half the time you'd receive, instead of playing these silly games.”
“But where's the fun in that? And you started these games,” Jameson pointed out. Tate hiked up her dress a little and lifted her knee to his desk.
“I didn't realize they'd go on for this long,” she replied, then she bent forward and crawled across the desk towards him. He didn't move.
“They're going to go on for a lot longer,” he warned her. She reached out, putting her hand on his knee.
“For how long?” she asked, her voice husky as she slid her hand up his thigh, moving as slowly as possible.
“However long it takes for you to realize who the winner will always be,” Jameson replied.
The Kane Series Boxset Page 9