“I know it's not a contest – if it was, I've already won, so I'm not worried. I'm not insecure, just curious. I haven't touched Petrushka, inappropriately, since last June. Before you and I even ran into each other, I'd like to point out. Now answer my question,” he demanded. She snorted.
“You spend a month with her in Berlin, pretending to be her boyfriend, and you didn't hit that, not even once?” Tate challenged him, the liquor making her bold.
“Not even once. And I wasn't pretending to be anything. I wouldn't need to pretend to be her boyfriend to get her to fuck me,” he corrected Tate. She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, I'm clearly well aware of how good you are at not being a boyfriend and fucking people,” she snapped.
“You never said it bothered you. In fact, you said it was fine. If something changed, and it wasn't fine, you should've said something,” Jameson told her in a soft voice. He then slowly leaned forward onto his hands, basically doing a push up.
“I did say something. You just never said anything back,” she reminded him. He rolled and stretched out onto his back.
“You want to be my girlfriend, Tatum?” he asked, his voice light.
“No.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
“I don't think I have what it takes to be Jameson Kane's 'girlfriend'.”
“Hmmm, I think you were built for it.”
As he laid there on the bed, wearing only Etiquette Clothier boxers, looking like something out of a sexy men's magazine, Tate had a realization. Jameson Kane was trying to seduce her. He had never really done that before, not back in Boston. Back then, she had always been easy pickings. She had never even pretended to not want him, so it had never been an issue. Now here he was, half naked, spread out like a buffet, and saying things she had always wanted to hear.
Resisting Jameson had been impossible when she had been trying to convince herself that she hated him. As she made her way across the room and crawled onto the bed with him, she wondered if she would ever truly be free of him.
Or if she even wanted to be free.
~9~
Tate made her way up top when Jameson disappeared into an office that she hadn't known existed. He did actually have to work, he informed her, especially the way she was racking up the bills. Turned out when he had thrown her purse overboard, he had very thoughtfully removed his credit card first. She then used it to go on another shopping spree. Thirteen handbags later, he held her down and forcibly took the card from her hand.
It was almost a week later, and things were not going well. Or too well. Tate couldn't tell anymore. The lines between game and not-a-game were blurred beyond recognition. They played, they flirted, they had sex. Jameson took her out, he showed her off, he didn't look at any other women. In Boston, he had always been gallivanting off under the pretext of work, but really just on missions to find some ass. She kept expecting it to happen in Spain. Nope. He only seemed to have eyes for her. He was almost sweet. Almost un-Satan like, even.
God help me.
They were going to Paris in two days, and Tate felt like she was unraveling. She had never been very good at sorting out her emotions where Jameson was concerned, and things hadn't gotten any easier. He caught her crying in the shower the day before; luckily, he was self-centered enough to think it was because she was upset with him, and he kissed the tears away. Touched the hurt away. He had no idea that she was crying because she was upset with herself.
Stupid bitch. Weak bitch. Easy bitch.
Every morning, Tate told herself that it was still a game, that she was still in charge, that she could still leave. And every day, Jameson made her forget everything. By the time she fell asleep at night, she was almost happy. Almost glad to be there. Glad to be with him again. Couldn't really imagine going back to her old life. Life without him.
You're losing, you're losing, you're losing.
Of course, she would see Ang in Paris – he was arriving a day or two after them. Tate was counting on him to be like a booster shot to her psyche. Help her get her head back in the game. Ang loved her. Ang hated Jameson. It would be perfect. She needed him to remember all the bad stuff for her, and remind her, because she wasn't too good at remembering anymore.
The bad stuff was fading away. That pool in her memories was draining. New memories came to mind when she was around Jameson. Memories of him holding her in the bathtub, telling her she was worth it. Him sharing with her while they were on the rowboat, explaining that he was a spoiled brat who had behaved poorly. Him touching her while they slept together, whispering to her how glad he was that she was there.
Too much. This man is so much more than me.
When Tate got outside, she moved to the very back of the boat. Jameson was locked away below deck, but she wanted privacy. There were sets of stairs on either side of the back deck, leading down to a platform that rested right above the water. Tate moved to that and sat down, dangling her legs in the water. Jameson had bought her a new phone, but had apparently thought it was funny to leave all the settings in Spanish. She was determined to figure it out, without his help, but it was proving harder than it looked. She wished she could phone Sanders for help, but she couldn't figure out how to call anyone.
“Fucker,” she cursed, shaking the phone, tempted to have it join her old phone.
“Trouble?”
Tate looked up, and it was the guy from the boat down the way. The one she had met her first night there, who had invited her on-board to his party. She had been in Spain for two weeks, but she hadn't seen him again. She smiled, shielding her eyes with her hand.
“Phones, I hate them. How are you? I never saw you again, and I wanted to say thank you, for letting me on your boat,” she said. He squatted down across from her and shrugged.
“Oh, no big deal, you don't have to thank me. We flew home for a couple weeks, now we're back here for a while. How is Mr. Kane?” the guy – she struggled to remember his name – asked.
“Mr. Kane is fine,” Tate laughed. “Jameson. He's somewhere inside.”
“I was worried about you that night. He seemed a little ... shall we say, testy,” Bill, that's his name, Bill said. She laughed again.
“His bark is worse than his bite, don't worry about it,” she assured him, though she wasn't sure about that statement at all.
“Oh, good. I always wanted to introduce myself, but he seems a little ... standoff-ish. A lot of us around here, we like to throw block parties. Sometimes we go out and tie the boats together, make a day of it. Never thought he'd be interested,” Bill said.
An idea flashed across Tate's mind, and her breathing quickened. She stood up. It was a bad idea. A bad, bad, bad idea. Jameson would be so mad. But maybe that's what she needed. A good slap in the face reminder of what a tyrant he was, of how “testy” he could be, when things didn't go his way.
“Oh, I think he'd be very interested. What are you doing right now?”
JAMESON LOOKED AT HIS ceiling, wondering what the fuck was going on upstairs. The noise had been escalating for a while, but he hadn't thought much about it. Tate was always getting into something. At home in Weston, it hadn't been unusual to hear a bang, crash, smash, clank, followed by “I'm okay!”, several times a day. He had learned to ignore it. But this was a bit much. It sounded like she was walking clydesdales around the deck.
When he made his way upstairs, he was in for a shock. People. His boat was full of people. People he didn't fucking know. People he didn't want to fucking know. Sitting on his furniture. Drinking his alcohol. Someone had dumped a bunch of pool toys on one of his couches, and was that a Budweiser cooler parked at the edge of his deck!?
Jameson began pushing his way through people. He found Tate towards the bow of the ship, and stalked up behind her. She was talking to someone vaguely familiar. The man from the boat party that first night. Jameson ignored him and grabbed her by the arm, spun her around.
“What the fuck do you think you're doing!?” he demanded. S
he smiled up at him.
“Throwing a party!” she laughed.
I've gotten too soft. Let her get away with almost killing you, and look what happens. She thinks she fucking owns you.
“I'm sorry, mate,” the guy interrupted, stepping forward. “This is partly my fault. We got to chatting, I told her about some parties we've thrown over the years. She said they sounded like fun. One thing led to another.”
Jameson stared down at the man. Who was this insignificant person, and why was he talking to him? He turned back to Tate, who had lost her smile. She was still staring at him, though, with a very different look in her eye. He ignored it.
“Tell everyone to get the fuck out, now,” he growled. She snorted, but before she could answer, her new best friend interjected again.
“Of course, I'm so sorry. I should've talked to you, I'll -,” he started, when Tate held up her hand.
“No, everyone stays. If you're gonna kidnap me and make me stay in Spain, then you can at least let me make friends,” she snapped. Jameson cocked up an eyebrow. New boat buddy lifted both of his in shock.
This is a new attitude ...
“I haven't kidnapped you, nor have I kept you here. You are free to leave whenever you want. Now. Get these fucking people -,” Jameson tried to demand again. Tate laughed.
“Are you scared of a little party, Jameson? I remember you used to love parties. Remember the last party you threw? Was pretty amazing. I can't remember ever having been to a 'party' quite like that one before,” her voice lowered into a hiss.
He wanted to slap the smile off of her face. Jameson felt his usual desires begin to run rampant just under his skin. He had kept them on a tight leash, for her. She was stretching that leash to its limit. He dug his fingers into her arm, and was rewarded with a slight wince.
Good.
“You want a party? Fine. Everyone can stay,” he said. Tate seemed surprised.
“Really? You're not gonna pitch a bitch-fit?” she asked.
Strike two. At some point, I've got to start making her pay.
“Not at this moment. Bill,” he remembered the other man's name, “care to join me upstairs? I've got a fine cognac not fit for most of these plebeians.”
Bill practically fell over himself, climbing up the stairs behind Jameson.
Jameson didn't much care for socializing. He had been born into a wealthy family, so from before he could even remember, people had been using him for that wealth. Money stayed – people came and went. Which sounded more appealing? Of course, there were always exceptions to the rule, like Tatum and Sanders. But for the most part, he just preferred his own company. So listening to Bill prattle on and on about how he'd read every article ever written about Jameson, or Kraven Brokerage, or Kane Holdings, or Kane, Inc., or all of the above, made Jameson want to shoot himself a little bit.
He had to keep reminding himself that it was all for her. He was doing it for Tate. She was so close to giving in, he could feel it. Sure, it was obvious she was trying to hold herself back, but he'd put a couple of cracks in her armor. In the bathroom, in the rowboat. One more good crack, and she would go to pieces, fall back into his hands.
Jameson finally managed to escape Bill, his new one-man fan club, and went back downstairs. There were a lot of attractive women mingling about, and Jameson wondered how Tate would feel then, if he took another woman downstairs. It would serve her right. Teach her a lesson.
He found her on the back deck, near a makeshift bar someone had set up. She wasn't drinking, but she did look like she was having a great time, and he was surprised to feel some of his annoyance wash away. It was happening more and more. Things that normally upset him, got under his skin, weren't so bad anymore. Tate's presence calmed him. Made things better. Making her happy, made him feel better.
It made him more than a little nervous. He had wanted to get Tatum back in his life so he could ease his conscience, appease his guilt. Jameson wasn't stupid, he knew that when he did something wrong, he should admit fault and apologize. He just rarely ever happened to be wrong.
He had also wanted her back so he could play with her some more. They had been good friends, had great times together; some of the best he'd ever had in his life. Why throw that away? It wasn't every day he found a woman who would tolerate his prickly real life personality and his heavy-handed attitude in bed. Tate not only tolerated those things, she adored them. Yin and yang. Puzzles pieces. All that shit. They just fit.
Jameson hadn't, however, counted on wanting her so bad that no one else even existed outside of her. He found himself thinking that he couldn't care less if he never fucked another woman again, as long as he could just be close to Tate. Just touch her whenever he wanted. If she said that, said she wanted monogamy between them, he thought he might actually say okay. For the first time ever in his life, he could almost picture it.
Stupid sentimentality. Stupid heart. It made him sick. Monogamy!? And while he was drunk, hadn't he admitted to her being the perfect girlfriend for him? What the shit was that!? Instead of infecting her with his dark needs and wants, she had cured him and turned him into a kitten at her feet, into a love drunk fool. Love sick fool.
Fuck me.
“Tatum,” Jameson barked out, sidling up next to her. She glanced up at him.
“You've been gone a while. This is Tracy. Tracy, this is Jameson Kane, he owns the boat,” Tate introduced him to the woman she had been talking to. He nodded, and the busty blonde smiled enthusiastically.
“Oh, I know who you are, I just can't believe I'm here. Fabulous boat, Mr. Kane, I've admired it for quite a while,” Tracy bubbled, stepping right up to him, completely cutting Tatum out of the conversation. Tate started to laugh.
“Fantastic. Tate, a word,” he growled, then he dragged her inside.
“I wondered how long you were going to last,” she snickered while he shoved her into the galley.
“Is this some sort of fucking game?” Jameson demanded.
“Ooohhh, we haven't really played a game, a real game, in a long time. Sounds fun,” she laughed. He narrowed his eyes. Something was off. She had been weird ever since the day before, when he had found her crying. She was talking like her old self more than ever before, but almost in an odd, rehearsed way. Like she was forcing it.
“I don't want to play games with you,” he said.
“All you know how to do is play games,” Tate countered. He folded his arms across his chest.
“What the fuck is your problem? Is there something you're not telling me?” he asked. Her eyes slid away, glancing out at the party.
“No,” she said softly.
“Liar. Something is going on in that brain of yours. That usually doesn't bode well for me. If you're pissed off at me, tell me, so I can apologize for whatever stupid shit you're upset about now,” he snapped. Her eyes locked back onto his.
Looks like she's not the only one slipping into old habits.
“That wasn't very polite,” she said in a cool voice.
“I'm not a very polite man. Look, Tatum, whatever weird shit you have going on in your head, just let it out. This party, the shower the other day – something is going on with you. I can't apologize, and I can't make it right, if you don't tell me,” Jameson stressed. She laughed.
“You? Apologize?” she cackled. He stepped up close to her, forcing her back against the cupboards.
“I have apologized to you every fucking day. Me bringing you here is an apology. I don't know how else to say it, to show it. What the fuck do you want? A goddamn sky-writer? I'll hire one. Whatever it takes, just tell me. I'm sorry, Tate. For everything. More than words can express. Now either accept it, or get the fuck over it,” he demanded.
He was sorry. That night had been a very enlightening experience. Jameson wanted to hold Tate down and slap her around and call her mean names, but he never wanted to hurt her, ever again. Seeing Tatum in that hospital bed, seeing how close he had come to losing her ..., well, they were
clichés because they were the truth – he hadn't known what he'd had, till it was gone. He couldn't bear the thought of her being gone for good. She had to understand that, somehow.
She has to understand that.
Tate was silent for a long time, her eyes wide as she stared up at him. For a moment Jameson thought he had won. Thought maybe, just maybe, brutal honesty had done what flirting and sex and games hadn't been able to do. But then something different welled up in her eyes. Not emotion, not resistance, something ..., different. She stood on her tip toes, leaned even closer to him.
“There's a tone of voice I haven't heard in a while,” she purred. He cocked up an eyebrow.
Ah, distracting me. Haven't quite won her over yet, I guess.
“If you want me to get nasty with you, Tate, then it can be arranged,” he told her. She laughed.
“You've had a week to be nasty to me. Haven't seen it happen yet.”
“Because I've been trying to be nice,” Jameson reminded her. She snorted.
“Really? Seems like your version of 'nice' is most peoples 'dickead', mixed with a little boring,” she taunted him.
“It's as nice as you're ever gonna get from me,” he warned her. She rolled her eyes.
“I don't want nice. I want you,” she stated.
He wasn't sure who was more shocked by her words, Tate, or himself. She obviously hadn't planned on blurting that out. It was the first real kind of statement she had made regarding any sort of way she felt about him. It wasn't much, but it was something.
It was like her words set fire to his blood, and Jameson didn't even think, just grabbed her by the arm and propelled her down the hall. He shoved her through the first door they came across, a sliding door that hid a water closet – just a toilet and a small counter with a mirror. A tiny counter top. There was barely enough room, but he pushed Tate in ahead of him and then slid the door shut behind them.
“What's your fucking problem today?” he growled, grabbing her hips and shoving her up onto the counter.
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