Separation (26 page)

“You like to see her happy, don't you?” Jameson questioned.

“Of course I do. Why I wouldn't I?” Sanders asked, going back to his computer.

“Sanders. Are you in love with Tatum?” Jameson asked bluntly.

He wasn't sure which was more shocking, the fact that Sanders didn't laugh away the question, or that the fair skinned man suddenly turned bright red. Jameson couldn't remember ever seeing Sanders fully blush before; couldn't remember him ever really looking embarrassed. Uncomfortable, yes. Embarrassed,
no
. This was not good. If Sanders was in love with Tate, it would be a
big
problem.

“
No,
I am not in love with her,” Sanders answered before getting up off the couch and hurrying away.

Oh wow, this is interesting
.

Jameson had known Sanders since he was thirteen, and in all that time, he had never seen the young man show any interest in women. He had wondered if Sanders was gay for a while, but then it just seemed more like he was asexual. He didn't really show a sexual interest in
anything
. So the fact that Sanders was getting all red and fidgety over Tate ..., it was
interesting
. Jameson followed him.

“Are you sure about that? Are we going to have to duel at dawn? Or maybe just ask her to choose between us,” he teased. Sanders turned around.

“This is ridiculous. I am not in love with her, but even if I was, we wouldn't duel because you would never fight over her. And I wouldn't ask her to choose between us, because I know who she would pick. And it
would not
be you,” Sanders snapped. Jameson's eyebrows shot up.

“Awfully sure of yourself there,” he said in a soft voice. Sanders let out a sigh.

“It is easy to be sure of myself when I know I'm right. It's not modesty, or bragging, if it's the truth. I am not in love with her. I care about her, a lot. She talks to me, because I'm me. Not because of you. Most people ignore me when you're not around. I
appreciate
her. That is it, though,” Sanders explained.

“Alright. It's a problem I never foresaw as happening, but I would hate for a woman to ever come between us,” Jameson said, and Sanders nodded.

“Me, too. Luckily, I tend to find your taste in women appalling,” he added, and Jameson burst out laughing.

“Really? I thought I had pretty good taste – Pet is a model, and Tate's a knockout,” he laughed as he headed towards the door.

“They have all been very beautiful, but Petrushka is psychotic, and the first time Tatum came over, I thought she was a prostitute. She's lucky she is so nice and funny, it is her saving grace,” Sanders explained, and Jameson started laughing even harder.

“Have you mentioned any of that to your
bestie?
” he cackled.

“No. Unlike
some people,
I know what tact is and how to employ it.”

Jameson laughed for a while at that one, even after he'd left Sanders' room. He had tact, he just chose
not
to employ it most of the time. Sanders was wrong on another note, too. Jameson
would
fight over her.

It was a scary realization, but his instant, gut reaction to thinking that Sanders was in love with Tate, was to end his relationship with Sanders. That said something, right there. When Dunn had made a move on her, then later had sex with her, Jameson had wanted to kill him.
Still
wanted to kill him.
That
said something. Bringing her to Spain,
said something
.

He would most definitely fight over her.

Jameson crept back into the bedroom, careful not to disturb her. She was laying on her stomach, her arms stretched out to either side. As he crawled into the bed, she grumbled in her sleep and scooted closer to him. He laid on his side, his eyes wandering over her back. There was a bruise near her shoulder. They had gotten adventurous in the shower, wound up falling to the floor. She had gotten mouthy, and he knew there was now a bite mark on her breast. Fun times.

What have you done to me?

He pressed his palm flat against her back, feeling her warmth. She nuzzled even closer, pressing her face into his chest. She had evaded his questions about what they would do next, where they would go. He couldn't figure out why. She had to know it wasn't a game anymore.

It occurred to Jameson that maybe, just maybe, he was done playing games.

*

Tate was very excited to see Ang. She wanted to go to the airport, but Jameson wouldn't let her. He'd already had some sort of breakfast or brunch-y thing planned. Ang was going to get to the hotel and be allowed to relax, did she understand? Jameson apparently didn't want to deal with a cranky Ang. Tate could understand. Happy, pleasant Ang was openly hostile towards Jameson. She didn't want to imagine cranky Ang.

“Feels like it's been a while since it was just the two of us,” Jameson commented as they rode around in a hired car, after breakfast. She glanced at him.

“We spent a whole week on your boat in virtual solitude,” she reminded him.

“I know. I got used to it. Having Sanders meddling gets tiring,” he said.

“Is that a joke?”

“I know he chirps in your ear. He tells me everything, I hope you realize,” Jameson warned her. Tate held her breath a little.

“He tells you what we talk about?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Probably failing miserably.

“He tells me what he says. He is surprisingly tight lipped about what
you
say,” Jameson replied. She let out a sigh.

“Good.”

“Saying things I wouldn't want to hear?” he asked, glancing down at her. She shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

They got out at the Eiffel Tower. There were a million people around, and she almost thought Jameson would get back in the car, but he didn't. They surged through the crowd, Jameson leading the way.

“Have you been here before?” Tate asked, standing next to him when he stopped to look up.

“No, not really. I've only seen it from a distance. I'm usually working when I'm here,” he replied. She laughed.

“I came here with a French class, we went all the way to the top,” she told him.

“You took French, but you don't speak French?” he asked.

“I only took it for the trip.”

They didn't go inside, just walked around. Tate took a lot of pictures. Usually, she avoided taking pictures of Jameson. If things went to shit, which they always did, she didn't want memories captured to come back and haunt her. But she couldn't resist. He was wearing a heavy overcoat with a thick scarf tucked inside it. He hadn't gotten a haircut yet, and the wind was ruffling his thick hair. He looked very serious, and intimidating, and more than a little scary.

He is so fucking gorgeous
.

“Stop taking pictures of me. Let's get out of here,” he finally snapped. She skipped after him.

They walked around for a while, just taking in the sights. Went down to Napoleon’s tomb, and Tate took some more pictures. She could tell he didn't really give a shit about anything they were looking at and was just indulging her. It almost would have been sweet, if he hadn't glared the whole time.

They were heading down the street, ready to call the car to take them back to the hotel, when Jameson stopped. Tate made it almost a block before realizing he wasn't next to her, and she looked back to see what was he was doing. He was standing in front of a window, looking inside it. Then he moved and went into the building.

Huh?

Tate went back and followed him inside. It was a jewelry store. She swallowed thickly, glancing around. A man behind a counter said something to her in French, looking her up and down. He didn't smile. She rolled her eyes at him and continued forward. Jameson was nowhere to be seen, which was odd, because it wasn't a very big store. The man continued to chatter at her in French, then a door in the back of the store opened.

“
Mademoiselle! S'il vous plaît,
” a woman came out, gesturing towards the door. Tate glanced around.

“Me?” she asked, pointing at herself.

“Get in here,” Jameson's voice carried out onto the floor.

Tate got in there.

He was standing in front of a large wooden desk, looking down at something. The woman came in, as well, and walked to the far side of the desk. Tate stayed near the door, wondering what was going on – was she really being sold into sex slavery? Jameson spoke in a halting sort of French, pausing to search for the right words. The woman nodded, then adjusted something on the desk.

“This one,” Jameson said, pointing down. Then he looked over his shoulder at Tate. “Come over here.”

She went and stood right next to him, taking in the sight before her. Several pearl necklaces were carefully laid out on the glossy, wooden desk top. Her breath caught in her throat. The woman was picking one up, and almost started to come around the desk, but Jameson held out his hand. Said something in French. The woman handed the necklace over to him.

“What is going on?” Tate demanded.

“I told you that you needed real pearls,” he said, turning her away from him and clasping the strand of pearls around her neck.

“Yeah, and I also remember you telling me they cost like $50,000,” she reminded him.

“I said
some
cost that much,” he corrected her, turning her back to face him so he could look at her. He shook his head and reached around her neck, took the necklace off. The woman held up another strand for him.

“So these ones don't cost $50,000,” Tate clarified. Jameson nodded, holding the other strand up against her collar bone.

“No. These ones are around €50,000,” he told her. She choked a little.

“Euros!? That's like $70,000!”

“Give or take,” he said, then nodded at the woman while laying the pearls on the desk.

“What are you doing?” Tate asked, watching as the woman took out a box and a bag.

“Having them wrapped up,” Jameson replied.

“Why?”

“Because I just bought them,” he answered as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. She slapped it out of his hand, shocking him. He stared at her like he really wanted to slap her back.

“You can't do that!” Tate snapped.

“And why not?” Jameson asked.

“Because! Why would you do that? Spend that much money on me!? On pearls!?” Tate demanded.

“I told you, you need real ones,” he repeated himself.

“I don't '
need
'
real pearls, Jameson.”

“No.
But you deserve them.
”

I could never handle this man. Not in a million lifetimes.

She ran away. It was what she did best, after all. Tate burst out of the store, and kept on running. She felt like her heart was going to explode. She made it a couple blocks before Jameson caught up to her. If she hadn't been so upset, she would've been amazed that he had bothered to run after her. Ran,
period
. She would've paid to have seen it.

“
Stop,
” Jameson said, grabbing her from behind and pulling her to a stop.

“No!
You stop!
You can't buy me!” Tate shrieked at him. People streamed around them, staring. Jameson dragged her into an alley.

“I wasn't trying to buy you, Tatum. I was buying you a
present,
” he growled in her ear, letting her go. She spun around to face him.

“So buy me a fucking card! I am
not
your whore!” she shouted.

“I never said you were. I have
never
treated you like one, not since Boston,” he pointed out, staring down at her, his eyes alive with anger. She didn't care. Time was up. She was finally, completely, unraveled.

“You
do
treat me like one! Like some stupid whore you can just yank around whenever you want! Push and pull, beck and call! Why would you buy me a present like that!? You don't care!
You don't care!
” Tate yelled at him. Jameson stood close to her, bringing his face down near to hers.

“I wanted to buy it to show you I remembered. To show you I
do
care,” he hissed.

Liar.

She shrieked and smacked him across the face. Jameson let her hit him in the chest a couple more times, but when she slapped him again, he grabbed her by the wrists. Twisted her around and pulled her back into his chest. She struggled against his hold, so he pinned her wrists to her chest. Leaned forward, causing her to bend in half.

Tate kept trying to yell at him, but she was choking on sobs. Jameson's arms around her grew softer. Not restricting.
Holding
. She was aware that he was swaying lightly. Rocking her. She turned her head to the side, away from him, and just cried. For her lost heart. For her broken soul. For her weak spirit.