Page 67

This is not normal. YOU'RE LOSING.

“Whatever you're thinking, don't,” Sanders' voice cut through her thoughts. Tate glanced up at him. The bedrooms on the backside of Jameson's apartment all had small, private, wrought iron balconies. She had wrestled a chair onto the one off of Sanders' room.

“What?” she asked, feigning innocence. He stared at her.

“You're happy. Don't ruin it.”

Tate glared.

“He ruins things. Why can't I?” she asked.

“He made them better, didn't he?”

“That doesn't just erase what he did.”

“No, but you have to move forward at some point. You have to trust him at some point.”

That was the problem – Tate didn't think she could. Sure, it was easy to forget that small fact when they were rolling around in his big bed; fucking in a bathroom at a club; going down on him under a table in a restaurant. But whenever he left to take a phone call; gave Sanders a private look; went somewhere without her, she almost had a panic attack. Was Jameson planning something? Was he calling her? Meeting up with her? Tate couldn't stand it. She was going crazy.

“I don't know, Sandy. I just don't know,” she mumbled, pulling her feet up and resting her chin on her knees. He squatted down next to her.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” he asked in a soft voice. She sighed.

“No, not really. I just ..., I don't know if I'll ever be ready for a man like him,” she laughed a little. Sanders nodded.

“Understandable. But if that is how you honestly feel, then you need to tell him. You two, you only communicate through sex. Maybe you should try using words. They work very well for the rest of us,” Sanders suggested. Tate laughed for real.

“You're amazing, Sandy. I fear the day some woman steals you from me,” she laughed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He cleared his throat.

“I don't see that on the horizon any time soon. And just so you know, the entire time we have been here, he has not been in contact with Petrushka. I can show you phone records,” he told her. She sat back, surprised.


“Of course. I have been taking care of all his bills, and that includes his cell phone bill. I also have regular access to his phone. He has not called her. If you won't believe him, and you don't believe me, then I can show you proof,” Sanders offered her. Tate groaned and put her face in her hands.

“Between the two of you, it's amazing I even made it out alive the first time,” she grumbled.

“That is not funny,” he snapped. She sighed.

“No. Sorry.”

“What are we talking about?” Jameson asked, walking through the doorway.

“Phones,” Sanders replied truthfully. Tatum laughed.

“Phones?” Jameson double checked.

“Yes. I spoke with Mr. Hollingsworth today,” Sanders cleverly changed the subject, and she lifted her head at the mention of Ang. “He requested a bigger hotel room. He said it was part of his, and I quote, 'list of demands'.”

“Christ, that man. You are not allowed to fuck him while he's here,” Jameson informed Tate, pointing a finger sternly in her face. She laughed again.

“You ruin all my fun.”

“Fine. Change the reservation, put him on the same floor as us,” Jameson said, and Sanders nodded before striding from the room.

“You sure it's safe to let me be that close to him?” Tate teased. Jameson rolled his eyes and pulled her out of her chair.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” he said, leading her out of Sanders' room.

“You wanted to talk about fucking Ang?” she asked with a laugh. They headed into the master bedroom. On the boat, Tate had still maintained a separate room, though she had spent most nights in Jameson's room. Not in the apartment. He simply had Sanders load all her luggage straight into his bedroom.

“No. If there is one thing in life I will never want to talk about, it's Angier's sexual prowess,” he replied, glaring at her as he took his wallet out of his back pocket before sitting down on his bed.

“You're really missing out,” she said, sighing melodramatically as she crawled onto the bed to sit behind him. He removed his watch, tossed it onto the night stand. She knew his routine. She couldn't help herself, she had always been a loyal subject for Satan. She coiled her arms around his shoulders.

“Tate,” Jameson said, as she feathered kisses along the back of his neck. He leaned into her, his fingers creeping around her wrists.


“Where would you like to go after this?” he asked, pulling her hands away from his body.

“What, like for dinner?” she asked, scooting closer so she could wrap her legs around his waist from behind.

“No. Like Italy, or Austria,” Jameson replied, linking his fingers through hers.

Tate stopped breathing. He meant after. Like after, after. He was already planning on where the next stop was, the next vacation. In Jameson's mind, he must have already won. No questions asked. It was just obvious, apparently, that she would be going wherever he went.

It made her feel a little lightheaded. She licked her lips and pressed her cheek against his back. Listened to his heart beat. Italy. Austria. Would he take her to his home in Denmark? Or how about Turkey? Hell, why not go big – India.

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