“God, you're going to burn in a special place in hell.”
“Probably. At least I'll have memories of you to keep me happy.”
“Stop talking. Where are you taking us to dinner?” she demanded, wading into the sea of bags and boxes.
“Nowhere. I had planned on us eating here tonight,” Jameson informed her. Tate turned back towards him.
“Seriously?” she asked, not hiding the disgust in her voice.
“Yes. Is my pathetic excuse for a yacht not good enough for her majesty to dine on?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“It'll do, but I was hoping for lobster and champagne,” she replied. He snorted.
“Tatum, the only time I buy a woman lobster and champagne is when I'm guaranteed pussy at the end of the night.”
She turned away. This was the part she wasn't prepared for; she didn't know if she would ever be prepared. Snarky banter was one thing – sexy banter was a whole other. It was too close to him. Sex and Jameson were like ..., synonymous. Tate could flirt with him, dangle herself in front of him, but she wanted to avoid sleeping with him. It was too dangerous. During sex, it was like he owned her body, her mind. Like they weren't hers anymore.
Probably because they never were.
“Pity. Guess I'll have to find someone else to buy me lobster,” she managed to sigh. Jameson barked out a laugh.
“Good luck with that. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are a million women here, all throwing themselves at anyone who looks like they've got money. So go ahead, give it your best shot,” he offered.
Ooohhh, he makes me want to kill.
Tate turned around and walked towards him. She took a deep breath and reached a hand out, pressed it against his chest. Felt the muscles twitch under her palm. She chewed at her bottom lip and dragged her fingertips across his front. Slowly, she did a full circle around him, letting her nails scratch a path around his body. When she was back in front of him, she leaned in close.
“Good thing I'm one in a million,” she whispered.
Jameson turned his head towards her and her breath caught in her throat. They were very close together. She could barely remember the last time they had been so close. She let her eyes wander over his face, his newly sun-kissed skin, his dark lashes, his lips. Lips that she knew could treat her so well. Lips that were so close to her own. He leaned a little closer and she could feel his breath against her mouth. So close ...,
“When is dinner?” Sanders' voice boomed across the deck.
Saved by the bell.
Tate smiled and looked up, but only to find Jameson staring very hard at her. She looked in to his eyes, really looked, probably for the first time since she had gotten to Spain. He looked angry. Or upset. Or maybe ..., maybe even hurt.
Not possible.
Jameson cooked dinner. Tate thought she was going to have a heart attack. She had never seen him cook before, hadn't ever seen him even operate a microwave. She kept peeking in the kitchen, watching him as he made shrimp scampi. He caught her staring one too many times, though, and stood back from the stove, offering to let her cook. She snorted at him and sat outside.
The food was divine. Was there anything the man didn't do well? It was made even better by the fact that she was eating it on the Mediterranean. Tate was so caught up in all their drama, that sometimes she forgot she was in a whole other country. She toasted Sanders with her water glass, and then Jameson disappeared into the boat.
“I thought this would be more appropriate,” he said when he reappeared, carrying a bottle of champagne.
Her breath got stuck in her chest as she watched him pour a glass for Sanders. She hadn't had any alcohol since her little episode. Tate didn't think she was an alcoholic, but it was also very obvious she couldn't trust herself around the stuff. One brush with death was enough for her to learn her lesson. Jameson poured a glass for himself, then raised his eyebrows at her.
“I don't think I should,” she told him.
“Aright. But what do you want?” he asked. She bit her bottom lip. Champagne wasn't exactly something she got treated to very often. Nick was more of a beer kind of guy, and not only was Ang poor, he was more of a double vodka-black out drunk kind of guy. Tate held out her glass.
“Just a little,” she instructed him.
After they had their celebratory glass, cheesecake was produced. They ate in silence, watching boats come and go. When they were finished, Sanders excused himself and went to his room, leaving her all alone with the devil. They sat in silence for a while, then Jameson lit up a cigarillo.
“Bother you?” he asked, glancing at her. Tate was shocked that he was even asking.
“No. In fact, I'm glad you're doing that,” she replied, then scampered away to find her purse. When she had it, she sat back down at the table and dug through the bag till she found what she needed. She pulled it out and Jameson laughed.
“You've got to be shitting me,” he chuckled. She shook her head.
“We all have our coping mechanisms. Got a light?” she asked, holding the Marlboro Light 100 out towards him. He shook his head.
“You are not smoking that filth on my boat,” he told her. Now it was Tate's turn to laugh.
“You're smoking right now,” she pointed out.
“This was imported from Cuba. It's a work of art. You're smoking something that smells like death. You'll stink, my boat will stink, no,” Jameson stated. She glared at him and dug a lighter out of her bag. She put the cigarette between her lips.
“Just because we have a deal, doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do. Those days are long gone, and I am -,” she started, when he got up and stood in front of her, pulling the cigarette out of her mouth. She watched as he broke it in half.
“I don't give a shit about our deal. You could be my Nana, and I wouldn't let you fucking smoke. No cigarettes on my boat,” he stressed.
Did he just say Nana?
“This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You can smoke something because it was made in Cuba, but I can't smoke a stupid cigarette? Fine. Fine. What if I go find some fancy French imports? How about some German roll-your-owns? Fancy enough for Mr. High-and-Mighty?” Tate snapped, standing up and glaring at him.
“I don't care if they're from Middle Earth and rolled in gold. No cigarettes,” Jameson wouldn't budge.
“I'm sorry. Did you just make a Hobbit reference?” she asked, stunned.
“Yes. Don't change the subject. Give me your cigarettes,” he asked again, holding out his hand.
“Are you joking?” she laughed, clutching her purse to her chest.
“No. I don't want to find out you've been sneaking them in your room, or in the bathroom. Jesus, you haven't gotten Sanders started, have you?” he groaned.
“No! I'm not some drug dealer, peer pressuring Sandy in to smoking! And he's not that stupid anyway,” Tate snapped.
“At least you recognize what you're doing is stupid. I'm not asking again – give me the cigarettes,” Jameson demanded. She snorted and started to walk away.
“You can fuck right off, that's what you can do.”
She hadn't made it far when she felt his arms wrap around her from behind. It was like a five-alarm fire instantly spread across her skin. She gasped and struggled against his hold. He simply picked her up, holding onto her tightly so her feet were dangling above his own.