2

Jameson was heading out of the elevator, his head down as he read over the front page of the New York Times. He was only a couple yards from his office when he heard the sound of someone jumping out of a chair, then feet running after him.

“Mr. Kane!”

He groaned inwardly and kept walking, though he did look up when that someone caught up to his side.

“What is it?” he snapped, glaring down at the young man next to him.

Glaring at Rich Klimas.

“I just wanted to apologize,” Rich started. “If I overstepped any boundaries over the weekend. It's just that I live so close to you, and Tate is close to my age, and I don't know many people here yet. She's a really fun girl.”

Jameson narrowed his eyes.

“Yes. She is.”

“Have you two been together long?” Rich asked.

“Yes.”

“You got married recently, I heard,” he questioned.

“Yes.”

“So really, not that long.”

Enough.

“I'm sorry,” Jameson stopped walking and turned towards the other guy. “Is this an inquisition? I charge for private interviews.”

“I'm sorry,” Rich laughed. That laugh was beginning to make Jameson think of blunt force trauma and wonder how difficult it would be to get away with manslaughter. “I don't mean to pry. I just really admire you. You're sort of an idol of mine, it's been my dream to work for you. I tried, at your New York offices, but then you relocated here. And I really like Tate, you have quite a special wife.”

“I know. Look, I'm a very busy person, and if you want to keep working for your 'idol', then I suggest you stop interrupting me,” Jameson informed him.

“Of course! Of course, just trying to be helpful. I just felt bad for Tate, being all alone in that big house while you're at work every day,” Rich sighed.

What's this?

“Tate loves that 'big house', and I can assure you, it's a welcome break. She owns a thriving business and is in the process of opening a second one. This break is her choice, and she doesn't need you to entertain her,” Jameson stated.

“Well, she doesn't need me, of course I just thought it would be fun, you know, for her to have someone her own age to talk to.”

Jameson should've been boiling mad. He'd been insulted, several times over. He should've fired the other man, right on the spot. Should've ended his future career, that afternoon. A couple phone calls, and Jameson could make it so Richard Klimas would be working in fast food for the rest of his life.

But where was the fun in that?

“Yes, she does deserve some 'fun', doesn't she?” Jameson asked in a soft voice, eyeing Rich up and down.

“Yes …” the younger man replied slowly, looking nervous for the first time.

“Tell you what. I'll organize a party this weekend. Just for her, tell her it was your idea. We'll invite the other junior brokers, have a pool party. A barbecue,” Jameson prattled off.

“I … wait, a party? At your house?” Rich sounded flabbergasted.

“Yes. They don't happen very often, so I recommend you accept the invitation.”

“Of course, I -”

“See you this weekend!” Jameson called out, continuing into the anteroom before his office. He slammed the door behind him, startling his secretary.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Kane?” she asked, standing up.

“No. Call Sanders, patch it through to my office,” he snapped, moving into his private office.

“Is Mr. Dashkevich in the country?” she called out behind him.

“Yes, call my house phone. And whatever you do, don't talk to Tate.”

“But what if Mrs. Kane -”

“Just get a hold of Sanders!”

*

Jameson went home early that day. He walked in the door and immediately heard a familiar thumping noise. He followed it towards the back of the house, where there was a small gym. Tate was running away on a treadmill, pumping her arms in time. She nodded her head at his entrance and turned down the volume on the music she had playing, but she didn't stop running.

“What's up? You're home early,” she panted, glancing at her watch.

“I know. How many miles?” he asked, sliding his jacket off as he walked towards her.

“Almost three. Only a quarter mile to go, then I'll be done,” she assured him.

“Only three? Pussy.”

“Hey, Mr. Five Miles, not all of us want to experience shin splints,” she point out.

“I eat five miles before breakfast every day, and I've never had shin splints,” he replied.

“If you only came home to make fun of my work out routine, then you can just go right back to work,” she suggested.

“I didn't,” he assured her, standing next to her machine.

“Then why are you here? Go be useful, or productive. Stop staring at me,” she laughed, waving her hand at him, trying to shoo him away.

“I like staring at you.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes you uncomfortable.”

She crossed her eyes at him.

“No it doesn't.”

Jameson let his eyes wander over her face. She wasn't wearing any makeup, but she didn't really need to – her eyes were very sharp and dark on their own, her skin smooth and clear. She had on a sports bra and a pair of skin tight leggings. Disappearing under the fabric of the bra was a large, fading bruise, low on her right breast. There were light red marks around the base of her neck, and he knew without looking that there were scratch marks down her back.

It had been a fun welcome home party, just between the two of them.

She is so perfect.

“Liebe,” he started, and she looked back at him. “We're going to have a party this weekend.”

She stumbled on the belt, almost losing her footing.

“I'm sorry, what did you just say?”

“Party. This weekend.”

“Here?”

“Yes. A barbecue.”

She nearly flew backwards off the treadmill and had to grab the arms to hold herself up. Jameson reached over and pulled the emergency stop chord while she braced her feet on either side of the belt.