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. She 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.