Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(51)

“Good. We've been having fun,” she told him.

“Mmm hmmm. And how much do you miss me?” he pressed.

“On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a two,” she mocked him.

“Liar.”

“How is your trip?” she asked.

“Tiring. Frustrating. I could very much use some of your relaxation methods,” he told her. She laughed and glanced at Sanders, who was sitting in Jameson's wing back chair.

“Might be kind of awkward, Sandy is sitting in front of me. Or kinda hot. I think I may be an exhibitionist,” Tate wondered out loud.

“I know you're one. But no, it's probably not a good idea. I was just checking to make sure you weren't doing anything you shouldn't be doing,” he told her.

“Oh? Like what?” she asked.

“Running away.”

“I'm not going to do that,” she replied in a soft voice.

“Yet.”

Ooohhh, he's in a mood.

“Tell you what,” she started, leaning back in his chair and putting her feet on his desk. “I promise not to run away until you fu-ck things up again.”

“fu-cking bitch.”

“Feel better?” she asked, smiling. He chuckled.

“Yes, yes I do. I'll be home soon.”

“I know.”

“Be ready.”

“I will.”

Then the line went dead.

Falling in love with him had been easy, much easier than she would've thought. That first time, when she had been a silly, stupid, eighteen year old girl, she had fallen a little in love with him. And then last fall, he had walked away with most of her heart.

Jameson Kane wasn't scared of much, but apparently feelings terrified him. Saying she loved him, saying it out loud, had been so much scarier because of that; but knowing that it scared him, and now knowing that he wasn't running away, made it all that much better.

“Sanders,” she said softly, staring off into space.

“Yes?” he asked, turning towards her.

“I need you to get something out of the safe for me.”



*



When Jameson got home Friday night, he felt like shit. A shitty trip, shitty plane ride, and shitty traffic. Shit. He was cranky. He wanted to walk in the door, have a drink, and then sleep for the next three days. Possibly four. He walked into his home and dropped his suitcase on the floor, the thud echoing through the dark house. Not a single light was on in any of the rooms.

“Hello?” he barked out. No answer. Sanders had walked back to the guest house, after parking the car. But he had said Tatum was at home.

Jameson went upstairs, but she wasn't in the bedroom. He left his suitcase at the foot of the bed, then went back downstairs. She wasn't in the bathroom, or the kitchen. On his way back through the hall, he finally heard something. A crackling noise. There was a fire going in the library. He pushed open the door, walked into the stifling hot room.

He loved the heat.

“What the fu-ck are you doing? I've been looking for you,” he snapped, his eyes searching the room for her.

“Yeah, and I've been waiting for you,” she replied. His eyes snapped towards his desk chair. She had her back to him, and he could see her bare feet propped up on a bookshelf.

“I am not in the mood for bullshit, Tate. It was a long flight, and I -,”

“Hey, I finally found them!” she interrupted him.

“Huh?” he asked, too tired to even be annoyed.

“Your glasses! I haven't seen you wear them since that day in Spain. I found them, by the computer,” she said.

“I honestly couldn't give two fu-cks. I'm going to bed,” Jameson growled, but before he could make a move, Tate swiveled around in his chair.

“I think they look better on me,” she told him, smiling at him, his glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. His eyes wandered over her form and he groaned.

“Baby girl, why do you do this to me? I'm tired,” he moaned, slipping his tie over his head.

“I'm not doing anything,” she replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching her legs over his desk.

“I'm sore, and I'm mad at the world, and I just want to be pissed off at everything, and you do this,” he grumbled, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked towards her. She smiled up at him.

“Well, you can be pissed off at me. Sometimes, I think it's more fun.”

She was wearing his glasses, the Cartier necklace he had bought her from her ballplayer's auction, and nothing else. Not a stitch of clothing. Her hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun, and she wore heavy eye makeup behind the glasses, but that was it. He grabbed her by the ankles and swung her legs around, spinning her in the chair so she was facing him.

“You're going to have to do most of the work, baby girl. Mr. Kane is very, very tired,” he warned her, pulling her legs apart and walking up between them.

“Don't I always?” she replied as he leaned down close to her.

“Shut the fu-ck up. I'm too tired for your lip,” he growled, gripping her hips and scooting her forward.

“Maybe you're too tired for anything fun,” she said, then squeaked as his fingers dug into her flesh. He yanked her forward, his hands going under her ass as he picked her up.