Nice Jameson, though, he was the worst. She didn't trust him. He hadn't come out till so late in the game – she hadn't thought he even existed. When she was always expecting him to be bad, it was shocking to see good. It was like she was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, the other hand to swing. Hovering in a state of permanent wincing.

She hated it, and anymore, nice Jameson was around more than any of the others combined. Her conscience was being ripped in half. She would find herself staring at him, moon-eyed, practically worshipping every word that fell from his mouth, and then she would slap herself.

He brought Pet to America. He brought Ellie to Paris. Who's he gonna bring home next? Do you really wanna be here to find out?

It was torture. Sanders wasn't helping, always looking at her sideways, pulling her aside to chat, to assure her that Jameson's intentions were noble and pure. Bullshit. Jameson and nobility didn't dine at the same table, and he had probably been born with a dirty heart, so purity was out of the question.

Kinda like me ...

She was so fucked. She just wondered when she would finally throw in the towel and really admit it to herself.

“What are you doing?” Sanders asked as he walked into the library. Jameson didn't look away from his task.

“Trying to find the best place for this,” he replied.

Several people were standing in his library, all wearing white gloves. They were from a museum – Jameson had hired them to move and hang his original Mark Rothko painting. He had inherited it from his father, and for a long time, it had stayed at the house in Pennsylvania. When Jameson sold the house, he had the painting moved to the lobby of his offices in New York. He had never thought much about it, other than it was a good investment. But when he opened his firm in Boston, on a whim, he had the painting brought there and placed in his own personal office.

Tatum loved the piece, though she had only ever been in his office that one time, when he had basically propositioned her. She had commented once that she was a fan of Rothko's work, and was impressed that he had one. Very little truly impressed Tatum O'Shea.

She wouldn't go in his library. Too many memories associated with it. He didn't understand women, understand their stupid brains – all the memories were good memories, nothing bad had happened to her in there. It wasn't like he was trying to force her into Sanders' old room. No one went into that room. He was going to have the whole thing gutted and ripped apart. Have it turned into a fucking yoga studio for her.

Jameson liked his library, and he liked spending time in it. He didn't, however, like sitting in there and having to listen to her and Sanders galavanting around the house all day. Laughing in the conservatory, whispering in the kitchen, tumbling down the stairs. Well, really, that last one was just Tate. Still. He was ready to strangle somebody. She was there to entertain him, not Sanders, and she couldn't do that if she wasn't in the room.

So. He was going to bribe her, with her favorite piece of art.

I wonder if Angier has this much trouble with her.

“If I may – move the couch to the center of the room, move those bookshelves, hang the painting there. It will be a focal point,” Sanders said quickly, gesturing to the wall opposite the fireplace. Jameson blinked and looked around the room.

“The couch will cut the room in half,” he replied, turning around. The library was long, narrow. There was a lot of open space between the two walls. In the old days, Tate's preferred spot was stretched out on the floor. She had never used the couch and it had never occured to him to move it.

“Yes. You will need to buy a coffee table. Why are you bringing the painting here?” Sanders asked. Jameson nodded at the museum people and they began rearranging his furniture.

“Because it's one of her favorites. I thought it would entice her to come in here,” Jameson explained, walking out of the room and heading into the kitchen.

“You could just ask her,” Sanders suggested. Jameson laughed.

“Don't you think I've tried?”

“No, I don't. I think you've told her. I think you've commanded. But I highly doubt you've ever asked,” Sanders said.

Well then.

“Sometimes, I think you two are working against me,” Jameson grumbled.

“I would never, I assure you,” Sanders responded.

“She seems to be lightening up, doesn't she?” Jameson asked.

It had been two weeks since they had gone to lunch together. Since he had admitted he hated the idea of another man touching her. After she made him come down her throat, she had pulled him into the backseat. Went into graphic detail, again, about all the things she was willing to let other men do to her. It drove him insane. He had wanted to commit murder and fuck her as hard as he could. He settled for the latter.

There had been a lot of talk of them fucking other people. A lot of cursing, and biting, and scratching. Plenty of choking. The Jag was not big; he was pretty sure he still had a charley horse from their exertions. But for all that, she seemed ..., mellower. Like it had calmed something in her. Like some of her anxiety had been abated, though he couldn't figure out how. Had she really been concerned about him having sex with someone else? Or was it something else, something she hadn't ever told him? Something that maybe still bothered her?

It made him nervous. And Jameson Kane didn't get nervous very often.

Why so nervous? Afraid you'll lose her? You'd have to admit you want to keep her, first.