Jameson had known Sanders since he was thirteen, and in all that time, he had never seen the young man show any interest in women. He had wondered if Sanders was gay for a while, but then it just seemed more like he was asexual. He didn't really show a sexual interest in anything. So the fact that Sanders was getting all red and fidgety over Tate ..., it was interesting. Jameson followed him.

“Are you sure about that? Are we going to have to duel at dawn? Or maybe just ask her to choose between us,” he teased. Sanders turned around.

“This is ridiculous. I am not in love with her, but even if I was, we wouldn't duel because you would never fight over her. And I wouldn't ask her to choose between us, because I know who she would pick. And it would not be you,” Sanders snapped. Jameson's eyebrows shot up.

“Awfully sure of yourself there,” he said in a soft voice. Sanders let out a sigh.

“It is easy to be sure of myself when I know I'm right. It's not modesty, or bragging, if it's the truth. I am not in love with her. I care about her, a lot. She talks to me, because I'm me. Not because of you. Most people ignore me when you're not around. I appreciate her. That is it, though,” Sanders explained.

“Alright. It's a problem I never foresaw as happening, but I would hate for a woman to ever come between us,” Jameson said, and Sanders nodded.

“Me, too. Luckily, I tend to find your taste in women appalling,” he added, and Jameson burst out laughing.

“Really? I thought I had pretty good taste – Pet is a model, and Tate's a knockout,” he laughed as he headed towards the door.

“They have all been very beautiful, but Petrushka is psychotic, and the first time Tatum came over, I thought she was a prostitute. She's lucky she is so nice and funny, it is her saving grace,” Sanders explained, and Jameson started laughing even harder.

“Have you mentioned any of that to your bestie?” he cackled.

“No. Unlike some people, I know what tact is and how to employ it.”

Jameson laughed for a while at that one, even after he'd left Sanders' room. He had tact, he just chose not to employ it most of the time. Sanders was wrong on another note, too. Jameson would fight over her.

It was a scary realization, but his instant, gut reaction to thinking that Sanders was in love with Tate, was to end his relationship with Sanders. That said something, right there. When Dunn had made a move on her, then later had sex with her, Jameson had wanted to kill him. Still wanted to kill him. That said something. Bringing her to Spain, said something.

He would most definitely fight over her.

Jameson crept back into the bedroom, careful not to disturb her. She was laying on her stomach, her arms stretched out to either side. As he crawled into the bed, she grumbled in her sleep and scooted closer to him. He laid on his side, his eyes wandering over her back. There was a bruise near her shoulder. They had gotten adventurous in the shower, wound up falling to the floor. She had gotten mouthy, and he knew there was now a bite mark on her breast. Fun times.

What have you done to me?

He pressed his palm flat against her back, feeling her warmth. She nuzzled even closer, pressing her face into his chest. She had evaded his questions about what they would do next, where they would go. He couldn't figure out why. She had to know it wasn't a game anymore.

It occurred to Jameson that maybe, just maybe, he was done playing games.

Tate was very excited to see Ang. She wanted to go to the airport, but Jameson wouldn't let her. He'd already had some sort of breakfast or brunch-y thing planned. Ang was going to get to the hotel and be allowed to relax, did she understand? Jameson apparently didn't want to deal with a cranky Ang. Tate could understand. Happy, pleasant Ang was openly hostile towards Jameson. She didn't want to imagine cranky Ang.

“Feels like it's been a while since it was just the two of us,” Jameson commented as they rode around in a hired car, after breakfast. She glanced at him.

“We spent a whole week on your boat in virtual solitude,” she reminded him.

“I know. I got used to it. Having Sanders meddling gets tiring,” he said.

“Is that a joke?”

“I know he chirps in your ear. He tells me everything, I hope you realize,” Jameson warned her. Tate held her breath a little.

“He tells you what we talk about?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Probably failing miserably.

“He tells me what he says. He is surprisingly tight lipped about what you say,” Jameson replied. She let out a sigh.

“Good.”

“Saying things I wouldn't want to hear?” he asked, glancing down at her. She shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

They got out at the Eiffel Tower. There were a million people around, and she almost thought Jameson would get back in the car, but he didn't. They surged through the crowd, Jameson leading the way.

“Have you been here before?” Tate asked, standing next to him when he stopped to look up.

“No, not really. I've only seen it from a distance. I'm usually working when I'm here,” he replied. She laughed.

“I came here with a French class, we went all the way to the top,” she told him.

“You took French, but you don't speak French?” he asked.

“I only took it for the trip.”

They didn't go inside, just walked around. Tate took a lot of pictures. Usually, she avoided taking pictures of Jameson. If things went to shit, which they always did, she didn't want memories captured to come back and haunt her. But she couldn't resist. He was wearing a heavy overcoat with a thick scarf tucked inside it. He hadn't gotten a haircut yet, and the wind was ruffling his thick hair. He looked very serious, and intimidating, and more than a little scary.