Into the Fire
9 of 12
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 75,406 in total, 6,570 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Typos, etc. etc. are all mine. My proofing over this section was not as careful as previous. I'm distracted today.
Chapter 9.
He dozed for a bit after they'd made love, then rose stealthily from the bed to make a phone call to the takeaway place for delivery. When he returned he slipped beneath the sheets again, savouring the feel of her skin as he touched her once more, warm and smooth. He nuzzled into her neck, which roused her awake with a little laugh.
"You're funny," she said drowsily.
"Why am I funny?" he asked, not ceasing his activity.
"You're worse than boys my own age," she said, turning over and arching into him, sliding her fingers over the small of his back.
"Worse?"
"You're insatiable."
He froze, rearing his head up to look at her. How many boys her own age had she slept with to make such a comparison?
"Mind you," she said as if sensing his unease, "you actually know what you're doing."
He chuckled, pecking a kiss on her lips, then rested back on the pillow to look at her. "I just called for supper."
"Oh, good," she said. "Am downright ravenous now." She raised her fingers and swept them along his face. "I feel like this is too good to be true," she said, then turned bright pink. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," he said. "I'm quite in agreement."
There was a long moment when they just laid there looking into one another's eyes, unflinchingly and barely blinking; he loved that she could do so without discomfort, without shrinking away, as there was nothing about herself she sought to conceal, unlike other women who had been in his life. He loved that he could feel so free to do so himself.
"When's the food gonna be ready?" she asked quietly.
"They quoted me a forty-five minute estimate for delivery."
"Mmm. Delivery." She smiled, then pushed herself up to hover over him then kiss him. "Even better."
He could not help chuckling between kisses.
"What?" she said, raising up, her hair dangling into his face.
"Now who's the insatiable one?"
She smiled, then chuckled too… but carried on with kissing him, straddling his hips, proceeding with being the instigator in their next round of lovemaking.
He vowed not to doze off again but he must have, because faintly he could hear the doorbell going off. "Damn," he said, raising his head, waking Bridget too as she rested atop him. At her curious look, he explained, "Food's here. I'll get it."
She slid to the side, cheeks pink again. "Sorry."
"Oh, darling," he said, "don't apologise."
She blinked at the term of endearment, one he had used quite without thinking, then reached up to kiss him in such a way that thoughts of supper nearly went by the wayside… but the doorbell went off again rather more insistently than the first time. He forced himself away. She chuckled. "Sorry."
"What did I say about that?" he said, tying closed his robe. "Shall we eat up here?"
"I'll come down there," she said. "We may never eat otherwise."
"Being in the kitchen proved no deterrent," he said over his shoulder as he walked away. He heard her chuckle again.
Just after paying the delivery boy and sending him away, just as he set the food on the table in the foyer, he caught movement in the corner of his eye. He turned and saw her descending the stairs. He was thankful that he had already set the food down, because surely he would have dropped it.
She had come down without anything at all on. It was not as if he hadn't seen her body before, but the juxtaposition of her nakedness with the décor of the foyer was surprising, and surprisingly sexy.
"What if that had been my partner Jeremy from chambers?" he stammered.
"Well, he would have known to bugger off, wouldn't he?"
He couldn't help but laugh aloud. "You're going to get chilled."
"No," she said. "I'll just keep close to you."
With a grin, he picked up the food again, then put his arm around her waist and walked towards the sitting room. She went towards the sofa while he took a blanket from off of the quilt rack and gave it to her. She drew it around her shoulders. He furrowed his brow; he'd thought they'd share the blanket.
"Sit down."
There was something disturbingly authoritative about her voice. With the little white cartons and bamboo chopsticks in hand, he did as she asked. She lowered the blanket under her arms as if it were a bath towel, then held up the corners as she carefully put one knee to either side of his legs, straddling his lap as she sat. She tucked the edges of the blanket around his hips, which left both pairs of arms free to move.
She smiled impishly. "Now we can eat."
How he was supposed to concentrate on eating with her sitting as she was, her bosoms pert and on display, with his robe barely covering himself any longer, was a question for the ages.
"Give me a carton, Mark."
"Right."
With a little juggling, he managed to dole one carton and one pair of chopsticks to each of them.
"Are they both the same?" she asked, peering into hers.
"One's chicken with almond," he said, "and one's beef with broccoli."
Her grin was lopsided as she poked her chopsticks into the chicken, taking out a big chunk then putting it into her mouth with obvious relish. "Oh, very good," she said after chewing. "Much better than what Tom usually gets delivered."
He dug out a piece of beef thick with sauce, not realising quite how hungry he was until he started chewing it. The beef was thinly sliced and very tender. He dug out a second piece and held it up. "Here. Try this."
She smiled. "That's the spirit," she said, then leaned towards his chopsticks. The blanket fell down around her waist as she took the beef in her mouth. "Mmm."
As she righted herself, as she chewed, from her carton she delicately pulled out a chicken chunk with almond slices festooning it and raised it to his lips.
This back and forth went on—feeding himself, feeding herself, feeding each other—until the food was nearly gone. As he held up the last bit from either carton, a hearty chunk of broccoli, and raised it to her mouth, he watched as some of the sauce slid down the stem and dripped right onto her skin, just above her breast, as she closed her mouth around the offered food.
"Mmmph," she said, mouth full, looking down to her sullied skin.
"Why yes," he said, setting the chopsticks into the carton then setting it down beside the other one, "I'd be happy to get that for you."
He put his hands on her waist then leaned forward and placed the flat of his tongue against her skin. She made a high-pitched sound deep in her throat as he licked the sauce from her.
He lifted his eyes up to look at her. She was chewing almost comically quickly.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Eat your vegetables."
She swallowed then said huskily, "Bastard, trying to kill me…" before diving on him with another kiss.
The position in which they were sitting was advantageous for the activity to follow. He didn't think he could find her more beautiful or sensuous, but every time he had her he only wanted her more.
"Damn that Tom," she said quietly after culmination, leaning forward and resting her cheek, her body, against his.
"Hm?" he asked groggily as he pulled the blanket up and over them.
"When we were leaving," she went on. "I said 'See you soon' and he said 'Liar, you'll just shag all day long.'"
He chuckled low in his throat. "But Bridget," he said in a mock-scolding voice. "You must know when you sit on a man's lap like that fully naked that anything you do will turn into a precursor for sex. Even eating dinner."
"It was good," she said dreamily. "So was dinner, come to think of it. Though I've always wondered if you're supposed to wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Well, like you're supposed to wait after you eat to swim."
He laughed aloud again, tightening his arms around her, bringing his hand up to stroke her hair, turning his head to peck a kiss into her temple… feeling a great rush of love for her.
She pushed herself up, her brows knit.
"You're not laughing at me, are you?"
"Of course I'm not, darling."
Her features softened again, and she settled back in, her fingers tracing lines on his cheek again before placing a return kiss on the underside of his chin, right on his jawline.
"When you did that before," he asked, "after your graduation, were you coming on to me?"
"What do you think?"
He didn't say anything.
"Mark, when we danced at Patrick's party… I dropped so many hints." She brought her nails down over his collarbone to his chest. "I can't believe you didn't realise I had the biggest crush on you at the end of the term, even though I did my best to disguise it."
He struggled to think when any such behaviour could have betrayed her.
"You did a great job at disguising it," he said. "I never knew." After a pause, he added, "Just like you never knew."
"Never knew…?" she prompted, sitting up again to meet his eyes.
"I've had feelings for you for a while," he said. "I didn't even realise it until Easter. It's only one of those things that I could see with the benefit of hindsight."
She looked dumbfounded. "Easter? Really?"
He nodded. "Surely you noticed how much harsher I was to you after break."
She went silent for many moments. "You're right," she said. "I didn't know. I just thought… I'd done something to make you angry."
"No," he assured. "I was just trying to… walk that fine line. I could not let anyone suspect how much I l—liked you."
He had come too close for comfort there, stopping himself short before saying 'love'; she smiled though, and bent to kiss him tenderly. "I forgive you," she said with a smile.
Considering they were on the sofa with their naked bodies still joined beneath that blanket, he had to laugh. "I would hope so, at this point."
She laughed too.
"I don't know about you," he said, "but I'm sore." At another laugh from her, he added, "From walking. And I have a giant bathtub up there that has gotten far too little use."
"I saw that," she said, extricating herself from him then standing up slowly, taking the blanket with her, looking down at him with appreciative eyes. Flushing, he stood and closed the robe. "If you're suggesting a steaming hot bubble bath," she said, "I approve."
After luxuriating in the suds and lavishing each other with kisses and caresses, they retired to bed all warm and pink. She drifted to sleep before they even had an opportunity to make love again, but it hardly mattered. He was content.
…
He woke on Sunday before she did, giving him the opportunity to make coffee for the two of them as well as warming up a couple of the chocolate croissants. He managed to find a tray on which to carry everything upstairs. Upon his return he found she was still fast asleep, hair a tangle on the pillow, duvet pulled up to her waist but laying her chest and shoulders bare. He set the tray down on the bureau, then sat on the side of the bed, reaching to push stray tendrils from her face. She stirred, then opened her eyes, offering him a sleepy smile.
"Good morning," he said.
"Mmm. Morning." She stretched herself out. "Do I smell coffee?"
"You do."
"Do I also smell…"
"You do indeed."
She grinned broadly. "You're going to utterly spoil me," she said.
He smiled too, rising to his feet. "Sit up," he said.
When she did, he handed her a mug and a plate. "Utterly spoil me," she reiterated. "Did I mention?" She then took a big bite of the pastry.
He did not want to admit exactly how much he wanted to spoil her, so he just smiled again and joined her under the covers with his own breakfast.
They ate in relative silence, shy smiles as smudges of chocolate were brushed off lips, and when they were finished he collected the plates and the mugs and rose to set them on the bedside table.
"This time with you has been wonderful," she said. "But I—"
He turned around back to her, dreading the words he feared would come next. She burst out with a laugh.
"I was just going to say 'But as much as I'd like to, I shouldn't spend the entire weekend in your insanely large bed.'"
"Oh," he said sheepishly. "I suppose you have a point." He thought suddenly of the case review he'd planned for the weekend; ultimately though his time had been better spent.
Her features turned somewhat melancholy. "When can I see you again?"
He thought about the week ahead; almost every night promised to run late due to meetings scheduled before he knew he'd want them free. "How about we have lunch on Tuesday?"
She smiled. "I like that idea," she said. "I could meet you somewhere."
"Meet me at my office… well. Where's your office?" To his delight her building was about five blocks away, which meant a very short taxi ride. "Excellent."
She smiled. "Let's have a little cuddle before we get up," she said.
He grinned, sliding back down beneath the sheets, spooning up to her back, holding her in his arms tenderly, his nose buried in her hair. It amazed him how happy such simple contact with her could make him, like he was recharging from all of life's negatives before going out to take on the world. He let out a long, slow breath, his eyes closed. He'd had nothing like this with his ex-wife or with any previous girlfriends, so secure and comforted that he did not even feel pressured to say a word.
After many moments of this, she said softly, "You know, it is early yet. I mean, I don't have to run right home, right now."
He made a sound deep in his throat, one that told of his approval. He did not fall asleep, but it was as close to a meditative state as he had come in some time, his mind free from thought save the contentment he felt. After an indeterminate amount of time, though, she said his name, and she sounded troubled.
"Yes?" he asked, immediately alert.
"On the drive back to Grafton Underwood after graduation, my mother asked me about having a boyfriend."
"That's a natural thing for a mother to ask, isn't it?"
"Yes, particularly my mother." She turned over to look at him. "She wanted to know when she gets to meet him."
"But you and I—" It occurred to him as he began to speak what the implication was, and he stopped short. "Oh."
"Yeah," she said with a lopsided grin. "Oh, not that I presume—I mean, that you are." She blushed bright red.
"Your boyfriend?" He smiled, drawing his finger down over her nose. "I think you would be completely correct in presuming I am."
She offered a shy smile. "Oh, good."
"You're right, though," he said. "I imagine we'll have to say something." She didn't look terrified at the prospect of telling her parents, which he supposed was a good sign. He drew her to him again; he had considered how their families might react, but he thought the burden of explanation would fall squarely with him: Weren't you her instructor? Isn't she a bit young for you?
"Eventually," she added.
He chuckled. "I have an idea," he said, hoping to bring the both of them out of the suddenly darker atmosphere that had settled in around them. "Let's go out."
"Where?"
"I'll let you decide," he said, "but the only caveat is that we should stay within London."
"Mmm," she said, sounding brighter. "How about we just strike out and see where we end up?"
Since the weather was supposed to be pleasant, they rose and dressed for an afternoon outside. She suggested they pack a picnic lunch, and together they put together one comprised of some sandwiches, a container of strawberries, and a nice bottle of chilled white wine with glasses. After leaving the house, when Mark headed towards the driver's side car door, she tsked him.
"What?" he asked.
"I'm driving."
"You're not," he said.
"But you don't know where we're going. It's a surprise."
"Do you have experience driving in London?"
"Hm. No."
"I am very good at taking direction."
The destination was apparently to the northeast, as she directed him through a zigzag through the city. Eventually they landed in a parking spot very near to Primrose Hill. He smirked. "I should have guessed."
"What?"
"Picnic on the hill."
She feigned ignorance. "Don't know what you're talking about."
He had a blanket in the boot, which she must have realised after her car trips with him. She took it into her arms while he arranged the picnic basket and wine bottle between his two hands. "Well, my dear. Lead on."
She followed the path up into the park, searching intently until finding what she deemed to be the perfect spot under a broad, shady tree, also perfect in that it afforded a beautiful view of London. She laid out the blanket triumphantly, then sat down on it.
Lunch was delightful, the weather cooperative—sunshiny but not too hot—and her company relaxing. "How do you know London so well only after a month here?" he asked, sipping on his wine.
"I spent as much of my breaks as I could here in London," she replied. From her position sitting cross-legged on the blanket, she plucked out a strawberry and held up as if she were going take off the point, but drew it away at the last moment to continue talking. "I love my parents but once I'd been living on my own up at uni it was tough to revert back to girl-child-under-parental-rules-and-regulations in a town of fewer than two hundred people." She bit at last.
He chuckled. "I remember all too well what that was like."
"I can't imagine you taking orders from your parents," she said, smiling.
"I can't imagine you taking orders from yours," he retorted. She playfully punched him in the arm. "But I did," he went on. "Very obedient child. I am in many ways, actually."
"It's sweet," she said.
"To be an obedient child?"
"No," she said with a laugh. "To still dote on your mother like you do."
"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "Other people… well, frankly, they were mostly women… they would always intimate it was a bit creepy."
"Natasha?"
"Even if she thought that, she never would have even hinted such a thing. She was too keen to insinuate herself into my family."
Her smile softened. "Well, I think it's sweet."
"So you said."
She pushed her hair back behind her ear, smiling at him a little more broadly. It was hard not to smile back.
When they finished eating, they packed the picnic basket back up and laid on the blanket, side by side, looking up into the clouds. She then popped up into the periphery of his vision, lowering herself and planting a chaste kiss on his lips before lying down again, resting her head on his outstretched arm. They talked about music, books, even a little theatre and politics, enough to get to know one another better, and nothing too serious, even when they didn't agree. Before too long, though, he knew they would have to head to their respective homes.
She'd put her overnight bag in the car so that he could take her home afterwards. They'd agreed it was efficient and would probably help keep their weekend schedule on course.
She turned the key in the door, stepping in gingerly. "Tom might still be sleeping," she explained quietly.
"Bridget, it's almost three in the afternoon."
She shrugged. "Tom's a bit of a night owl."
As the door came to a quiet close behind them, the pair of them jumped as Tom's voice boomed out, "There you are."
They spun to face Tom, who was tucking his shirt into his jeans and looking at the pair of them with scrutiny.
"Hi Tom," said Bridget brightly; in fact, it was too bright, almost over-compensatory.
Mark saw the stern look, but the longer the silence went on, the more Tom looked almost like he was trying to suppress a laugh. "Well, I see that you haven't been butchered at all," Tom said at last to Bridget. "Nailed, perhaps, but not butchered."
"Tom," she said, laughing but blushing all the same.
Passing by the two of them, Tom threw himself down on the sofa, reaching for a can of beer that he must have already put there for himself. Mark's eyes went to the screen and he nearly gasped; how could he have forgotten it was the World Cup?
He knew the question was rhetorical even as he thought it.
"Mark?" Bridget asked, alarmed by his response. "Are you okay?"
"You're a football fan?" Mark asked Tom.
"Absolutely," said Tom. "Just getting settled in for the match."
The commentators were engaged in a speculative debate about the oncoming game. Without conscious thought Mark found himself sitting on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward to hang on to their every word, having stripped himself of his shoes without even realising it.
"Fancy a beer?" asked Tom as he opened his own.
"Um," he said, "I shouldn't. I really need to…" He drifted off as his focus returned to the arguments being presented, and how absolutely absurd an opinion it was to think—"That's complete short-sighted crap," he blurted angrily. "Sure, they might have had a good run last match but Thomson and Vickers have let it all go to their heads, and when they do that—"
"They fuck it up," supplied Tom with brutal honesty, leaning back into the couch cushion laconically, tipping his beer up.
"Yes. Yes. That's it exactly. And the Italians know it. You just watch; they'll come in, lead us on for a little while, then deliver the death strike."
Bridget asked in a weird tone, "I'll get you a beer, shall I?"
He turned to her; she almost looked forlorn. "No, no, it's all right," he said, patting the sofa beside him. "Come sit with us and—" His head whipped around at the sound of undeserved praise being heaped on Thomson again. "What bollocks! As if he can do no wrong. Jesus, I don't know if I can take it. Where did they find this imbecile?"
"Shag a couple of players and suddenly you're an expert on football, apparently," Tom said wryly.
At this Mark laughed, relaxing back into the sofa too. He decided just then there was no reason he couldn't stay and watch the match for a bit. He'd had every intention of watching, anyway, and it was much more enjoyable watching with others. "Hm. Think I'll have that beer, after all." He got to his feet. "The kitchen?"
Bridget and Tom both pointed in the direction of the far side of the room in which they were sitting. "Right. And the loo's that way?"
"Yup," said Tom, reaching forward and breaking into a bag of crisps.
When he returned with a beer he found that Bridget had taken residence on the sofa, between where he'd sat and where Tom was. She was idly picking at the crisps too. Within minutes the players were trotting out onto the pitch. Mark felt unaccountably unsettled, but nothing to do with anything but pre-game nerves. If England wanted to stay in, they had to—
"So who's on again?" Bridget asked.
"England," said Mark, just as Tom said,
"Italy."
"And Italy's good, are they?"
"Very," said Tom.
"We haven't a hope in hell unless those two—Jesus, Italy's going for blood already."
The Italians had already scored.
"What just happ—?" began Bridget.
Simultaneously the two of them shushed her.
She sat back on the sofa and folded her arms over her chest, looking sullen in that moment in which Mark turned to look at her. He leaned back and put his arm about her shoulders, or at least tried, but he got so caught up in the excitement of a rush to the goal by England that he jerked forward again.
Sometime after that Mark realised she had gone, also realising the match was almost halfway over, that he'd had two beers and shouldn't drive any time soon.
"Bridget?" he called, just as Tom was pulling out a cigarette and preparing to light it. "Oh, Tom, do you mind taking that by the window? I don't do well with smoke."
"Oh, yeah," he said, looking to the cigarette as if it had magically appeared there. "Just automatic, I guess. Sorry." As Bridget appeared, Tom added, "Her smoking doesn't bother you?"
His surprise must have registered on his face; he'd forgotten all about it even though they'd talked about it at the drinks party. "Well, she… um…."
Tom burst out laughing. "Didn't even pause for a post-coital ciggie, Bridge?"
"Shurrup," she said, tinting pink. Mark thought he felt his own face flush. "You owe me, you know."
It took him a moment to realise she was addressing him, and he said "Me?" rather stupidly, even as his attention was drawn back to the game as it resumed.
"Yes," she said. "Our second day together and you're watching the football."
"I invited you to sit with me," he said in his own defence. "And what does it matter when I was going to go home anyway?"
She pursed her lips, but ultimately could offer no rebuttal. "You still owe me."
"Stay for supper," said Tom. "We'll get some pizzas or something. It'll be fun."
"Sure," he said. "And Bridget can decide what will make things right after this unfair abandonment."
"I already know," she said, taking a seat just as Tom rose to smoke at last.
"And what would that be?"
"I want a game of Monopoly."
Mark laughed; it was adorable that she would only want a silly game in exchange for forgiveness. He could think of no other woman he knew who wouldn't attempt to extort him for something very pricey.
"Oh Christ," said Tom darkly.
"What? Why 'Oh Christ'?" asked Mark.
"She's brutal," he said, "and I won't play against her anymore."
"Tom!"
He thought it over. "Tom, surely we two would have an advantage over her."
"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Tom went over to the window and threw it open.
He glanced to Bridget again, who he could tell was trying to affect her most innocent look. "You're on," he said. She beamed maniacally. "Tom has to play too."
"What? No way," said Tom.
"Come on, it'll be fun," Mark said. "How hard can it be?"
Bridget's grin went positively evil. Tom stared in wonder.
"Have you actually ever played Monopoly?"
"Well," he said, demurring, "no. But I know the premise."
"I'm definitely in then," said Tom, who took a long drag, then exhaled out the window. "If I lose at least I won't be in absolute last place."
It worried him a little to see her wring her hands in the manner of a dastardly cartoon villain. The football match was resuming, though, and as Mark and Tom fell head in again, Bridget disappeared then reappeared with a tatty old Monopoly game. She may also have disappeared to smoke, but he was so enthralled by the excitement of the game he honestly couldn't say she had. He would have words with her about that later.
In the end, to their shock and delight, the game was a win for England, which meant spirits were high for the ordering of the pizza. "It's on me," said Mark, who was in a very good mood indeed.
Bridget smiled and bounced onto the sofa, her legs across his lap, her arms around his neck, and leaning forward to plant a kiss on his lips.
"You're just glad the match is over, aren't you," he said drolly, fighting off a smirk.
"Yes." She smiled, looking into his eyes. "Pepperoni."
"What?"
"That's what I want on my pizza."
"All right then."
"Tom," she called loudly. "Phone for some pizzas."
After it arrived they ate the pizza and laid out the Monopoly board. Bridget declared she would be the banker and insisted on being the Scottie dog.
"Stud," announced Tom, reaching towards and indicating his preference for the horse and rider playing piece.
She picked up the top hat and placed it beside her own.
"I get the top hat?" asked Mark.
"Yes."
"Why?" he asked.
"It just suits you," she said.
"The race car doesn't?" he asked, the hint of a tease in his voice.
"No," she said solemnly. He resolved at that moment to let her win.
The game was more intense than he could imagine a board game could be. Before too long, Bridget had proved herself as not needing help to win at all, acquiring the most lucrative properties, putting houses then hotels on them, and quickly taking Mark and Tom for everything they were worth. Within an hour she had won the game, and she smiled proudly.
"I told you," said Tom.
The hour was still relatively early. "One more game," Mark insisted. As much as he delighted in her glee in winning, now that he'd gotten a hang of game play, he thought he could do better.
"I never would have pegged you a masochist," quipped Tom.
The second game, Mark held his own, and had bought a collection of downscale properties that had a better chance of being landed on (and therefore collecting him more money).
"Typical upper middle class," Bridget teased. "Buying up all the low rent properties."
"Are you calling me a slumlord?" Mark retorted playfully.
"I didn't say a thing."
At one point, Bridget managed to land herself in jail. She looked to Mark and batted her eyelashes. "I know a very good lawyer who could bail me out."
She certainly did not lack the funds to make the £50 bail. He raised a brow. "I'm sorry," he said, holding his hands up. "All of my money's invested in my slums."
She leaned over the board and brushed her lips over his. "Please?" she said. He heard Tom chuckling. He was just resolving to stand his ground when she kissed him properly, then sat back looking put-upon. "Please?" she begged again plaintively.
Without another word he picked up a £50 note and tossed it into the middle, securing her release. She grinned, and play resumed.
A short time later, immediately after she had landed on Free Parking and had taken up the pot in the middle, Mark himself wound up in jail. He looked at her. "Time to return the favour."
"What?"
"Bail me out."
She snorted a laugh and winked. "You're on your own, slumlord."
"Told you she was cutthroat," said Tom blithely.
This game lasted much longer. After bailing himself out of jail he vowed to match her move for move, and when she landed on one of his most expensive properties (of which he owned all in the colour block), loaded with hotels, a good chunk of her monetary reserves were handed over to him with a glum expression.
"I'm not going to lose this game," she declared.
Within another few rounds, she rebounded by wiping out Tom financially after he landed on Mayfair.
"That's it, then," Tom said. "Let's tally up and see who won. I only know it wasn't me."
Bridget met Mark's eyes with a challenge. It was hard to tell from a casual glance who had more cash. "Let's keep going," he said, as she nodded.
"You two are well-suited: you're both totally mental," Tom said as he rose. "I'm outta here."
They continued to play for how long, Mark didn't know. Tom had owned very little in the way of property, and after he exited the game they agreed to put it back on the market. Mark took most of what he'd had, including the railway stations.
Mark was brought to the present by surprising himself with a yawn. He only then realised it was dark outside. He glanced to his watch. It was one in the morning, and he still had papers to review. He cursed under his breath.
"Bridget," he said. "We're at a stalemate. Can we just call it a draw?"
"No. Let's count now and see."
They did. Her money totalled to only £20 more than his, which was enough to make her the official winner. She grinned.
"You barely won," he said.
"But I still won," she said, obviously gloating.
"You are mental," he said, then got to his feet. Her expression clouded over.
"Oh, Mark. It's just a game, I know that."
"You didn't bail me out."
She smiled. "Oh, come on. I would if you really were in jail, if I could afford it… and if I couldn't I'd find a way to. Come on." She patted the cushion beside her. "Sit back down."
"I have to go," he said.
"Well, at least and sit give me a cuddle before you go."
It was too much to resist. He took a seat again, held out his arms and drew her close, giving her a kiss before closing his eyes and relaxing into her.
It was his undoing.