Into the Fire Chapter 10, a bridget jones' diary fanfic

Into the Fire
10 of 12

Words: 75,406 in total, 6,264 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

Any typos or missing words are entirely my own fault. If you find any, please send me a PM (don't put it in a review) and I'll fix 'em.

Chapter 10.

It was the sunlight that woke him, and he blinked rapidly, trying to remember where he was, what day it was… was the game playing a dream? He saw the game board left as it had been last night and knew it was no dream. He pushed himself up; Bridget was with him, sleeping as well, and his movement caused her to stir. His watch revealed that it was nearly nine in the morning.

"Oh, fuck," Mark said, getting to his feet. He was not usually one to use vulgarity, particularly that vulgarity, but he had not only not reviewed his papers for the day—a first for him, to be so unprepared for Monday morning—but was certain to miss the ten o'clock meeting he was scheduled to attend. And Bridget… surely she was already late for work.

"What is it?"

"It's late," he said. "It's nine."

"Oh, oh, damn," she said, pushing herself upright. "I'm so sorry."

It was not as if it were her fault. He shook his head. "I really must leave." She stood too. He embraced her, giving her a quick peck. "I'll call you later," he said, patting his trouser pockets to ensure he had everything he'd come with (wallet, keys, mobile), then hurriedly departed for his vehicle.

On the way downstairs, he phoned Jeremy to let him know he was running late. "Sit in at the meeting for me," he said. "I'm a little… under the weather."

After a pause, Jeremy said, "Mark, in all the time I've known you, you've never been under the weather." It was not precisely what he said, but the tone in which he said it. Somehow, Jeremy must have suspected the real reason for his tardiness, confirmed when he added, "Unless 'the weather' is code for your twenty-one-year-old—"

"Goodbye, Jeremy," he said curtly, then disconnected the call.

He went to his house, had a fast shower, shaved then dressed in his suit. Examining himself in the mirror, he saw that he looked a little weary but not unusually so. It would have to do. He had other commitments to meet that day.

He made it to the office nearly an hour into the meeting. Upon his arrival, he apologised profusely, and asked if they could have a brief recess so that Jeremy could bring him up to speed. The other attendants seemed grateful for the break and shot out of the room, presumably for the loos, a cigarette, and so on. After a quick briefing, Jeremy grinned. "Need the loo myself. Can I get you anything? Some coffee? You look a bit on the rough side."

"Coffee, please," he said. He had not had time to make any.

"Will do." Jeremy did not seem to be making a move to leave.

"Yes?"

"There's nothing else you want to tell me?"

"Not right now, no," he said.

"Aha," Jeremy said triumphantly. "Tantamount to admitting you want to tell me something. Later. Lunch, my treat."

"Fine," he said, resignation heavy in his voice. Jeremy then ducked out with the biggest grin on his face as the others filed back in.

The rest of the meeting went quickly. Jeremy continued to run it as he was already on a roll. Mark nursed his coffee and took notes, grateful for Jeremy's taking charge, because he could not honestly say he was all that focused on the subject at hand. He could think only of the weekend, of a woman he had grown to love expressing feelings for him, of spending time with her, and especially of taking her to bed.

"What'll it be?"

Jeremy's question jarred him back to reality. "What?"

"For lunch."

"Oh, the usual place is fine," he said, thinking of the pub they frequented. "I could use a good solid English meal."

Jeremy smirked. "Come on."

The interrogation did not begin until after their chicken pasties had arrived.

"So, Mark," asked Jeremy in a confidential tone. "What happened this weekend?"

Mark stared hard at his pint. "I went out on Friday night with… my twenty-one year old, as you like to call her."

"And does she have a name?"

"Bridget."

"And is she your twenty-one year old now?"

"We, um. Yes."

Jeremy grinned with obvious vicarious pleasure, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his chest like a proud father. "Well done, my friend. How was it?"

"Jeremy," he said. "Despite what you think, it was not all about sex."

"Yes, and you look wrecked because you didn't stay up all night shagging."

"As a matter of fact, no, I did not," he said. "Monopoly."

"What?" Jeremy asked, looking as if Mark had just shouted that aliens had landed.

"After watching the match with her roommate Tom—"

Jeremy raised a brow. "'Roommate'?"

"He's gay. Anyway, we had supper and stayed up playing Monopoly until about one in the morning. Then we fell asleep on the sofa."

Jeremy still looked dubious.

"Believe me or don't, it's the truth."

Jeremy pulled the corner of his mouth up. "When do I get to meet this Bridget of yours?"

"We've been together for fewer than three days."

"You're obviously smitten. Or something." He waggled his brows.

Mark regarded him thoughtfully. "We're supposed to have lunch tomorrow. She's meeting me at the office. If you're there, you must swear to be on your best behaviour."

"I'll be a perfect angel."

Mark grinned. "Right."

Mark was able to regain his focus after lunch, and more than made up for missing the morning by staying until seven. With his briefcase packed full of more papers to review, he headed for home.

He was surprised to find his porch was occupied.

"Bridget?" he asked, thankful at least it was not yet dark. "What brings you here?" She looked despondent sitting there, her hair tousled, her posture slumped, but she said nothing. He wondered if she and Tom had had a falling out, if she'd had a bad day at work. He reached his hand down to her to help her to her feet. "Come on inside. Have you had supper yet?"

She shook her head, rising to stand with his assistance.

He let the both of them in, set his keys and briefcase down, and turned back to her.

"What's the matter?"

"I couldn't bear the thought of you angry at me."

"Angry?" he asked. "What makes you think I'm angry?"

"I made you late for work. You left so quickly, said so little and barely kissed me goodbye."

"I was in a bit of a rush… I had a meeting at ten that I was completely unprepared for."

"Oh God," she said, even more morosely than before. "I'm sorry."

"Why do you keep apologising? You didn't hold me there against my will."

"I just…"

"What?"

"I only wanted to do Monopoly because I didn't want you to leave… but I didn't mean to muck up your workday."

He smiled, touched by the admission. He then reached to embrace her. "Darling," he said close in her ear. "I'm not angry. I had a great time with you, and falling asleep was an accident. Besides, there's more to life than over-preparing for work, particularly when a pretty girl wants me to stay."

At that she chuckled. "What can I say?" she said. "You're good company."

He brought his hand up to run it through her hair, turned his head to kiss her on the cheek; overcome with feelings for her, he reared his head back to kiss her properly on the mouth, which quickly turned quite passionate.

"So how hungry are you, anyway?" she murmured into his ear.

"Depends on which appetite you're talking about," he replied.

She drew back and took him by the hand, then pulled him upstairs and into his bedroom. "Since we're brand new," she explained, putting her arms around his neck again, "and I didn't get anything but a kiss or two since Sunday morning."

"You're counting?"

She smiled. "Not in so many words, no, but…" She drifted off, then started kissing him again. His arms came up and around her waist, hooking into her trousers, coming round to the front to find the button. This made her break away and laugh. He furrowed his brows. "Ticklish."

He smiled too, then proceeded not only with the button, but with making love to her.

Afterwards, as they cuddled up together side by side in bed, she said quietly, "I have another confession."

"Oh?" He kissed her forehead.

"I thought maybe you were harbouring some resentment that I didn't bounce you out of jail."

He was confused before remembering the game, and fought to keep his features free from expression. "That was deeply disappointing," he said sombrely. "After all I taught you about human rights, and how inhumane it is to let the innocent languish in prison…" At her shocked look, he burst out in a laugh, unable to hold it in anymore.

"Bastard," she said playfully, smacking him lightly on the shoulder.

Residually laughing, he said, "As you said, it's only a game. But come to think of it… I might have to devise some sort of punishment for you for that…"

"I dare you," she said.

"You dare me, do you?" he asked, raising a brow. "I think I might have to take advantage of a little secret you revealed earlier."

She furrowed her brow. He reached to lightly brush her waist. She shrieked and arched away from him.

"Ticklish, indeed." He pulled her back to him, arm like an iron band around her waist, as he nuzzled into her neck and looked for another ticklish spot.

"You're evil," she gasped.

"You made me that way," he said, ceasing tickling her, and kissing her properly on the lips again. Once again he felt himself come close to telling her that he loved her, but thought it wise to hold back; three days was not much better than one. "Come on," he said gently. "I was planning on making some pasta for supper. I want you to stay."

"I'm useless in the kitchen."

"You aren't," he said. "If nothing else, you're good company."

She kissed him again at his echo of her own words; he thought maybe they'd never get down to the kitchen to make supper, but she drew away. "Sorry."

"Why?"

"I can't believe you didn't hear my stomach just now."

He laughed.

After restoring their respective articles of clothing, they went down to the kitchen to begin preparations. It appeared that the housekeeper had restocked the kitchen, even though he had not had a chance to ask her to buy some additional groceries for Bridget. They had the makings for pasta dinner, and even had a bunch of fresh tomatoes and some basil as well as a block of parmesan. Mark took to chopping tomatoes and asked her if she could grate the hard cheese for him.

Up on the first floor, Mark could hear the doorbell ring at precisely a point when it was impossible for him to get it; his hands were covered in tomato and he was waiting for the water to boil for the pasta. He remembered at that moment that he was expecting a courier delivery of some court documents. "Bridget, could you go and sign for that for me?"

"Sure."

She brushed cheese off of her hands then dashed up the stairs. "Oh!" he heard her say, presumably after swinging the door open.

He then heard a man's voice in response, though he could not quite make out what was being said.

Concerned, he hastily wiped his hands on a kitchen towel then went upstairs to see what was going on. He stopped in his tracks when he saw who Bridget had let in: his old Eton mate, her old professor, Patrick Baldwin. Next Mark looked to Bridget, and only then realised how dishevelled she looked, clothing slightly wrinkled and askew, hair not the least bit smooth as it usually was, cheeks rosy, lips full and pink from being kissed. That combined with the undoubtedly guilty look on his own face told Patrick everything about what had been going on.

"Patrick," he said rather stupidly. "You're in London."

"Yes," he said. "Thought I'd drop in and take you out for supper, but you're clearly… busy." Patrick shot a look to Bridget again, who nervously patted down her hair, before he turned his gaze to Mark once more.

"We were making supper," said Mark. "Pasta."

"Does she come over for supper frequently?" he asked coolly.

"Is there some reason I can't have her over for supper?" Mark asked in return.

"I'm right here, you know," she said.

"Bridget, if you could go tend to the water—"

"You're trying to get rid of me," she retorted, "and I'm going to be a part of this conversation. Yes, Profess—er, Patrick, I'm here for supper." She slipped her arm around Mark's waist. "I've also been here for breakfast after staying over. There's nothing wrong with that."

Patrick gave Mark an icy glare. Apparently the theoretical opinion differed greatly from the reality. "You know how I feel about—"

"Yes, I do," he said quickly. He looked down to her. "Bridget. Please go downstairs."

She blinked in surprise at his bluntness, but she released him then in silence retreated to the lower floor.

Mark continued. "Circumstances have radically changed."

"So she's aged a decade?"

"That's not what I mean. She isn't a student of mine now, and nothing happened while she was. We have a shared family history and knew each other before class ever commenced."

"But the bulk of your relationship has taken place at Bangor."

"That doesn't matter to either of us. She does not see me that way, as someone with an unfair power and influence over her."

"Even though you just ordered her out of the room?"

"I didn't want her to be inadvertently hurt or embarrassed, and I wanted an honest conversation."

Patrick pursed his lips. "And how do you see her?"

"I see her as a smart, intelligent, caring, outspoken, beautiful woman who seems to know what I need even when I don't." He lowered his voice. "Stay for supper with us. You'll see you're wrong."

Patrick looked sceptical, but agreed.

There was another knock at the door.

"Expecting more for supper?"

Mark shook his head. As he answered the door, he almost laughed out loud. It was the courier, about whom he had completely forgotten. He signed for the documents, though didn't expect he'd be reviewing them that evening, after all. "It's for work," he explained as he set them on the table in the foyer. They descended the stairs. Mark then asked, "So what brings you to London, anyway?"

"Visiting Dad," he said. "I like to spend some time during my breaks with him."

Mark noticed that Bridget was standing in the kitchen, looking uncertain about what to do with a pot of boiling water sending a column of steam towards the ceiling on one burner and bubbling tomatoes on their way to becoming sauce on another. He went towards her, stirring the tomatoes up, sprinkling basil and oregano into the mix. "Keep stirring this," he instructed gently, his hand on her waist, pressing a kiss into her hair. He then moved towards where he hoped the uncooked pasta would be. He glanced back to her; she was still pouting a bit from being sent downstairs, but was also clearly baffled by the ordinary nature of the conversation that had accompanied them down.

"How is your dad?" asked Mark, thwarted in the first cupboard and moving to the second. "I don't think I've seen him since we were boys."

"He's fine," he said, taking a seat on one of the breakfast nook stools. "I'm gonna take him fishing tomorrow. I'll visit my mum next. She's been living in the country since the split."

"Split?"

"Yeah," he said. "Mum and Dad divorced shortly after I left for uni."

"How's Lily?"

This from Bridget. They both turned to look at her.

"She's doing very well," said Patrick. Mark detected a little bit of a thaw from his friend.

He also detected a bit of a return to normalcy in her, too. "So you're still seeing her?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "She's very sweet. She's had a bad run romantically so I'm trying to be very careful and not screw it up."

"I'm glad. I really did like her. Do like her. Though I didn't know her very well."

"I asked her to come," he said, "but she couldn't because of the shop."

"But she would have wanted to?" Bridget asked brightly.

"She really wanted to."

Bridget grinned. "I'm glad."

With that the former professor-pupil pair began to catch up as contemporaries, he asking her how her new job was going since he hadn't really gotten a chance before, and she asking how Bangor had been holding up in the week since graduation. Mark stayed out of the conversation, finishing up supper then serving and bringing it to the table.

"Unbelievably, unseasonably hot right now up there," he said. "I'm glad for the break down here, to be honest."

"Wine?" asked Mark.

"Yes, thanks," said Patrick.

"I'll have white." Bridget.

He was already pouring hers. "I'm one step ahead of you, my dear."

Bridget continued, "I've heard it can sometimes get freakishly hot up there in the summer."

"It's certainly doing so this year," he said. "Thanks, Mark."

He set the wine glasses down, then sat with Patrick to his left, Bridget to his right. "Well, enjoy."

Bridget heaped parmesan onto her plate of spaghetti, then began to eat. She was clearly appreciative. "You missed your calling, Mark. Very tasty." She reached her left hand out as if to touch his, but then seemed to think better of it, probably because of Patrick.

"Thank you." He reached, took her hand and squeezed it before letting go again.

"Don't you like parmesan?" She indicated the cheese to Patrick.

"Yes," he said, as if being prodded back to reality. He took the spoon and did the same.

"Very good indeed," said Patrick after a taste of the cheese-laden spaghetti dish. "And aside from the job, what else has been going on?"

"Well, I just landed a flat of my own."

"Good for you," said Patrick. "I hope it's not some crappy open plan basement room."

"No, a friend of a friend of a friend needed to sublet." She sipped her wine. "Oh, and I took Mark to a drag show on Friday night."

Patrick dropped his fork and looked to Mark in utter disbelief. "A… drag show?"

"You know," she said. "Men dressed up like women and performing—"

"Yes." Patrick was laughing now. "I know what a drag show is. The thought of Mark at one…"

Mark chuckled too. "It was quite good," he said. "Bridget's friend Tom was superb as Raven, and the food was in itself worthy of a visit. Excellent."

"Particularly the fudge brownie." She caught his gaze knowingly.

He smiled. "Agreed."

"Only a matter of time before he's got Mark up there singing along," said Bridget to Patrick.

"We would look rather dashing together," said Mark. Patrick chuckled. Bridget was acting completely like herself again, and for the most part, so was Patrick. Mark believed the former had much to do with the latter, even as Patrick still seemed very surprised at the direction the conversation had taken.

"You all James Bond-y in your suit," she added playfully, leaning into him, her hand on his forearm.

"Oh, well, if I'm not in an evening gown, then forget it."

At that she laughed, and it was so joyful and spontaneous he laughed too; for a moment he forgot that Patrick was there and just leaned forward to place a sweet kiss on her lips. They both seemed to remember at once that they had company, though, and sat back in their chairs; Bridget flushed bright pink and Mark made much of trying to get the rest of his pasta wound on his fork.

When Mark dared to raise his eyes again, he saw that Patrick's expression had gotten much softer, much more amenable. He too finished his pasta, then drank the rest of his wine. The three of them cleared the table and there was a consensus that coffee should be made.

"I might have biscuits in one of these drawers," Mark said as he put together the decaf to brew.

"You might have Amelia Earhart in one of these drawers," Bridget teased. "Who would ever know?"

Patrick snorted a laugh.

"It isn't my fault," Mark said in his own defence. "These cupboards and drawers all look the same."

"It's true," she said. "You're getting better, the more time you actually spend in the kitchen." She popped up onto her toes to peck his cheek. "Be right back." She went off in the direction of the loo.

"Well, my friend," said Patrick quietly once the door had closed behind her. "I've seen the light."

"Excuse me?"

"Bridget," he said. "You love her. It's as clear to me as the nose on my face."

Mark was stunned at this observation.

"I can't imagine you laughing along like you did about drag shows with anyone else," Patrick went on to say. "You'd've taken their head clean off. Well, that and the fact that you actually went to one…" He winked.

"I'm glad you see that," he said uncertainly, "though do you think she knows?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well it's only been a few days," he said. "I don't want to come on too strong."

"A few…" He drifted off as he did the mental math. "The drag show was your first date?"

"It didn't really start out as a date," he admitted. "It ended as one, though."

Patrick whistled. "You weren't pulling my leg during graduation weekend."

"I wasn't."

"A drag show," he said again. "How… romantic."

Mark laughed. "Well, the brownie was very good."

"I don't want to know. For what it's worth," he confided, "I don't think I've ever seen her happier, either."

It had not occurred to him that Patrick was in a unique position to tell Mark such a thing. "Oh?" he said eagerly. "Do you think—"

He broke off as the door reopened and Bridget headed towards the kitchen again.

"Yes," said Patrick. "I do think."

"What do you think?" asked Bridget, eyes wide and especially blue. "What did I miss?"

"That biscuits are necessary," lied Patrick smoothly. "Let's find them."

Once the sugar bowl had been located on Saturday morning, it was easy to find again, and Mark went straight for it before pouring three mugs of decaf, leaving room in one, then topping it up with milk.

He carried the tray bearing the mugs and the sugar to the sitting room, setting it on the coffee table just as Bridget proclaimed they had discovered the chocolate biscuits.

"A triumph," said Patrick, taking a soft armchair, then reaching for a biscuit. "A fantastic end to a fantastic evening."

"I agree," said Mark, taking a seat on the sofa. No longer apparently shy about being affectionate in front of her former English professor, Bridget joined him there, tucking her legs up and leaning against Mark.

"Excellent coffee." She sipped again. "Fantastic indeed." She reached for a biscuit, grabbing two. "Want one?"

"Sure."

She raised it to his mouth then let go as he bit into it. She laughed as he took it his fingers then actually took a bite.

"Mm," he said after chewing. "Only a little bit stale."

"That makes 'em better," she said. "Not quite so shatter-y in your mouth that way."

"Oh!" said Patrick; for a moment Mark thought he was impressed by the stale-biscuit revelation. "I was driving from Bangor during the match yesterday. I heard the results, couldn't believe it. Did you watch?"

"Yes," he said excitedly. He could not see Bridget rolling her eyes, but could sense her doing so all the same. "The commentators as they always do were going on and on about Vickers, Thomson and the lot and, well, just the sort of thing that puffs their egos up unbearably—"

So deep into description and analysis did they get that when Patrick stopped talking suddenly, it surprised him that it was because Bridget had dozed off against his shoulder.

"I suppose I ought to go," Patrick said, sotto voce. "It's already sort of late, and fish wait for no man. I'll let myself out." He got to his feet, and in a friendly manner gave Mark a pat on the shoulder. "It is good to see you so happy," he said, "considering your state when you first got to Bangor."

"Keep in touch," said Mark, "and call me again if you're still free while you're here."

He grinned. "Mark, you've been seeing her for—" He paused to count the days. "Three days. You're still in that swoony, honeymoon-esque stage. You don't need me calling you."

Patrick may have had a point. "Feel free to call me anyway."

Patrick gathered up his things then, with a little wave, headed for the front door. Once he heard it close behind him, he made to rouse her.

"Hm? Is it morning?" she asked, blinking sleepily.

"No, darling. Patrick's just gone."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Fell asleep."

"We noticed. It's late. Maybe I should get you home."

"Maybe I could just stay with you."

He cupped her face in his hand then kissed her. "That would not hurt my feelings," he said, then added, "but I actually do need to sleep."

She chuckled. "Yeah, I know."

They took a shower with water as hot as they could stand it, then retired to the bed. "Darling," he said as she towel-dried her hair, "maybe you ought to keep some things here. Just in case."

"Like what?"

Like everything, he thought, as she added,

"Toothbrush? Pants? Nightgown, change of clothes, that sort of thing?"

"Mm," he said low in this throat, slipping under the covers and resting back on the pillow; the fatigue of the day seemed to catch up with him all at once, and he closed his eyes. "Yes. Well, maybe not the nightgown."

He heard her chuckle, felt the mattress sink beside him, and realised how much he liked her being there even if it was just to sleep at night. Her fingertips traced along his forehead, then his cheeks.

"It's isn't too much for you, is it?" Her voice was serious.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, me, I mean. I'm twenty-one."

He cracked an eye open. "What are you saying?"

She flushed redder still than her shower-warmed skin.

"Well, you know," she floundered. "It's common knowledge that the metabolism slows down when you get older…"

"Yes, I'm not twenty-one," he said, "but I am also not seventy. So far I'm keeping up with you just fine." He yawned. "Tonight's apparently a different story, but I can be forgiven as I slept too little last night and bent at a strange angle to boot."

She smiled. "So bending yourself (or me for that matter) at strange angles is only acceptable while shagging. Right. Noted."

He closed his eyes again, laughing under his breath, suddenly feeling the need to clear up a little ongoing misapprehension of hers: "Bridget, we do not shag," he said.

"Then what was that little pre-dinner thing if not a shag?"

"We made love."

"There's not a difference."

"There is quite a difference."

His eyes opened at the feel of her fingers trailing down along his abdomen. "So what is the difference?"

"Shagging implies," he began, stopping as her fingers met with their destination, "the physicality of the act only."

"It doesn't," she said.

"There's a callousness to the word I don't like." He punctuated the sentence with a little groan. His lids fluttered then closed under the weight of desire. "A suggestion of no emotional connection or investment."

"Hm," she said thoughtfully, belying the absolutely delightful yet evil treatment she was giving his person. "You've clearly given this a lot of consideration."

"Bridge," he said throatily.

"Oh, are you too tired? I could stop—" She took her hand away.

In a flash his eyes opened; he launched himself up, pinned her to the bed and kissed her voraciously.

"I will never, ever, ever in my life merely shag you," he murmured before demonstrating the veracity of his words.

…

He awakened earlier than usual so that he could make breakfast; he discovered that he would need almost all of that extra time just to rouse her out of bed, which was next to impossible even with coffee. What a miracle it was, he mused, that she'd ever made it to his class at all. He also had to allow time to drop Bridget back to Tom's place, then review the papers that had been delivered the night before. "Are we still on for lunch?" he asked as he navigated through the streets of London.

She nodded. "I'll be there at noon, if that's okay." She went quiet for a bit before saying, "So. Everything's okay with you and Patrick?"

"What?"

"Well… when you said you hadn't seen his dad since you were kids… I didn't realise you had known each other for so long. I thought you'd become friends at Bangor."

"No, Patrick's the reason I ended up at Bangor. We'd been out of touch for a while, but we went to Eton together."

"Wow. I didn't know."

"How would you have?" He turned the corner onto Tom's street. "Anyway. Everything's just fine." As he pulled to the kerb, he looked to her. "As a matter of fact, he gave us his blessing, as it were."

She blinked rapidly. "Did he?"

"He said we seemed really happy together."

She smiled. "I am happy."

"So am I," he said, "and we're both going to be late if you don't get inside."

She leaned forward to kiss him. "I'm going to be late regardless," she said, bringing her fingers to his cheek. "But then again, I usually am."

"I'm shocked," he teased. "Go on. I'll see you at noon."

He watched her go into the building, then headed off for his office for what seemed like a torturously long morning. With great difficulty he directed all of his attention towards reading the long-put-off papers in preparation for court in the afternoon.

"Mark. I think this is yours."

He looked up, and standing in his doorway was Natasha, holding what appeared to be a printout.

"It appears to be an addendum on the Rogers case. Somehow it got in with my things."

He stood just as she came further into his office, took it from her and thumbed through it. Sure enough, it belonged to one of his cases, nothing he needed for his present casework, but he was grateful for its return. He could only think it had gotten merged with her things during one of their dinner meetings, the thought of which made him shudder inside when he considered what might have happened if not for his enlightenment in the form of Bridget.

"Thank you," he said, setting it down on his desk; he'd file it away later. "Was there something more I could help you with?"

"Well," she said. "I wanted to know if you want to join me for lunch."

His eyes shot to his watch; it was just after noon. Bridget was due any time. "Actually, I already have plans for lunch." He came around his desk, slipping into his suit jacket.

Natasha did not hide her look of disappointment quickly enough. "Oh," she said pleasantly, plastering a blatantly forced smile on her face.

He held out his hand to indicate he was leaving, and that she should go first. As she turned he heard her say in a cloyingly nasty voice, "Oh, you! Are you here to say hi to Uncle Mark?"

He looked past her and saw Bridget at the door of his office, looking very professional in her skirt and blazer, hair pulled into a clasp. She was regarding Natasha with scrutiny, as if deciding what she might say in response, but instead of saying anything, she simply came into the office and directly up to Mark, placed one hand on the back of his neck, got up onto her toes, and gave him a kiss that could hardly have been described as shy or tentative, and certainly not familial.

When she pulled back, she levelled her gaze at Natasha and said in a disturbingly innocent voice, "Yes."

Mark cleared his throat, sure his skin was fire red. Natasha, suitably humiliated, sniffed and lifted her chin. "I suppose we all know now what the appeal of teaching was for you, Mark," she said. "Though I'm guessing not all teaching was done in the classroom."

"Maybe you should give teaching a go," said Bridget. "Maybe you'd have better luck than you've had here."

"Ill-mannered and uncultured," snipped Natasha. "I should have expected no less."

In that same sweet voice, Bridget said, "Oh, then it'll come as no surprise when I tell you to go fuck yourself."

Natasha's mouth dropped open.

Bridget added, "Clearly no one else is doing it for you."

Natasha tossed back her hair and stomped out of the office, to Bridget's obvious delight.

"That was a bit harsh, don't you think?" He was smiling, though.

She shrugged. "I don't usually like to be that rude, but she insulted you and she was a complete bitch at lunch that day in London. Besides, if she can't take the heat…" She drifted off. "Stupid cow. Anyway. Let's go have lunch."

"This must be your—Bridget." It was Jeremy standing at the open door. From the way he was grinning, he must have heard the whole thing.

Bridget turned to face him. "Yes," she said, accepting the handshake he offered.

"I'm Jeremy. I work with Mark. He's said lots of nice things about you."

"You have?" She beamed a smile to Mark.

"I might have done," Mark said.

"That's sweet."

"That was bloody brilliant," said Jeremy, "though I'm worried now that she might set her sights on someone else, like me."

"I'll see what I can do about that," said Bridget with a wink.

"It was very nice to meet you," Jeremy said, offering his hand to her for another shake, which she accepted with amusement. "Mark," he added with a wink of his own, "you were absolutely right." He caught her smiling.

As Mark escorted her down out of the building, he led her to the car.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I made reservations at the Ivy," he said.

"Hm. I was kind of thinking more along the lines of a… well, I don't know. A pizza or something." She pointed to her feet; she was wearing trainers with her outfit. "Well, I walked here and wasn't about to do so in my kitten heels."

He smiled. He should have known better than to think she'd prefer a place like the Ivy. "We can have whatever you like, though you would have been more than acceptable as you are there."

"Yeah, because of you."

"No." He reached for her hand. "Those shoes really make your outfit, anyway."

"You liar." She was smiling.

From his mobile, he phoned to cancel the reservation. She insisted they walk to a local place that she'd heard good things about, and the things she'd heard were correct. Of course, the favourable impression the place left upon him had as much to do with her company as it did the food.

Upon Mark's return to the office, Jeremy's follow-up comments to him in private were glowingly positive, if a little too honest about how attractive he thought her figure was.

Natasha's private comments were, as expected, subtly vicious. Insults to himself he could bear, particularly when they were expected.

"I suppose I can see the attraction for a man your age," she sniffed, which was rich considering she was as old as he was, if not older. "I suppose it's expected to have a young little thing to boost your ego—among other things, I'm sure—after what your wife did to you."

Insults to Bridget, however, he would not tolerate.

"She must feel very out of place when you go out together, if in fact you take her anywhere but to bed or the occasional chip stand," she went on to say. "I can't imagine she could keep up intellectually in our crowd, and with the display she put on for me it's clear her sense of decorum and class leaves much to be desired."

He only let her finish speaking because he wanted to see if there was anything she said to redeem herself. Of course she did not. "Natasha," he returned coolly. "Slandering my girlfriend is no way to endear yourself to me. Get out of my office."

"Girlfriend?" She spoke in a high, shrill, almost hysterical voice. "Mark, have you—"

"I said get out. And unless you have actual business with me, I'd prefer you stayed out."

She stared at him hard, as if she truly believed he had lost his senses. "Well, if that's the way it's going to be… don't come crawling back to me when you tire of her."

He could not help himself; he laughed out loud, which evidently shocked her into silence. Turning serious again, he commanded, "Go."

He was determined not to watch her leave. As satisfying as it might have been to see her stomp off, the fact was that she was more than likely to turn around to try to catch him watching, and it was much more satisfying to think of her not getting what she wanted yet again. There was also the fact that her backside was nothing special to look at, particularly when he considered how, with fondness, he had watched Bridget walk into her building; he might have loved Bridget's spirit and intellect, but there was no denying she had a very attractive bottom.

He did not raise his eyes until he heard his door click shut with more force than was strictly necessary.