The Peruvian Affair

Part 1 of 7

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 36,242 (This part: 4,350)

Rating: M / R

Summary: A December spent out of the snow and grey of London… in a place where anyone might fancy herself a treasure hunter of sorts.

Disclaimer: Isn't mine, except for the bits that are, and you know what I mean by that.

Notes: Aw, come on. Who doesn't like a treasure hunt? =D

Chapter 1.

A Thursday in late November

There were definitely points on the globe that were father away from London (like, for example, New Zealand), but travelling fifteen plus hours by plane to Lima was certainly no daytrip. However, when one is requested to travel to the far ends of the globe by the Peruvian government, one does not tend to refuse.

She took the news better than he expected she would.

"Why Peru?"

As if Peru were some random destination chosen from a map with a dart.

"Because I've been asked to be present to witness the signing of a very important accord, as well as make all of the arrangements beforehand."

"And you have to go?"

"Well, no, I'm not required to go—"

"Then don't."

One of the things he loved about her (which also happened to be one of the things that frustrated him to no end) was the way she had of cutting to the chase, attempting to oversimplify very complex matters. "No one is more familiar with this issue than I am, darling," he replied. "You remember Mr Santiago, don't you?"

Obviously struggling to recall, her eyes blinked very rapidly. "Not really," she admitted.

"Peruvian Secretary for Trade."

Still no recognition.

He elaborated. "The man who bade you speak at the conference you interrupted just after you returned from Thailand. And was so keen to reiterate to me that my girlfriend was a lesbian."

At that she flushed practically crimson. "Ah. That Mr Santiago."

He chuckled.

"But Mark," she continued. "You'll be gone so long."

"I will be gone so long," he admitted. "But at least I'll have you to keep me sane."

"You'll have—" she began, then stopped when his meaning filtered through. "Me?"

At this he outright laughed. "Yes, my darling Bridget."

Her face bloomed with a slow, shining smile. "I've never been across the Atlantic before. Or over the Equator." She ran to him and hugged him tightly, then pecked a kiss on his lips. "When do we leave?" she asked excitedly.

"Monday."

"Mark!" she exclaimed, horrified. "Four days to get ready?"

"I promise I only just found out myself." He smirked. "Besides, if you had more time to get ready you'd bring half the house."

She pursed her lips and frowned at him. "What if I forget something really important?"

"Like your swimsuit?"

She looked completely blindsided; her mouth formed an O, previous argument forgotten. "It's summer there, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Oh," she said, sounding deflated.

"What?"

"I'm not ready yet for swimsuit season."

He laughed again; she looked really offended, so he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. "I'm only laughing," he said, "because I think you're already—"

"Yes, yes," she said, pouting. "I know what you think. And I think you are biased."

"I cannot deny that I am," he said, his hands on her hips. She tried to maintain the insulted demeanour, but he saw the corners of her mouth raising ever so slightly. "But I'm also right."

"And here I thought you were above obvious attempts at flattery," she said haughtily.

"Did it work?"

She sighed. "It always does, I'm afraid." She then smiled broadly and kissed him again, squeezing him in her embrace; he returned the favour, practically lifting her off of the ground.

"So," she asked as the embrace broke apart, grinning still. "How long is the flight?"

One of the first things he'd considered in bringing Bridget—not that there ever was a question of whether or not to bring her—was the length of the flight. He knew he had his work cut out for him in making sure she would not be bored stiff during their time in the air; he'd thought it'd be rather like trying to find ways to entertain a small child on a long trip.

Not that he would ever say so to her directly.

"Around sixteen hours total," he said. He watched her jaw drop again.

"Blimey," she said. "That's longer than the trip to Thailand."

"We'll be flying first class," Mark reminded, "and sleeping for a good portion of the flight."

He saw her smile subtly again. "Of course we are." Her expression became thoughtful once more. "Where are we staying? Which hotel have you booked?"

"No hotel," he said. "We're staying as honoured guests of Mr Santiago and his family. Well. His wife."

Her brows rose in surprise. "That's awfully kind."

"He was quite taken with you," he said teasingly.

The next few hours saw her making all kinds of lists, as she was wont to do, adding items then striking them out. He was beginning to wish he'd told her the night before departure, though surely she would have murdered him in his sleep.

"Shall have to stock up on all the latest issues of Hello!, et cetera," she said as she concentrated on her list, more to herself than to him. "Hmm. Must also find passport. And jelly mules. And oh! Where on earth did I put my iPod? Will have to get converters for the power plug-ins. And exchange money. We'll have to do—"

"Bridget," he said abruptly, interrupting her, when he could take it no longer. "It's all well and good to plan, but must you do so aloud when I'm trying to read?"

"You could help me," she said, giving him a look.

"Already have," he said, flipping the page of the evening newspaper before glancing up. "I have flown for extended international business trips before, you know. Have already arranged money, power converters—"

"Will it let me charge my iPod, though?"

"Will what let you charge your iPod?"

"The power converter."

"If the plug end is standard, yes."

"And what about my passport?"

"It is in the fireproof vault."

"We have a fireproof vault?"

He laughed, set the paper down, walked over to where she sat, took the pen from her hand before he tugged her to her feet, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her passionately.

"Bridget," he said, his voice laden with amusement. "Shut up."

………

Monday

From the way Bridget was smiling pleased as punch as they settled into their seats on the plane, he was convinced that she had never flown first class before. Out of curiosity, he asked her.

"Oh!" she said unexpectedly, her smile drooping a bit before she caught it and held it in place.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Well, I did. Once," she said, flushing bright pink, stretching her legs out in front of her, as if she couldn't believe she could; also as if she was looking to change the subject. "Can't believe there are built-in foot rests! Amazing!"

"Bridget, there's no need to be evasive about first class. Where were you going?"

She looked over to him, eyes wide, as if she were about to confess to stealing a biscuit from the cupboard. "Thailand."

Mark smiled. "The station plumped for first class?"

"No."

"You've been to Thailand more than once?"

"No."

He was becoming a tad annoyed that she was being so elusive. "Bridget, let's not have Twenty Questions. The less you say the more determined I am to get you to give me a direct answer."

She closed her eyes resignedly. "I spent the trip to Thailand in first class with Daniel Cleaver," she said, then looked to him again. "He pulled some strings to get me an upgrade." She smiled a very nervous smile. "Thought telling you would just upset you."

There was a flash of something—well, he wasn't sure what it was: Jealousy? Resentment that she had not previously told him?—but then it was gone, and he reached and took her hand, squeezing her fingers reassuringly. "Bridget," he said, "I know nothing happened because you told me so."

She sighed.

"Hell," he added, hoping to relax that smile, "I might have done the same just to get out of coach."

At that she chuckled and she leaned forward to kiss him. "I love you."

"Should bloody well hope so," he said with mock stuffiness. "I'm dragging you all the way to Peru with me." He cracked a grin, then raised her hand so that he could place a kiss on her knuckles.

The air hostess came by just then to prompt them to stow their bags for takeoff, which they did; he felt the plane begin to move, then taxi into position, and within a few minutes they were airborne.

Shortly after reaching their cruising altitude, they were provided complimentary champagne, which Bridget accepted gleefully, taking a long drink.

"Have to be careful with that stuff up here, darling," warned Mark, picking up his own flute and sipping. "The altitude will make it go to your head faster."

"It's so good though."

"It would be a touch embarrassing to have to haul your very squiffy self bodily from the plane on touchdown."

She scowled playfully before knocking the rest of the glass back. "Mark, we have fifteen-plus hours of flight. That's ages from now. I'm not going to drink steadily for fifteen hours. Chuh."

"Just don't want you to have a headache when we get there. Flying itself is dehydrating to a body, not to mention the time difference."

"Oo!" she asked excitedly. "Is it going to be night there when it's day back home?"

He chuckled. "No, love. Only five hours behind London time."

"Really? I would have thought at least same as California." She dug into her seat pocket for the in-flight magazine, found the map of the world, and sure enough, saw that Peru was longitudinally equal with the eastern coast of America. "Hm," she said, examining the map. "That is rather a long distance."

………

Fifteen hours, Bridget thought as she traced the line of the flight path with her finger, horror dawning in her. Fifteen hours with no cigarette.

Of course there were times when she went longer than fifteen hours without smoking (since she liked Mark to believe that she'd quit), but on the ground she had always had the freedom to smoke one if she decided to do so. Faced now with the daunting task of surviving a fifteen-hour flight with no chance of a ciggie, she found she immediately craved one.

"It is," he said, polishing off his champagne, "so I hope you have brought plenty to do."

"I have," she said, recalling the endless pestering he had done in their preparation for the trip, "plus in-flight movies and I do intend on sleeping as well."

"Wonderful," he said, reclining and opening the newspaper he'd brought in his attaché.

"How about you?"

He froze, then looked to her. "Me?"

"Well, that paper's only going to last so long," she said.

Judging from his expression he clearly had not given this any consideration at all. "I…" He turned his eyes away. "I'll review my papers."

"You didn't bring anything else, did you?" she said, grinning madly.

"I'm not as easily bored as you are," he said, returning to the paper. "Plus there's the in-flight movies."

"I am not easily bored," she said.

"You are," he replied. "And when you're bored you harass me." He looked up again and offered a wink.

"I don't usually hear you complaining when I do," she said teasingly.

"We're not usually trapped on an airplane with no chance of complete privacy," he responded coolly.

Bloody man, she thought, making a sound of defeat as she sat back in her seat, unnervingly and frustratingly always right.

She tried to read her magazine, tried flipping through the programming available through the personal video screen, but she found she was feeling too fidgety to concentrate on anything.

"You all right?" he asked, perusing through one of her magazines. She could hardly believe he was reading Hello!. The amusement distracted her from her thoughts of smoking a fag for about ten seconds.

"Mmm, yes, I'm fine," she said. "Feeling a bit peckish."

"They should be bringing dinner by soon."

"Dinner?"

"Yes," he replied.

"What are we having?"

He set the magazine down. "Don't you remember agreeing to steak?"

She tried to rein in her features. "What was the other option?"

"Chicken."

She honestly had no memory of agreeing to anything.

The air hostess brought their dinner of steak, mashed potatoes and green beans shortly thereafter, brought some red wine at Mark's request. The meal was really very good, on par with anything they could get in a restaurant.

"Bridget," he said. "You've been pushing around your last bit of steak for ten minutes now. Eat it or don't, but please stop that. You're driving me up a wall."

She popped the end of her fork into her mouth, eating the steak, then set the fork down on the plate with a loud clink.

"Thank you," he said.

Their plates were cleared away and she thought she might give reading another go when the cabin lights went dim.

"What the…?" she began.

"They do this," Mark explained, "so that people who want to sleep can do so. If you want to read just put on your own light."

"Don't really want to read," she said sullenly, closing the book and setting it down.

He chuckled. "I know what you need." He reached for her, running his fingers along her forearm.

She turned to him, her mouth agape. "Mark, really."

At that he laughed outright. "Darling, you have a one track mind. Just come sit closer to me."

He pulled up her wrist, then pushed the armrest between them flush with the back of the seat.

"Oh."

He slipped his arm around her, kissed the hair at her temple. Within seconds she felt his fingers on her hip, tugging the bottom hem of her shirt up.

"Mark," she hissed. "What are you doing?"

"Looking to settle you down." His fingers traced along her skin.

He wasn't really going to do this, was he? Grope her right there in front of the other first class passengers and the air hostesses?

His other arm came round and it was belatedly she realised he was transferring something from one hand to another. She heard a sticky, backing-being-peeled away sound before she felt him press something against the small of her back, between her hip and her spine.

"What did you just do?"

"Attempted to quell your craving."

With a devilish smile he handed her the backing from—

"A nicotine patch?"

"Found a prescription you'd gotten but never filled, and filled it for you."

She rather enjoyed the illusion of Mark not knowing she was still smoking on the sly, albeit far fewer a day than she ever had before. She was, however, very grateful for his actually knowing and pretending not to, or she might have gone mad by the end of the flight.

"It's one of the light ones," he explained.

She smiled; his thoughtfulness knew no bounds. She reached forward and kissed him. "Thank you," she said. "However, I think the patch is supposed to go on the arm."

"True," he said, "but that was much more fun."

Whether it was the actual effect of the nicotine patch or just the placebo effect of knowing it was there, she did not know, but she immediately felt better. Whether too it was the effect of being so busy the last few days getting ready for the trip, the food they'd eaten, the wine they'd had, or a combination of all of that, she suddenly felt really, really tired. She pulled out her foot rest, unfolded her blanket, and made to recline back.

"What are you doing?" Mark asked.

She unpacked the courtesy sleep mask. "About to head for Bedfordshire. I'm wiped."

"Sounds like a fine idea." He tucked his attaché back under the seat, reclined back, pulled out his blanket. "Just because we're on a plane doesn't mean we can't sleep together. And I do mean sleep, my love."

"I know, durr," she said. "I'm not the one apparently trying to grope you under your clothes."

He laughed. "Fair point."

They settled in together with their satiny sleep masks, pulling the blankets over themselves and pushing their seats back into a reclined position; she curled up against him, her pillow lending support to her head as well. Exhaustion had utterly caught up with her and tackled her to the ground. She was asleep within minutes.

………

"Oh."

This singular vowel sound stirred Mark from sleep, not so much because it was a sound of fear or of pain, but rather more stretched-out a sound, rather more like… well, pleasure, like when they were making love. Mark pulled the mask from his eyes to find that she was still very fast asleep.

Perhaps he had been dreaming and had imagined the sound.

That was when another sound came from her that was unmistakeably not in his imagination, sleep-slurred as it was:

"Mmmm. Ohh, God."

He felt himself flush with embarrassment. "Bridget," he hissed in a whisper. "Wake up."

"Oh yes," she said, turning her head, breathing unsteadily. "Yes."

He saw the eyes of adjoining passengers, lit by their personal overhead lights, flash in their direction; more to the point, to him. Unable to take the scrutiny any longer, he said in a more audible voice, shifting in his seat, "Bridget. Wake up. You're dreaming."

"What?" She startled awake, sitting up, pushing the mask from her face too.

"You were dreaming," he reiterated, then added, more quietly, "quite loudly, I might add."

"Oh, crikey," she said; he couldn't see her clearly but could tell from the tone of her voice alone that she had full recollection of whatever—or whomever—she had been dreaming about. "What was I saying?"

He leaned in close. "It wasn't what you were saying, but rather how you were saying it. Think 'throes of passion'."

He saw her cover her face with her hands as she swore under her breath. "You're going to have to smuggle me off of this plane so I don't have to face any of the other passengers."

Now that she was awake, he was starting to find it a little amusing, though was baffled as to what could have triggered such vivid dreams. She never dreamt like that, at least not to the point of moaning and purring aloud. "I wonder if this is like your craving for cigarettes."

"What?"

"Well," he went on to explain, continuing in the low, confidential, night-time-type tone. "The minute you realised you couldn't smoke you immediately craved one."

"Mark, honestly." She reached out and lightly tapped the back of his hand. "You make me sound like some kind of nymphomaniac."

At that he chuckled. "So do you dream like this often?"

"No," she said emphatically.

"Never have dreams about sex, then?"

"I didn't say that," she said sniffily.

He slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, rearranging the blanket so that they might try to go back to sleep. "So tell me," he asked, close to her ear, "what were you dreaming about?"

"I think you know," she responded.

"Well, yes," he said; "that was easy enough to guess. Tell me specifics."

"Mark," she said, bristling, "that hardly seems fair to either of us when there can be no resolution for quite a few hours yet."

She had a point, but she seemed somehow more resistant than he would have expected. "I will somehow bear the burden of the consequences of knowing what the dream-me did to the dream-you."

Her response was so quiet he had to ask her to repeat herself.

"I said," she whispered, "it wasn't you."

His face fell, as did his stomach. Dreaming of other men in that way? He suddenly felt cast to sea.

"It wasn't me, either," she was quick to add. "Well, sort of not me. I was a nurse. Cutest little nurse outfit. Kind of sexy, actually. And then Dr Ross came in."

"Dr Ross?"

"From ER. You know. George Clooney."

"Bridget," he said in a pained voice.

"Oh, Mark, I tried to get you to let it go," she said, cuddling into him, hugging him tightly. "It was just a dream, a meaningless dream."

Rationally, he knew that it was. He had no doubts about her love for him, her fidelity was unquestioned, and at least it wasn't a past boyfriend she'd been dreaming about. No, he found his thoughts turning to the little nurse outfit, and he had no one to blame but himself for insisting on her telling him.

When he glanced down again he saw she had fallen back to sleep, so he gently tugged the sleep mask back over her eyes. After pulling his mask into place, he laid his head back, attempting a return to sleep himself, where he was met in his dreams by his lovely wife, dressed enticingly in a little nurse outfit.

………

Tuesday

It was the sound of low voices nearby that next woke Bridget, speaking of toast and cereal, as well as the distinct smell of coffee. She pushed herself up, pulled up her sleep mask, and found that the cabin lights had been restored and that the air hostesses were taking breakfast orders. She wondered how long she'd been sleeping. She glanced over to Mark, who looked adorable with the sleep mask on, blanket pulled to his chin.

The air hostess noticed she'd awakened, and approached. "Good morning," said the air hostess quietly. "Would you like something to eat?"

She realised then how hungry she was. She ordered them both breakfast—eggs, toast and bacon for Mark, pastry for herself—then dug under her seat for her carry on bag and wandered off to the loo to fix her hair, wash her face and reapply her makeup. It wasn't a proper shower, but she felt refreshed all the same.

Mark had made sure they'd packed a change of clothes into their carry-on bags, so she took the opportunity to dress in the demure yet pretty skirt and knit top she'd chosen to wear for the landing, something befitting the wife of a top-notch human rights barrister.

She could not help but think, though, of her first meeting with Mr Santiago, and of how anything would be an improvement over the way she'd looked that day.

When she returned to her seat, she found that Mark had not budged. Poor dear, she thought. Must have been so tired with all of his preparations. She shook his shoulder gently, said softly, "Mark. Breakfast."

He shifted in his seat, reached up for his sleep mask and pushed his seat upright all at the same time. His hair was a little mussed and he looked a touch stubbly, but overall he looked well-rested.

"Good morning," she said, leaning forward to kiss him. "I ordered for you."

"Thank you, darling," he returned, running his fingers through his hair. "Think I should tidy up a bit in the loo."

"Most spacious plane loo I've ever been in," she said with a smile.

He laughed, then went to rise, but upon seeing the approach of breakfast, he sat again.

"After we eat, I guess," he said, taking a big bite out of his buttered toast.

………

It turned out that, aside from the dream-related hiccough, they had slept for a good nine hours straight through, which surprised Mark. He chalked it up to sheer exhaustion. They had both been preparing for this trip, but he of course had the extra layer of work to contend with, and he'd had to make sure all of his papers were in order and accounted for, all of the 't's crossed and 'i's dotted.

After finishing breakfast, he washed up, shaved, and changed out of the jumper and casual trousers he had on and into a suit. Upon his return he found, as he returned his garment bag to storage, that his wife was looking up at him very lovingly.

"God, you wear a suit well," she said as he settled into his seat.

He smirked. It was not the first time she'd made such a comment. "You look quite gorgeous yourself."

She just continued smiling at him to a point where he felt compelled to ask, "What's going on?"

"I just had the sweetest question from our air hostess."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm," said Bridget. "She asked me if there was a particular reason we had chosen Peru for our honeymoon."

"Honeymoon?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes," she said, getting all teary, but, he could tell, in a happy way. "She thought we were newlyweds."

"What? Why?"

"I asked her that myself," said Bridget. "And she said that it was usually only newlyweds who seemed to love staying so close to one another, constantly touching each other, sleeping all nestled together, et cetera. I should have, but didn't correct the misapprehension."

He smiled, taking her hand in his. "I guess then if everyone thinks so, your night-time interruption can easily be explained away. How cruel of me to make you spend your wedding night on a plane."

She laughed.

"I much prefer 'newlywed' to 'bored old married stiff'," he said, his tone becoming serious. "I would never want anyone to think I take you for granted. Particularly you."

She leaned forward and kissed him. "So far, so good," she said. "And if not for the fact that we were all dressed up to the nines in our best clothes, I might have dragged you off to the loo to show you how much I appreciate not being taken for granted."

He was going to say Don't tempt me in response, but realised it was too late; he was already tempted. However, decorum in this instance was absolutely required. "Once we're all settled down in the attached cottage," he said quietly in return, "you may show me all you like."

At her playful smile, he reached to kiss her again, gentle, loving, delicate kisses to her lips; as he did so, he heard a female voice from the row behind them commenting on how sweet and romantic it was to see a husband gift his wife with such tokens of affection, in a tone, he thought, that bespoke a bit of jealousy.