Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

‘My feelings exactly, Montague, but he says it has to be you. When he could have Vanessa, Sally or any of our more experienced members of staff.’ Chief shook his head and Vanessa - who hadn’t ventured further than the few yards from a taxi to the front door of the Ivy or Quag’s in years - gave a little moue of regret.

  ‘What’s the assignment?’ Charlee could smell freshly cooked rat and wanted more details before she was dispatched to fetch the barbeque sauce. Her less than gracious acceptance speech earned her a severe look from Chief.

  ‘What Montague means, Rafa, is - yes; she’ll be delighted to help in any way she can. That’s right, isn’t it, Charlotte?’ Sam used her given name with an expression close to pain. Surnames were de rigueur at What’cha! if you were one of the lesser beings - aka, staff. Only Vanessa and her team of harpies were referred to by their first name.

  ‘Of course.’ Charlee gave Ffinch a bright smile, though her narrowed eyes told him to take a running jump if he thought she would be willing to spend Christmas Eve translating back copies of Pravda into flawless English for him. The other afternoon in the photo archive and a whole weekend spent stressing over what Chief was going to say to her had awoken her inner rebel. Now, despite Ffinch’s snarky observation at the book award, this rebel had a cause. She’d had enough of being patronised and given the worst jobs on the magazine. She wasn’t prepared to go down without a fight, even if that meant leaving What’cha! and hunting for another internship.

  Ffinch looked at Sam and then back at Vanessa, making it plain that he wanted to talk to Charlee alone. Sam shook his head at what he obviously perceived to be Ffinch’s folly and escorted Vanessa towards the office door.

  ‘Five minutes, Montague, and then I’ll return to flesh out the details. Right?’ he growled.

  ‘Yes, Chief,’ Charlee replied smartly. Ffinch waited until they’d shut the door behind him and then turned towards her. They looked at each other warily, like dogs spoiling for a fight and changed position on the carpet, circling each other.

  ‘Let’s get it over with, Montague. Drop the pretence.’

  ‘Pretence; what pretence?’ Charlee schooled her features, realising she’d fallen at the first hurdle and cursing her inexperience. In this job, you had to be poker-faced, play your cards close to your chest. Instead, she’d given herself away, made it plain that she couldn’t stand the sight of him - and he’d picked up the vibe. She was so vexed with herself that she almost missed his amused:

  ‘Now we’re alone, Chelsea, you can kiss me.’

  Chapter Nine

  Just Another Frog

  ‘I can what?’ Charlee spluttered, thinking she’d misheard.

  ‘I said you can kiss me,’ Fonseca-Ffinch repeated patiently as though dealing with a simple-minded child. He leaned back against the window ledge and folded his arms - waiting!

  Blushing, Charlee gave him a ‘get over yourself’ look. If he thought for one minute she was so grateful over not being sacked that she’d be willing to -

  ‘And why on earth would I want to do that? You almost got me fired and now you have some spurious assignment up your sleeve and want me on your team. For reasons you’ve yet to explain.’

  ‘Ever heard of looking a gift horse in the mouth?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. But the saying also covers Trojan horses and warns me to beware of Greeks bearing gifts,’ she said bluntly. ‘So you’d better make it clear why you want me and not one of the more experienced journalists. And, just to be clear, I have no desire to kiss you,’ her tone made it clear that she found the whole idea repellent. ‘Nor have I any intention of working late, missing the last train back to town and “staying over” in some country house hotel with you. Where I’ll be shown to a suite of rooms which - surprise, surprise - have conveniently interconnecting doors …’

  He gave her a considering look.

  ‘Don’t think you’d be able to keep your hands off me, eh Chelsea? I quite understand; you’re only human, I guess.’ He looked amused rather than put out by her show of indignation. That made Charlee bristle; she’d had a lifetime of being patronised by her brothers. What she didn’t need in her life right now was another alpha male who found her ‘amusing’, and thought her a pushover. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if trying to weigh her up. Or the way he kept referring to her as Chelsea, when he knew damned well what her name was.

  He cocked his head on one side and his grey eyes darkened to blue and Charlee sensed he was assessing whether her reaction to his proposal was genuine. Charlee guessed that he didn’t get many refusals … ha!

  ‘I might,’ she replied with a snap in her voice, ‘have trouble stopping myself from strangling you. If that’s what you mean. You are the most -’

  ‘Okay, relax. I was just testing.’

  ‘Testing?’ Her voice rose to an almost inaudible shriek.

  ‘This investigation will mean us working in close proximity. Think you can handle that?’ Again, the long look, but this time his eyes had a faraway look as if he was remembering another time, another place. A different woman.

  ‘I can handle it,’ Charlee said. And you, her look assured him.

  ‘You see,’ he continued as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘I need a female assistant who won’t go all mushy on me. Who won’t be hearing wedding bells, dream of being a June bride or think of registering our wedding list at John Lewis and expecting more than I have to offer.’

  As expected, that drew an extreme reaction from Charlee.

  ‘And I don’t want you going all mushy on me, either. There’s no room for a man in my life - I have my career to think of,’ she added, grandly. ‘And if I was looking for a life partner - which I’m not - you’d be the last man on earth I’d …’ Then she clammed up. Five minutes ago, she’d thought she was heading for the Job Centre and here she was with Mr Award-Winning Author, about to throw her second chance away. ‘Sorry. What I meant to say was -’

  ‘No. Hold onto that thought, and that expression. I rather suspect that being penitent isn’t exactly your bag.’ Closing the distance between them, he grasped her by the shoulders. Charlee took a step backwards and turned her head to the side, thinking he meant to kiss her after all. He surprised her by turning her to face the mirror on the wall. Left with little choice, Charlee raised her head and stared back at herself - with Ffinch standing at her right shoulder.

  She was hardly the picture of glowing health. Her blonde, asymmetrically cut hair was sticking up like she’d had her fingers in an electrical socket. After a troubled weekend, her winter pale skin was blotchy and she looked in dire need of a facial. And - although her bright blue eyes stared back at Ffinch defiantly - her cheeks were flushed, making her look flummoxed and out of her depth.

  However - to her credit - she also looked angry and not in the least bit mushy.

  She was about to wriggle free but hesitated, became aware that some part of her actually relished the feel of his chest lightly pressed against her shoulder blades. The touch of warm hands on knotted shoulders; the way his lime-scented aftershave fused harmoniously with her perfume as the temperature rose and they radiated body heat. A frisson travelled her length and reminded her that over six months had passed since she and her boyfriend had parted amicably after their finals. Six months since she’d shared her bed and her body with a man.

  The thought was enough to cool her ardour. Wriggling free, she shrugged off his hands, hoping her lowering expression made it plain that she found the physical contact unwelcome. She put some space between them and leaned against Sam Walker’s desk, something she would never have done under normal circumstances. But needs must, because her legs felt strangely boneless and her heart was racing.

  ‘Okay, what’s the assignment?’ She straightened her clothes and tried to look hard-bitten, like she’d just come back from a war zone and had copy to file for tomorrow’s headlines. Not a rookie with too much attitude and too little experience to warrant it.

  ‘I don’t know h
ow much you know about me,’ he began. She was about to make polite noises when he cut her off. ‘That doesn’t matter. All you need to know about this assignment is that it’s one last favour for Sam. He gave me my big break when no one could see past my name and my antecedents - my parents, my background,’ he amended.

  ‘I know what antecedents are, thanks,’ she bit out. ‘A first in languages does tend to build up one’s vocabulary.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. It’s just that I’m used to -’ then he pulled himself up short. ‘Never mind what I’m used to. It’s you I want.’ A shiver ran up her spine and this time she tried to pass it off as a shiver of distaste. ‘I hope to God I haven’t made a colossal blunder.’ For a moment, his face took on a bleak expression and remembrance seemed to swamp him. He rocked back on his heels and Charlee was reminded of the night at the gallery when she thought he looked ill and his eyes were dark-circled beneath his tropical tan.

  ‘Why me?’ she demanded suspiciously, looking the gift horse firmly between the eyes.

  ‘You’re ballsy, opinionated - and clearly not too enamoured of me.’ He held his hand up when she began to protest, feeling it was incumbent upon her. ‘That’s okay. That’s how I want it to be. At the end of this assignment we’ll dissolve our partnership,’ he pulled a wry face at the word, ‘and go our separate ways.’

  ‘No moon in June. No roses round the door. No happily ever after. Got it.’ Charlee summed up the terms of engagement succinctly and he nodded. That being settled, he then continued in a businesslike tone.

  ‘Sam wants snaps of a young royal playing away from home while his girlfriend’s in Africa, working for Save the Children. It’s for the Valentine’s edition of What’cha! Romantic, huh?’ She pulled a face. ‘I know what you’re thinking - more celeb stuff - but if this works out, you show your mettle and I can trust you, there’s a bigger story to cover. Sam reckons you’re a bit green, but you’ve got what it takes. Is that enough, for now?’

  Judging from his guarded expression she guessed it would have to be.

  Bigger story? That was more like it.

  ‘Sure,’ she shrugged with a great show of nonchalance but her brain was on overdrive. It was common knowledge that What’cha! was haemorrhaging money and that Sam Walker had had it with featuring D-list soap stars on the front cover. He wasn’t getting any younger and the rumour was that he wanted to retire. But he wanted a good story to retire on, to go out in a blaze of glory. Perhaps the bigger story was his last hurrah.

  ‘Now that’s settled, I’ve got a Christmas present for you.’

  ‘A present,’ she stammered, completely wrong-footed. ‘But I haven’t got you anything. I didn’t know - oh, ha-bloody-ha, very funny.’

  Ffinch handed her a copy of his award-winning tome: The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet.

  ‘I thought you’d find a use for it.’

  ‘As a doorstop,’ she quipped, and then bit her lip. But luckily he laughed at the joke and leaned back on the window ledge once more, arms folded across his chest, watching her. As if trying to decide if he’d made the biggest mistake of his life or taken a gamble that might just pay off. She squirmed under his scrutiny and, as was her way, made light of her feelings. ‘You know, you should have called your book Where Angels Fear to Tread or, Fools Rush In.’

  ‘Do you have an opinion on everything?’ he asked. ‘No, don’t answer that, I have a feeling that you do.’

  ‘This assignment, when is it?’ she asked, ignoring the last.

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘But tomorrow’s Christmas Eve …’

  ‘I’m sure Father Christmas will deliver your presents whether you’re there or not, Chelsea,’ he drawled, his lip curling at the sentiment.

  ‘Okay. Time out. My name is Charlee, as you well know. Or Montague, if you must. Call me Chelsea once more and I’ll …’ She raised his book above her head and he held up his hands in defence.

  ‘Okay, Char-lee,’ he replied with a nod of acquiescence. ‘Although something tells me that you’re known as The Full Monty, too?’ he said, and his lips quirked in a so-far-so-predictable half-smile

  ‘That, too,’ she nodded, giving a look that said if he had a problem with her name, he should just come out with it. ‘Just, enough with the Chelsea thing - okay? It wasn’t funny first time around and it isn’t funny now. So, what do I call you Mr Fonseca-Ffinch? You’re a bit of a mouthful, aren’t you?’ He raised his eyebrow and she realised what she’d said. ‘I didn’t mean - I mean, I wouldn’t, I don’t.’ Charlee had a horrible suspicion that her cheeks were flaming again.

  ‘Relax, Charlee. I’m Ffinch, plain and simple.’

  Charlee suspected there was nothing plain or simple about him. ‘And Rafa?’ she asked and earned one of his dark looks for her presumption.

  ‘For the use of friends and family only,’ he said firmly. Feeling well and truly put in her place, she hid her humiliation behind an insouciant shrug. In that instant, she vowed she’d make it her business to impress him enough with her skills as a journo that he’d be begging her to call him Rafa.

  ‘Okay, Ffinch it is. I -’

  At that moment, Sam Walker came back into the office with Vanessa. He was less than pleased to see Charlee perched on his desk.

  ‘Montague - arse off my burr walnut, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’ She got to her feet and tucked Ffinch’s novel under her arm. Sensing she was dismissed, she headed for the door. She paused there with one hand on the door jamb and turned to ask Ffinch one last question: ‘Where and when?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up around eleven. Sam's given me your address.’

  ‘Around eleven, fine. Dress code?’

  ‘A little black dress - assuming you have one. Wear a thick coat and thermal underwear. You do have thermal underwear, I take it?’ he asked, straight-faced, and earned another glare from her. What was his game - what exactly were the rules of engagement? To flirt or not to flirt; he really should make his mind up.

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ she said, chiefly to show that nothing he could say or do could faze her. ‘It that it?’

  ‘No; bring food, enough for two of us. None of that low-cal, high protein rubbish females eat. I want doorstep sandwiches containing meat, slabs of cake - and oh, a flask of coffee.’

  ‘Thermal underwear, man food, flask of coffee. Got it … anything else?’ she asked as sarcastically as she dared with Sam Walker and Vanessa listening.

  ‘Tell Father Christmas you’ll be home in time to open your presents. But warn your legion of boyfriends that you’ll have to put the kiss under the mistletoe on hold.’

  Boyfriends? Did he think she was sweet sixteen and never been kissed. She was just about to make a suitable retort when Vanessa put in, ever so helpfully:

  ‘Montague doesn’t have a boyfriend, Rafa.’

  ‘Good, that makes things less complicated,’ Ffinch murmured, almost as an aside.

  Before Charlee had time to ask him exactly what he meant by that, he pushed himself off the window ledge, ushered - almost pushed - her out of the room and closed the door behind her. Standing in the corridor, Charlee could hear their muffled voices and knew they were talking about her. She suspected none of it was complimentary.

  ‘Charlee? You okay?’ Poppy appeared at her side and gave her a shake. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Why? Where are we going?’ Charlee asked as Poppy steered her back into the office and whipped their coats off the backs of their chairs.

  ‘Pret A Manger.’ She took Ffinch’s book out of Charlee’s slack fingers, put it on Charlee’s desk, replacing it with a notepad and a pen. ‘Daddy says I have to bring you up to speed on Rafa to prevent you from making a monumental cock-up tomorrow night. His words not mine,’ she rolled her eyes as they made their way towards the lifts. ‘And I agree with him; this is your big chance and I’m not going to let you blow it.’ Poppy pressed the buttons and they waited for the lift to arrive on their floor.

/>   Chapter Ten

  Are You Writing This Down?

  Fifteen minutes later, Charlee was in their local branch of Pret, watching the pre-breakfast crowd grab their lattes and croissants. Tomorrow, as she’d pointed out to Ffinch, was Christmas Eve and she’d planned to finish work at noon, load her overnight bag and presents into the Mini and then head for home. Now she was going on this assignment with him!

  She didn’t much care for the sarcastic way he’d said: tell your boyfriends they’ll have to put the kiss under the mistletoe on hold. Or how his lip had curled as if he doubted her capable of being a go-for-it trainee journo and full-time girlfriend. It annoyed her to admit that he was right. Since leaving university last summer, she’d been on a couple of abortive dates with some of Poppy’s male friends - braying Hoorays for the most part. Or, dated men she met in the wine bars where she hung out with the other interns after work. But the men only seemed interested in a quick fumble and the chance to tell her how wonderful/successful/talented they were - and how lucky she was to be dating them.

  Not that she was in any hurry to find a soulmate. As she’d been quick to assure Ffinch, she was wedded to her career - love, marriage, babies and all that jazz could wait as far as she was concerned. And, in any case, she doubted her ideal man existed other than in her dreams: artistic, brave, funny, and as hungry for the exclusive - the scoop - as she was.

  ‘I thought double espressos, in the circumstances.’ Poppy plonked two small cups of extremely strong coffee in front of them and a couple of cheese and ham toasties. She pushed her thick black French plait over her shoulder and looked at Charlee expectantly with eyes as bright and darting as a robin’s. ‘Okay, give. What happened in Pa’s office?’

  ‘Don’t you ever stop eating?’ Charlee asked, already knowing the answer.

  Poppy ate like a man but was stick thin because she spent half her life riding horses and the other half mucking them out. Charlee guessed that Poppy’d been up before it was light, helping with the tack and feeding routine at her mother’s riding school. When she got home this evening, she would exercise her mother’s hunters in the indoor ménage and practise her dressage. And on Boxing Day, Poppy would be out with the local hunt while Charlee stayed in bed and nursed a hangover. ‘Okay, Popps; Fonseca-Ffinch. Give.’