Boot Camp Bride (25 page)

‘Ffinch!’ A tiny grenade of a bomb of joy exploded in Charlee’s chest leaving an aftershock of happiness behind. ‘Ffinch …’ she repeated in a more restrained tone. Last time she’d seen him, he’d dumped her unceremoniously onto her bed and locked the door behind him. And yesterday he’d snarkily referred to her as the runaway bride. It wouldn’t do to be too pleased to see him. ‘I thought you were some kind of birdwatching pervert! What are you doing here? How - how did you know I’d come into this hide?’

‘I didn’t. You told me that you were jogging to Titchwell and I took a punt on running into you. Don’t worry, I’ve hidden another phone underneath the bench by the boot camp, the one overlooking the wind turbines. I’ve also stashed one in the hollow tree in the pine plantation near Thornham Beach in case your run took you in that direction. That’s what we agreed, wasn’t it?’ He gave her a puzzled look as if waiting for a reaction, any response other than her stunned look.

 ‘Mm, that’s right.’

‘And, here you are,’ he continued evenly, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘An expert in martial arts in under two days. Pretty good going, even for you, Montague.’

‘Yes; here I am,’ Charlee agreed, almost combusting under his steady regard. Ffinch, realising that he was still holding her hand, dropped it like a brand and stepped back from her. Charlee searched for some witticism; some smart alec remark which would re-establish her position as the go-to rookie and consign the hormonally imbalanced madwoman of the other night to the recycle bin. Using all her reserves of cool, she sent him a composed look.

Seeing him again, reinforced how much she’d missed him. There was so much she wanted to say; so much that she couldn’t say. She settled instead for sending him a helpless look which acknowledged he’d been right all along when he said that nothing could ever be the same between them.

‘Montague … ’

‘Ffinch, I -’

Apparently sensing her inner turmoil, Ffinch took a step towards her and broke the tongue-tied silence. ‘It might be a good idea to hide the phone, Montague? Before you leave?’ he added, giving her a prompt to exit stage left.

‘Of course.’

Charlee looked down at the phone, wondering where on earth she could hide it. Ffinch gave her close-fitting thermal leggings a professional once-over, clearly of the same opinion. His gaze lingered longer than was strictly necessary over the curve of her buttocks before he schooled his features. Blushing, Charlee stowed the phone inside her knickers just below the dip of her spine, pulling her top over the telltale bulge and rearranging her jacket.

‘I hope you’ve set the ring tone to throb,’ she said sternly. Then she realised what she’d said and rushed to cover up her double entendre. ‘How’s that?’ she asked, turning round, dropping her hip and sticking out her bottom so he could check for phone-shaped bulges.

 ‘In what sense?’ he asked in a constricted tone.

‘In the sense of: does my phone look big in this,’ she said snarkily, hoping to return to their previous banter. The woman in her wanted to test Ffinch’s breaking point, to see if he was as oblivious to the alteration in their relationship as his appearance suggested. But the professional in her knew that such behaviour was wrong on just about every level you could think of.

Rock - Scissors - Paper.

‘It looks - okay,’ he said. ‘However, it’s best not to test the willpower of a - how did you phrase it - birdwatching pervert.’

‘Okay, so I shouldn’t have implied you were a birdwatcher,’ she agreed straight-faced, but didn’t apologise for implying he was a pervert. Turning, she took a couple of steps closer, knowing that she had to say her piece. ‘Look, Ffinch, before we’re disturbed, I have a couple of things I need to say.’

‘Go ahead.’ He stowed his balaclava in his pocket and pulled the baseball cap down over his eyes, leaving Charlee with the feeling that he was struggling to keep things between them on an even keel.

‘One,’ Charlee let out a steadying breath. ‘I shouldn’t have come to your room, let alone climbed into your bed and - well - another man might not have acted so … chivalrously.’ She walked over to the open window, feeling sudden heat wash over her at the memory of his mouth on her skin. ‘So, thanks for that,’ she said diffidently, knowing that she hadn’t wanted chivalry two nights ago. She’d wanted - well, she assumed they both knew what she’d wanted, it wasn’t rocket science.

‘Chivalrous? Is that what I was?’ He pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully as though the idea needed some consideration. ‘It takes two to tango, Charlee. I wasn’t a reluctant participant, believe me, I simply felt the timing was lousy. You’ve got to carve a path for yourself in the world of journalism - and I’ve got unsettled business in Darien.’

‘Oh.’ His ‘it takes two to tango’, made Charlee feel slightly better, although something inside her shrivelled when he mentioned returning to the scene of his dangerous expedition. ‘And would you have told me this - the next morning, I mean - if I hadn’t have bolted?’

‘Most probably, but you didn’t give me the chance, did you?’

‘I acted like a fool.’ He didn’t contradict her.

‘And the second thing?’ he asked, looking through a crack in the door to make sure no one was coming along the path.

‘It feels wrong to win over Anastasia’s confidence just to pump her for some article Sam wants to write to spike his rival. I know, I know,’ she raised her hand to forestall him. ‘I need to man up if I’m going to survive in this game. It just feels - wrong. That’s all.’

‘Your scruples do you proud, Montague; however, we’ve come here to do a job and I can’t do it without you,’ he said, wearing his hard-bitten-photojournalist’s hat. Then he stalled, as if he’d said too much. Charlee decided to press home her advantage before they were interrupted or he clammed up.

‘Which brings me neatly to my next point. Get this - Anastasia’s fiancée owns the boot camp. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? Maybe it’s a front for something else -’

‘Such as?’ he asked, his expression bland.

‘I don’t know. But there’s something dodgy about him. About the whole set-up … and I mean to find out what it is.’

‘Someone’s coming,’ he said, cutting her speculation short. He removed his baseball cap, slipped the balaclava back on, pulling it up so only his gorgeous blue-grey eyes were visible. Charlee’s stomach flipped over and a shiver of sexual awareness fizzed through her like champagne and replaced the heat which had earlier scorched her face. How could she have mistaken him for a birdwatching pervert? He looked every inch the sort of man any woman would be proud to call her lover. She sighed. ‘You’d better go,’ he warned. ‘And, Charlee -’

‘Yes?’

Ffinch looked as if he wanted to say more, but settled for: ‘Take care.’

Charlee’s heart swelled, but she hid her emotion behind a sassy grin and a throwaway remark. ‘I’m a black belt, remember?’ She struck a pose which Bruce Lee would have been proud of.

‘In origami, I believe?’ Then he returned to his camera and the reed beds where no birds sang. Dismissed, Charlee shook out her legs and arms to limber up for the jog back, knowing that Anastasia, Valentina and the other brides-to-be who couldn’t keep up with the punishing pace would be shipped back to the boot camp in a minibus.

And that suited her. She needed to be out on the marshes alone so she could locate the spare phone and keep it as back up. It was just like the Easter egg hunts her parents used to organise in their orchard for the village children, she reflected, as she walked up the path towards the café.

Except this was deadly serious and potentially dangerous - even if she hadn’t quite figured out why - yet!

Chapter Thirty
He Who Must Be Obeyed

The arrival of Yevgeny Nikolayevich Trushev later that same afternoon sent the staff into a tailspin. Natasha the manager looked as though she expected to be sacked at any moment and Anastasia became increasingly nervous - although Yevgeny made no attempt to visit her. Only Valentina seemed happy that her boss was on the premises and delighted in sending Charlee and Anastasia ‘just you wait and see’ looks. As if their just desserts were just around the corner and she’d be the one dishing them up.

While Anastasia was taking her second shower of the day and preparing herself for Yevgeny, Charlee made the most of the opportunity to hide one of the phones at the back of the armoire, tucked into the buttoned-down pocket of a short, denim jacket. The other she held in her hand and looked at uncertainly. No way would she be able to get photos of Anastasia or anyone else at the boot camp without being blatantly obvious.

Sans
photos, her piece on Anastasia was virtually worthless. What was she to do?

Standing in the bay window, she checked to see how many bars were visible on her phone. Two - one - then none; the signal came and went erratically. However, with Anastasia in the shower, Charlee thought this was a good time to ring Ffinch for advice.

Walking into the bay window and drawing the curtains behind her, she tapped out his number.

‘Ffinch.’

‘Ffinch, this isn’t going to work,’ she said in a rush.

‘O-kay,’ he said slowly. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘How about if you park the camper van by the Coal Shed and I persuade Anastasia to walk with me there - ostensibly to see the barn owls quartering the fields near the pinewood? You could draw the curtains and poke your lens through and get some close ups of her as we walk past? She won’t be very muddied up, and she doesn’t do dishevelled so the shots might not be what Sam’s looking for. Her fiancé, Yevgeny, has just arrived, so I don’t think we’ll see her in a tracksuit again.’ She realised that she was in danger of hyperventilating so she slowed down and hissed under her breath, ‘Oh, this is bloody impossible.’

‘Don’t stress about it, Charlee, you’ve done your best,’ Ffinch said in a surprisingly calm voice.

‘I might as well leave tomorrow morning and forget all about the Gala Dinner. I’ve got enough info to run a background piece about Anastasia growing up in poverty in Odessa and how she was scouted by one of the agencies, whilst selling vegetables on the roadside by her parents’ farm.’

‘No. You’re to stay the course.’ His voice was sharp. ‘Look, I’m going to drive round to the Coal Shed and park there for the rest of the afternoon. Meet me there, with or without Markova.’

‘But how? It’s easier to get a weekend exeat from boarding school than to walk out of these gates. Talk about the Gulag Archipelago,’ Charlee complained as loud as she dared with Anastasia just out of earshot.

‘You’re resourceful, Montague, you’ll figure it out.’ Giving her no room for manoeuvre, he hung up.

Feeling dismissed, Charlee pressed her lips together and frowned. This morning in the hide she’d sensed a definite connection between them - as if he’d been pleased to see her. But perhaps a combination of the hormones and mild homesickness had dulled her perception. Evidently he had other things on his mind, things that took precedence over holding a rookie’s hand.

It was a permanent state of affairs with him, she concluded, switching the phone to silent and stowing it back in her underwear. She was adjusting the curtains when Anastasia walked out of the en suite, a cloud of some delicious tangy, green scent trailing in her wake.

‘That smells fab,’ Charlee said. ‘What is it?’

Anastasia shrugged. ‘I don’t know; Chanel 19, I think. I get given many things.’ She walked back into the en suite and returned carrying a large bottle of shower lotion. ‘You take,’ she said to Charlee and put it down on her side of the dressing table. ‘I have more; many more.’ She frowned as if the thought brought her no comfort and Charlee felt a pang of empathy. Anastasia Markova had everything: money, beauty, an enviable career - and, okay, a fiancée who looked like Mr Potato Head - but she seemed desolate and suffering from low self-esteem.

That was something Charlee had never experienced. Maybe she should thank her brothers for making her stand on her own two feet and teaching her to shout loudest in order to be heard.

‘I was going to walk to the Coal Shed. That place I told you of, and then down to the bench overlooking the fields where the barn owls can be seen,’ Charlee said casually. ‘Fancy coming with me?’

Anastasia stopped towelling and looked up at Charlee through tangled blonde hair - like a sad mermaid. ‘Sh-arlee, you must understand, now Yevgeny is here I must be ready at all times.’ Ready for what Charlee didn’t need to inquire, bile rising in her throat at the thought of Anastasia being pawed by the Russian. How different things had been between herself and Ffinch the other night, the difference between having sex and making love.

‘Forgive me for asking, Anastasia, but why do you stay with him? You’ve studied at a prestigious university, been on the front of every magazine and have your own money.’ Anastasia’s endless legs, long blonde hair, high cheekbones and slanting green eyes made her the highest paid model on the catwalk.

‘My money must last me - and my family back in Odessa - all of my life, yes? Looks fade, men grow cold - I must have security …’ she tailed off, looking so forlorn that Charlee’s heart squeezed with compassion.

‘What about happiness? Love?’ she asked, her own gaze slipping inadvertently to her and Ffinch’s ‘engagement photo’. She looked ecstatically happy in the photograph, but that was a sham too.

Anastasia shrugged. ‘I choose security over love.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look as if remembering cold winters back in Russia when there hadn’t been enough food to go round.

‘Properly managed your money could last forever,’ Charlee said, not even sure if that was true. ‘And you have many years on the catwalk and product endorsement ahead of you. Look at Cindy Crawford, still gorgeous, still earning. If being with your fiancé makes you unhappy, why don’t you break off the engagement?’

Anastasia looked at her as if she was mad.

‘Ah, Sh-arlee, how little you know, how little you understand.’ If anyone else had said that to Charlee she would have reacted angrily, but she saw the mournful look in Anastasia’s eyes and knew it was true. What did she know of sorrow, of never having enough? ‘Yevgeny will never let me go.’

Dragging her fleece out of the wardrobe and slipping on her fur-lined boots against the cold, Charlee resolved - whatever it took - she’d help Anastasia find a way out.

‘I’ve got to get out of the gulag for a while.’ Her use of the Russian word made Anastasia smile. ‘Catch you later?’

‘Alligators, yes?’ Anastasia used the phrase Charlee had taught her.

‘In a while, crocodile,’ Charlee high-fived Anastasia and left the room. As she took the stairs two at a time, Charlee told herself that it was the thought of an hour’s freedom that put wings on her heels - and not that she’d be spending it with Ffinch.

The distinctive navy and white camper van was parked by the Coal Shed at Thornham Staithe. To Charlee’s dismay, its dark-blue and cream gingham curtains were drawn. She was just about to walk away when the middle doors opened and Ffinch stuck his head out.

 ‘Step into my parlour, Montague. Lively, if you please,’ he added, looking over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t observed.

‘Making you the spider and me the fly?’ Crazily, that thought made Charlee’s heart beat faster. She climbed on board the camper van and Ffinch leaned across to shut the door. He took great care not to touch her, obviously deciding that grazing her breast with his elbow, however unintentionally, just wasn’t on.

He indicated that Charlee should slide along the bench seat so she was sitting next to the window, then he squeezed between the bench and the table and joined her. It was surprisingly warm and intimate in the VW and Charlee was overwhelmed by a desire to turn the bench seats into a bed and spend all afternoon making love behind the gingham curtains. Putting the brake on her runaway thoughts, she hid the attraction she felt for Ffinch behind a sarcastic remark.

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit obvious being the only blue and white camper van parked on the marshes in the middle of January, Ffinch?’

‘Haven’t you heard of hiding in plain sight, Montague?’ he countered, clearly taken aback by her abrasive tone. ‘I don’t think I need you to tell me how to conduct an undercover assignment. Last time I checked, I was the award-winning journalist and you were the rookie elevated from filing copy and fetching lattes. Correct me if I’m wrong.’

‘Don’t spare my feelings, will you?’ Then, thinking of another way to needle him, Charlee changed the subject. ‘Bit cramped and stuffy in here, isn’t it? Why don’t you invest in a Winnebago?’ she asked, dissing his beloved camper van. Ffinch crossed himself as if warding off the evil eye.

‘She didn’t mean it,’ Ffinch said, stroking the side of the van lovingly and patting the woodwork. Charlee wished that he was stroking her half as sensuously! Burning with sexual frustration and feeling overheated as lust burned through her veins, like a flame along a dynamite fuse, she peeled off several layers of clothing. When she emerged from pulling her sweatshirt over her head, her eyes met Ffinch’s and the tension ratcheted up another couple of notches. Although he gave no outward show of it, Charlee sensed that he felt the pull of sexual attraction between them as keenly as she did; he simply had greater reserves of self-control.

As they sat staring at each other, eyes wide open, pupils dilated and their breaths coalescing in the steamy atmosphere, the whistling kettle came to the boil and condensation dripped down the windows. Charlee felt that the muggy environment in the VW summed up exactly how she was feeling!

‘Ah, tea,’ Ffinch said as though it was the most marvellous invention in the world. He made two mugs of builders’ tea and poured a slug of spirit in each for good measure. Then he reached across to the door where a tin marked SWEET THINGS was jammed tightly into a built-in spice rack. Removing the tin, he put it on a table which took up half the width of the camper van. ‘Chocolate Hobnobs, your drug of choice I believe? Help yourself; it might help to restore your blood sugar levels - in this mood you look capable of murder.’

His wry expression showed he suspected he was top of the list.

‘Manna from heaven - biscuits.’ Suitably distracted, Charlee tipped a handful of biscuits on to the pixie-sized table. She dunked one in her tea several times and then took a large swig of the alcohol-laced tea, coughing at the strength of it.

‘Had your fill of rice cakes and lentils, Montague?’ Ffinch returned to their former verbal jousting, as if deciding that was the best way forward. Keep it light; keep it professional; keep their minds above their navels. ‘No Markova, then?’

‘She’s on standby in case Mr Potato Head wants sex. Gross, in my opinion,’ Charlee said, spitting crumbs all over her fleece. ‘Not sex per se; just sex with him,’ she added in case Ffinch thought she’d turned celibate after the other night. He looked at her consideringly over the top of his mug and drank his tea, as if taking it as read that she - they- both enjoyed sex.

‘Mr Potato Head? I assume you mean Yevgeny Nikolayevich Trushev, one of the richest men in Russia.’ Wisely, Ffinch steered the conversation onto less contentious subjects.

‘And one of the ugliest,’ Charlee added, reaching for her second biscuit.

‘You don’t find power and wealth an aphrodisiac, then?’

‘Should I?’

‘Lots of women do,’ Ffinch observed as he chose a biscuit. ‘Markova must, otherwise why is she marrying him?’

‘I think she’s more frightened of him than in love with him,’ Charlee said, putting down her mug. ‘Since his arrival, the boot camp has been on high alert. I was able to slip away because I’m too insignificant to show up on the radar. Trushev, on the other hand, is treated like he’s royalty and Anastasia his crown princess. Odd, don’t you think?’ She stirred her tea with a battered, crested silver tea spoon. ‘With them being Russians, I mean. Considering they went to all that trouble to slaughter their royal family in the cellar at Yekaterinburg.’

‘You know your history,’ he observed, dunking another biscuit in his tea. It went quiet as they both gave weight to what she’d said. ‘Montague - I can hear those cogs whirring. Spit it out.’ Charlee was happy to oblige. Processing her thoughts into theories made her concentrate on something other than Ffinch’s grey eyes and the senses stirring combination of expensive aftershave and manly muskiness that carried to her every time he shifted on the bench seat.

‘Okay. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that a Russian oligarch should (a) establish a boot camp for brides in Norfolk and (b) send his fiancée there in the middle of winter when she could stay in any number of spas in exotic locations around the world? I thought oligarchs bought football teams and owned racehorses, not gulag-like boot camps. Then,’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘he gets here, ignores aforementioned gorgeous fiancée and makes plans to go night fishing with the manageress’s husband. Weird, huh?’

‘Night fishing?’ The casual way in which Ffinch asked the question was at odds with how still and alert he appeared. He poured more of the fiery liquor into their tea and Charlee wondered if she’d be capable of jogging back to the boot camp. Removing her gloves, she cupped her hands round the mug for warmth. Reaching behind him, Ffinch located a patchwork quilt in shades of blue and cream and wrapped it round her shoulders. Charlee shivered as his fingers grazed the nape of her neck. ‘Better?’