Boot Camp Bride (5 page)

Chapter Eight
An Offer You Can’t Refuse

Steeling herself, Charlee knocked on Chief’s door. Usually, he shouted: ‘Fuck Off,’ in an aggressive Sarf Lunnon accent and sent hapless staff members scuttling down the corridor until he was in a better mood. Or, he gave a long drawn out: ‘Co-ome,’ like he was the headmaster of a top independent school and you’d been summoned to his office for a caning. This morning it was the latter and, as Charlee pushed the heavy door open, she half expected him to address her as Montague Minor.

Fixing a bright, optimistic smile on her face, she walked into his office.

‘You wanted to see me, Chief?’

‘Actually Montague, I don’t want to see you. In fact, I never want to see you again.’ Charlee’s heart bungeed down to her boots and she found it hard to breathe. The last of her chutzpah disappeared when she saw Vanessa - looking for all the world like the boot-faced woman on
Dragon’s Den
- seated at Sam Walker’s right-hand side.

Charlee half expected Vanessa to say: ‘I’m out.’ But apparently even she knew that Chief would demand the first (and probably last) word on this matter. So she pursed her lips and settled instead for sending Charlee a scorching look. Charlie knew that Vanessa would relish seeing Sam Walker dismiss her without a reference and would regale anyone who cared to listen with the story of her downfall.

Charlee’s hopeful smile slipped in the face of such negative vibes coming her way. However, deciding that she wasn’t going down without a fight, she started to present the case for the defence. ‘Chief, if you give me a moment, I can explain …’

‘I doubt that very much, Montague. As I say, I never want to see you again.’

Charlee pretended that she hadn’t heard and ploughed right on. ‘You see, I didn’t realise that I was talking to Mr Fonseca-Ffinch. I thought I was talking to some random friend of the gallery owner’s who’d -’

‘Shut it, Montague. We’re not interested in what you thought,’ Sam fixed her with a beady stare. ‘In fact, you’d be better off not thinking at all. Clearly, your brain’s not equipped for the job. As I said - before you interrupted me - I never want to see you again, but for reasons I won’t go into, I’ve been prevailed upon.’

‘Prevailed upon?’ Charlee frowned and a little spark of hope ignited deep within her. ‘Does that mean -’

‘Which bit of shut it, don’t you get Montague?’

‘Sorry Chief,’ Charlee said automatically and earned another basilisk stare. Aware that she’d spoken out of turn, again, Charlee clamped her lips together and cast down her eyes in a convincing show of penitence. But all the while a single thought was going through her mind. He’s been prevailed upon; maybe he isn’t going to fire me, after all.

‘That’s better. Remind me, how many languages are you fluent in?’ he asked, coming from left of field. He scribbled some notes on his desk pad in shorthand - a hangover, Charlee supposed, from his days as a Fleet Street hack. The ‘glory days’ as he referred to them, bemoaning the day they moved to Wapping in the eighties as the beginning of the end. Now everyone had smartphones and tablet computers; Sam foresaw the day when the presses would stop running altogether.

‘Five - six if you include Portuguese.’ She faltered, her pulse was racing as she wondered where this was leading and how honest she should be. ‘Although my Mandarin isn’t quite up to scratch,’ she admitted candidly.

‘Well, luckily you ain’t being asked to act as a tour guide on the Great Wall of bleedin’ China, so we’ll gloss over that - shall we?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Speak Russian?’

Charlee thought of coming back with a sassy: ‘
dobraye utro
’
- good morning - but upon catching his expression, thought better of it. Banking down her curiosity, she wondered exactly where this conversation was leading. The Moscow office? The salt mines? She’d entered the room expecting to be fired. Instead it looked as if Chief’s Machiavellian instincts were on overdrive, and she could smell a story in the air.

She recalled what Poppy had said about him not coming down to dinner the previous evening, about Fonseca-Ffinch being in their house. Had that something to do with his attitude this morning? Had something reawakened the newshound in him?

‘Montague. A simple yes or no. I’m waiting.’

‘Yes, I speak Russian,’ she replied quickly.

‘And can you read their alphabet?’

‘I can read, write and translate Cyrillic script, yes.’

‘Okay. Don’t milk it, Montague. No one’s asking you to translate the fuckin’ Rosetta Stone.’

Sam Walker’s bark was worse than his bite and cringing or sycophantic members of staff irritated him, so Charlie added for good measure: ‘The Rosetta Stone is written in hieroglyphics and Demotic Greek, Chief.’

He searched for something scathing to add, finally settling for, ‘Don’t be a smart arse, Montague, this isn’t a job interview. You’re in trouble and don’t forget it.’ Then Vanessa coughed and they exchanged a pointed look, after which they glanced over Charlee’s shoulder and to her left. Charlee shivered. What had they seen, the ghost of interns past? She dismissed the idea as ridiculous, but even so, a shiver of prescience made the hair on the nape of her neck rise like the hackles on a dog.

Then a familiar voice chimed in. ‘Although, Sam, in a way this is an interview, isn’t it?’ Charlee spun round on one foot, saw who was sitting in the chair behind the door and groaned. She was unaware that she’d groaned out loud until he came back with, ‘Lovely to see you again, too, Chelsea.’ He stood up and extended his right hand. Charlee looked at him, at it, suspiciously. Was this a trap? Surely, he hadn’t gone to all this trouble to organise a reunion because he wanted a return match of rock, paper, scissors.

‘My name,’ she hissed through clenched teeth, ‘is Charlee.’

‘Your name is anything Mr Fonseca-Ffinch wants it to be, Montague,’ Vanessa snapped. She gave Charlee a little shove in the back and pushed her closer to Fonseca-Ffinch. ‘Manners, Montague.’ Forced into a corner, Charlie extended her hand and shook fingers with him. A full hand clasp was out of the question, if, as she suspected, he was responsible for her losing her job. She also remembered the shock of electricity which had passed between them on Friday night and didn’t want to experience it again.

‘Mr Fonseca-Ffinch,’ Charlee greeted him. With her back turned towards Vanessa and Sam she was able to glare at him as much as she dared.

 ‘Young people, Rafa, honestly …’ Vanessa simpered, coming round to his side of the desk. Then, as if realising she’d made herself sound like some ancient maiden aunt she hastily smoothed down her business suit - this season’s Burberry Prorsum - and gave a seductive little wriggle.

Then she was at Fonseca-Ffinch’s side - noiselessly, like a shape shifter. But he neatly sidestepped her, offered her his vacant chair and then he and Charlee were standing in front of Chief’s desk.

‘I want to speak to you,’ he began, and then glanced between Vanessa and Sam Walker. Clearly, what he had to say was for her ears only.

‘Look. I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t know you were someone important.’ Even as she said it, Charlee couldn’t help her lip curling slightly, which gave lie to her words. ‘I thought you were …’

‘Never mind all that, now, Montague. Ffinch wants someone to help him out on an assignment and - Gawd help us - has asked for you. Specifically.’

‘Me?’ Charlee gave him a suspicious look. Chief pulled a wry face.

‘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 how 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.