Boot Camp Bride (29 page)

‘The first night I stayed at the mews, I heard you in the kitchen speaking fluent Spanish. It was the middle of the night and you said you were talking to your rellies in Brazil.’

‘And you said - they speak Portuguese in Brazil, not Spanish. I should’ve known then that I wouldn’t be able to pull the wool over those baby blues of yours, Montague.’ Although he said it like it wasn’t meant as a compliment, his eyes locked with hers and she felt suddenly warm.

‘Go on,’ she urged, keeping him - them both - on track.

‘You’d overheard me talking to my contact at the Colombian Drugs Agency who was working alongside officers from the Met at that point,’ he explained. ‘We had to keep things under wraps right up to the last minute, because corruption is rife and,’ he looked at her, the truth suddenly dawning. ‘Oh my God, Montague! You thought I was part of the drug smuggling cartel, didn’t you?’

‘Well not exactly. But you have to admit, you are very secretive.’ She didn’t want him to know that Sally and Vanessa had poured poison in her ear, implying he was involved in drug smuggling and money laundering - and that she’d fallen for it. They’d been jealous that she’d landed Ffinch and, uncertain of her own position, she’d allowed herself to be manipulated by them.

How could she have been so stupid?

‘Actually, I’m not secretive by nature, but over the course of this investigation I have had to be. Trushev is a wily character and has paid informants everywhere.’ Charlee immediately thought of the woman-mountain, Valentina. Maybe one day over a glass of wine she’d tell Ffinch about their wrestling match, being dumped unceremoniously in the corridor and rescued by Anastasia. ‘Unless he’s caught red-handed he’ll try and wriggle out of this and say that the boot camp staff were running the operation without his knowledge.’

‘But -’ Charlee tried to assimilate everything Ffinch was telling her.

‘But, nothing - the staff would take the rap for him, believe me. Twenty years in Pentonville with your nearest and dearest being looked after by Trushev is preferable to polonium in your coffee. Or, a prick on the leg with a syringe concealed in a rolled up umbrella.’

Charlee laughed. It all seemed a bit too James Bond to be real, but judging by his expression, Ffinch was deadly serious.

‘Okay, back to me,’ she said, pointing at her chest. ‘Why did Sam spin me a line about getting photographs of Anastasia and ruining
Mirror, Mirror
’s exclusive? I’m guessing there is no exclusive; you wanted me in the camp as your - your mole, and you and Sam dreamed up a fake assignment to make it appear legit? Feel free to correct me at any time.’

‘Look, Charlee . . .’ He put down his cognac, crouched on the floor in front of her and took her hands in his. ‘You’re a natural - bright, inquisitive and can do the maths. When two and two add together and make five, a journo’s antennae start twitching. And you’re more intuitive than hacks who’ve been in the business for years. But, as I explained in the Vee Dubbya yesterday afternoon, you were able to act innocent because you were innocent. They didn’t suspect a thing, although in the end we didn’t need to use you.’

‘Plausible denial - you said - I get it now.’ She snatched her hand back. Then she remembered Anastasia. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Anastasia remembered me from outside the nightclub on Christmas Eve.’

Now it was Ffinch’s turn to falter. ‘She did?’

‘Yes! But don’t worry; she’s looking for a way out of her engagement with Trushev and she thought I might provide it.’

‘How?’

‘That’s the bit I haven’t worked out yet.’ She was just about to give Ffinch the lowdown on her conversation with Anastasia: ‘Shar-lee you are my way home’, but stopped herself. What had she meant by that? ‘Probably just wishful thinking on her part, she seems terrified of him.’

‘Rightly so. Anyone who crosses Trushev has a way of disappearing, I’m glad I got you out of there.’ He returned to the footstool and concentrated on swirling the cognac round in his cut crystal balloon. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, Montague, know that?’ he said, his voice suddenly rough.

‘After what happened to Elena and Allesandro, you mean?’ She faltered, unsure of the significance of his words. ‘You mean you wouldn’t want to lose another partner on your watch?’

‘I think we both know what I mean, Charlee. It’s time we were completely honest with each other in this respect, too.’ Putting his glass on the coffee table, he dragged the footstool closer until their knees were touching. He reached out for her hands again, but Charlee wasn’t about to fall for his blandishments or lose herself in his storm-grey eyes.

‘Let’s be honest by all means,’ she said with a catch in her voice, twisting Granny’s ring round on her finger. ‘Tomorrow it all changes … I return to my bedsit. Back at
What’cha!
I revert to being the girl who fetches the lattes and gets sent to the photo archive.’ She didn’t want to think about the speculation which would arise from her and Ffinch breaking off the engagement. ‘You’ll write the story, get the glory and then move on. Isn’t that how it works? How it all ends?’

‘Charlee, I’ve never had a partner before so I’m not sure how it works.’ He released her hands and raked his fingers through his hair, doubt clouding his eyes. ‘I thought you might know.’ He smiled uncertainly and leaned towards her.

‘Me?’ Suspecting he was about to kiss her, she drew back. There was no future for them; and it was best that she didn’t surrender to the hormones which were screaming out: ‘kiss him, you fool’. She was tired, had downed too many brandies and it was time to beat a hasty retreat. ‘Goodnight, Ffinch.’ She got to her feet and walked round to the back of the sofa, pausing at the foot of the stairs. ‘And you wanna know the really sad bit? I didn’t get to speak Russian, after all.’

She walked heavily up the stairs, leaving him staring into his brandy.

Chapter Thirty-five
A Fish Called Wanda?

Valentina picked Charlee up and hurled her into the marsh. The tide was on the turn and dragged Charlee with it, thick reeds fastening round her legs and pulling her down, down into the brackish water. Gasping for breath, she surfaced. Trushev was laughing at her from his boat while Anastasia sat on a stool combing her hair and regarding her reflection in a hand mirror - an unlikely Lorelei of the marshes.

‘Anastasia,’ Charlee called out as she went under the murky waters again.

‘Sh-arlee, you did not use cosmetics I give you - and now you drown,’ Anastasia sighed, shaking her head as if there was nothing she could do to help.

‘You know too much,’ snarled Valentina. ‘Drown, English bitch.’

‘You have seen too much.
Ti slishkom mnogo videla
,’ Trushev agreed, piggy eyes glittering in the moonlight. ‘
Seichas ytoni.
Now you drown.’

‘Ffinch, Ffinch - where are you?’ Charlee called out as water filled her throat and closed over her head. The next time she surfaced, she was in the middle of a wide, fast-flowing river swimming alongside a group of cats with bones through their noses. Trushev’s boat had been replaced by a larger vessel and dark-skinned men wearing crossed bandoliers on their chests and smoking thin cheroots were laughing at her struggles.

‘¡Más le vale nadar, señorita, si no quiere que se la coman las pirañas!
’
They seemed amused by her dilemma - swim in the fast-flowing river and maybe drown, or be eaten by piranhas. The cats didn’t look too happy, either.

‘Ff-iii-nch,’ she called out. ‘Help me.’

Strong arms caught her and lifted her out of the water. She started thrashing about, trying to escape her latest tormentor. But she was held fast and …

‘Charlee. Charlee, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. It’s Ffinch - I’m here, darling.’

And so he was, sitting on the edge of her single bed and holding her in his arms - pushing her wet, sticky hair off her forehead. Charlee freed herself and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

‘Where - what?’ she stammered, disorientated.

‘You were calling out in Russian and then Spanish, and -’ Ffinch wasn’t allowed to finish his sentence because Charlee gripped his arm.

‘You just called me darling!’

‘Don’t think I did.’ Ffinch drew his eyebrows together, appeared to consider the idea and then dismissed it as preposterous. ‘That would seriously compromise our professional relationship.’

‘I guess it would,’ Charlee agreed dully, not sure if he was joking.

‘Want to tell me what your nightmare was about?’

‘I was drowning … in the Norfolk marshes and then the Amazon. Ffinch, it was horrible - Trushev was there, and then the Aguilas Negra and,’ she puckered her brow, ‘cats, lots of cats.’

‘Cats?’ He gave a theatrical shudder, patently trying to make light of her fears and help her to relax. ‘Russians, bandits and swimming cats - that’s some dream, huh?’

‘And Anastasia was a mermaid, combing her long hair and she said: “you did not use cosmetics I give you - and now you drown”.’

‘Cosmetics. A girly dream, then,’ he teased, ‘apart from the amphibious cats.’

‘Yes. Think I’d better lay off the brandy before bedtime.’ She gave a weak smile and as her heartbeat returned to normal she relaxed in his arms.

‘Was I in your dream?’ Ffinch asked, making out that the answer was of little consequence to him.

‘I think it was you who fished me out of the Amazon before the piranhas put me on the lunch menu. Or maybe,’ this time she gave him a considering look, ‘you were the one who pushed me in? To get me out of your hair?’

‘And why would I do that, exactly?’ he asked, sending her an uncomprehending look.

‘Because I’m a pain in the arse?’ she suggested, willing him to contradict her.

‘You are that and more. But I don’t want you out of my hair.’

‘Out of your life, then?’

‘Nope. Not that, either.’

‘Oh!’

‘Oh.’ His look implied she just didn’t get it, but that he was prepared to wait until she did.

‘You don’t?’ she repeated, feeling very uncertain but buoyed up by the smile he didn’t bother to hide.

‘I don’t.’

‘Ah, then …’

‘Yes?’ His eyes were warm as he waited for the full impact of his words to sink in.

‘This conversation is pretty monosyllabic, even for this time of the night.’ She found it hard to breathe and was afraid of dropping her defences and revealing the true extent of her feelings for him. Just in case she’d misread him and got this all wrong.

‘Maybe, that’s because neither of us is saying what’s really on our mind?’

 ‘Which is?’ Now it was Charlee’s turn to wait.

‘Charlee …’ Ffinch began, choosing his words with care. ‘Okay, forget I even spoke. Silly o’clock isn’t the time for confessing one’s hopes and desires.’

‘Desires,’ Charlee said under her breath, moving away from him. She knew the lines her thoughts were running along. Now she’d got over the terror of her nightmare she longed to scramble back under the thick duvet and invite him into her narrow bed, curl into his back with her arms round him, holding him so close he’d know she’d never let him go.

And yet - tomorrow, if she read the signs right - they would sever their partnership. And, much as her body yearned to make love to Rafa Ffinch and keep the memory forever - her brain counselled caution and an instinct for self-preservation held her back.

‘Okay, forget I spoke,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘Come on, you can sleep in my bed - no need to raise those eyebrows, Miss Prim and Proper …’ Although they knew after the episode at The Ship Inn that she was neither of those things. ‘You need a good night’s sleep and this bed was designed for a child or a small adult and you are neither of those.’

‘Thanks!’ Charlee said, feeling suddenly the size of Valentina, the woman-mountain. Jokingly, Ffinch flexed her arm and felt along it for newly developed muscles - the result of her internment at the boot camp.

‘Don’t fish for compliments,’ he laughed at her affronted expression. ‘We both know you’re gorgeous, sexy; everything a man could desire.’ Charlee was taken aback by the depth of emotion in his voice. Wrong-footed, she stammered the first thing that came into her mind.

‘Fish. Did you have to mention fish! It was a toss-up in my dream which got to me first, the piranhas or the cats,’ she gabbled. Her teeth started to chatter and her whole body reacted to his passionate words as though she’d been plunged into a pool of icy water. If they’d become lovers a couple of nights ago it would have been a ‘let’s act on our impulses’ kind of thing. But now they really knew each other, had been tested under fire and shared so much, Charlee knew exactly what she’d be walking away from if things didn’t work out.

One night of love might be enough for some women but it would never be enough for her. Not with Rafa Ffinch. It was safer not to travel that road and better to be left wondering what might have been, rather than knowing for certain what could never be. Tomorrow, taking her leave of him and returning Granny’s ring would take all of her reserves of courage and her willpower - and she didn’t think she could bear it.

‘Ah yes, the cats.’ Ffinch, unaware of the thoughts racing through her head, adopted a mock-learned tone and spoke with a strong Austrian accent. ‘Your subconscious was probably thinking about the Cat People and wove felines into your nightmare, Fraulein. This is a psychological phenomenon commonly linked to young females.’ He laughed at her expression and then reached out and pushed her fringe out of her eyes for a second time, as if he wanted to read her expressive blue eyes. ‘What else lurks in the darkness of your subconscious, Fraulein Carlotta?’ His voice was warm and seductive - as if his thoughts were running on the same trajectory.

‘Nothing Dr Fonseca-Ffreud needs to know,’ Charlee said in her usual robust fashion. ‘And - just so as you know, this Fraulein won’t be swapping beds, thank you very much. You’d have to stick your long legs through the bars at the foot of this bed to fit in. Most uncomfortable,’ she said in the brisk tone of a ward sister.

Looking down at the aforementioned long limbs, she realised that he was naked apart from his pyjama shorts. She’d bet even money that he slept in the nude and had dragged the shorts on when he’d heard her cry out. That thought alone was enough to make her stop shivering and become feverishly hot.

‘Don’t think I’m giving you the choice,’ he added, returning to the subject of their sleeping arrangements, ‘because I’m not.’ Scooping her up, he carried her through to the master bedroom as though she was hollow-boned and light as a bird.

The bedroom was dominated by a king-sized brass bed, the head and footboard of which was fashioned into an intricate lover’s knot.

‘Yes, I know, some bed!’ Catching her expression, he gave a sheepish grin and laid her gently on it. ‘It’s a bed made for lurve,’ he said in a Barry White growl which made her laugh. ‘Granny and Grandpa are such romantics - even if they are now in their mid-eighties. They had it made to their specifications back in the day and it underlines a simple fact.’

‘Which is?’ Charlee asked, expecting another one of his bone-dry witticisms.

‘Once a Fonseca chooses his woman, he never lets her go.’ He said it in passionate Latino-style but with such quiet force that Charlee’s breathing arrested and her blood sang in her ears.

Had Ffinch chosen her? Was this his way of telling her that he’d never let her go?

‘Ffinch, I’m not sure that I - that we - should …’ She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

‘I’m not certain either, so let’s concentrate on getting a good night’s sleep and talk about it in the morning. I can’t decide if I’m exhausted after the raid on the boot camp and by all that’s happened over the last couple of days - or exhilarated at the thought of Trushev getting his just desserts. But having you in my bed, Carlotta - well, that evokes a different set of emotions altogether.’

‘Oh.’ Charlee was back to responding in monosyllables. Then, she threw caution to the winds and let her instincts take over instead. Moving over to the right-hand side of the bed she peeled back the sheet and blankets and sent him a look of such open invitation that he couldn’t fail to understand her meaning. But, just in case -

‘There’s no point in you squashing up in that tiny bed when there’s room for a pony in this one. It’s mega-comfortable, too.’ She bounced up and down on the mattress, pulled the covers up to form a yashmak and then regarded him over the top. Her eyes were shining but her heart was thudding in case he rejected her.

‘I had a new mattress installed when I returned from Colombia, memory foam with posture springing, in case you’re interested.’ Ffinch acted as if concentrating on practical matters would stiffen his resolve to leave further discussion until morning. ‘I did wonder about sharing the bed with you and was about to suggest it - with a bolster down the middle for modesty’s sake, naturally. But, with your recent fitness regime I figured you’d probably scale the bolster in no time and I’d be at your mercy.’ Ffinch looked at her, his eyes shining and full of laughter. Then the humour in them vanished and was replaced by something deeper and more intense. ‘It’s pointless in any case,’ he finished, ‘isn’t it, Carlotta?’

 Charlee knew he was right, resistance was futile.

There was an inevitability about their becoming lovers which was almost karmic. It’d been there since the book launch, waiting to be acted upon. However, events, emotional baggage and simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time had prevented that from happening. Now all practical problems had been overcome, leaving them with just their collective hang-ups to deal with. Ffinch’s guilt over his inability to save his research assistants; Charlee’s desire to prove to her family that she was deserving of their respect and should be allowed to live the life she desired.

Now it was time for them to open up and be honest with each other. As if reaching the same conclusion, Ffinch drew back the blankets and climbed in beside her.

For a moment, their breaths snagged and their hearts beat to the same tempo. Then Ffinch pulled Charlee into his arms and kissed her with a thoroughness that made stars burst behind her closed eyelids. She gave herself up to his kiss, acknowledging that this was what she wanted; what she’d wanted from the moment she’d first set eyes on him.

Ffinch drew back from the kiss and broke the spell.

‘So,’ he said, lying on his side and propping his head on his hand, ‘fish. You were saying?’

‘Fish?’ Charlee asked, dazed and breathless. She wanted to rip her pyjamas off and press her breasts up against him, exactly as she had done that night back at The Ship Inn. Flesh against flesh; her warm skin heating his cold limbs.

- And he wanted to discuss fish!

 Really?

‘It’s important to get the details right, Montague. As a journalist you should know that,’ Ffinch said, straight-faced and severe. ‘What colour were the piranhas?’

‘What?’ Charlee asked, throwing herself on her back and frowning at the ceiling in frustration. ‘I didn’t bother to look; they were fecking fish, what more can I say? Ffinch - if this is your idea of foreplay, then -’ she began but he cut across her.