Boot Camp Bride (21 page)

 ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know,’ he mused. ‘Like Byron, you mean?’ His straight dark eyebrows drew together and he dipped his head as he tried to read her expression.

‘Just like Byron, except …’ she pulled up short.

‘Go on - I’m steeling myself, Montague,’ he remarked with a resigned but amused shrug. ‘That particular genie isn’t going to return willingly to the magic lamp. Say it. ’

‘Except. Oh, God - I wish I hadn’t started this …’ She took a deep breath and rushed on, ‘Except you probably wouldn’t have sex with your sister.’

‘Only - probably?’ This time his eyebrows almost touched his hairline.

‘Definitely,’ she asserted.

‘Thanks for the character reference. And, for the record, she was his half-sister.’ Shaking his head at a further example of her off-the-wall observations, he asked reflectively, ‘How did we segue from owls being diurnal, to incest, and nineteenth-century Romantic Poets? Only with you, Montague; only with you.’ He gave her another measured look, apparently accepting that she was a total fruit bat - but his partner for good or ill. Charlee could tell that he found their conversation intellectually stimulating and enjoyed the badinage, as if humour could unlock those parts of him he’d closed off from the world.

‘Good morning.’ Two of the elderly guests from the hotel, similarly loaded down with walking sticks, binoculars and tripods, walked past them.

‘Good morning.’ Ffinch greeted them, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary for his fiancée to throw him into a hedge and then herself on top of him. ‘Lovely morning for it,’ he added.

‘It is indeed,’ the wife pronounced, giving Charlee a ‘good on you, girl’ wink before walking on.

‘Did you see that?’ she gasped, finally pushing herself off him. ‘She winked at me!’

‘What? You think sex stops at sixty?’ Ffinch asked.

‘I’m trying very hard not to think about it. My parents are in their sixties. Urgh, don’t let’s go there.’

‘Incestuous poets much easier to handle?’

‘Much,’ she agreed, brushing down her windproof jacket and adjusting the polar fleece bandana keeping her ears warm. It was shocking pink, but not as pink as her cheeks.

Head down against the buffeting wind, she followed Ffinch as he walked along the path hugging the outer margins of the marsh beyond the tide’s reach. Eventually he came to a halt by a bench facing out over the marshes to the sea. He slipped off his rucksack, sat on the bench and indicated that she should do the same. Then he got out his flask and poured out two cups of hot chocolate.

‘You know, The Ship is missing a trick,’ he said as he savoured the hot drink.

‘It is?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, raising his binoculars and looking towards Thornham Beach. ‘Serving hot drinks in dark-green flasks with the hotel’s logo on the side. How boring is that? You would have thought that Ninja Turtle flasks would have made it over here, eh Montague?’

‘You are so bloody funny, Ffinch - not!’

Stifling the giggle that threatened to have her spluttering in her hot chocolate, Charlee relaxed and looked over the marshes. Now she was out of the wind and the sun had come out, they didn’t look so grim after all. There was a stripped back beauty to them, she could see that, and the flocks of birds heading for the feeding grounds down by the shoreline ensured the view was an ever changing tapestry. And she had to admit, just sitting there, eyes closed, face soaking up the weak January sun, was the perfect antidote to the last couple of manic weeks. When she glanced at Ffinch he was still scanning the marshes through his binoculars, his cup of hot chocolate untouched on the bench beside him.

Why did she get the impression it wasn’t the birds he was watching so intently?

‘What’s out there?’ Charlee asked, slipping on her sunglasses against the almost overwhelming expanse of bright blue sky that filled three quarters of the landscape.

‘The Wash. And over there you can see the wind turbines on the shoreline at Skegness.’ Charlee followed his pointing finger and squinted at the distant shore where almost a hundred huge turbines were turning like quiet ghosts.

‘No, I meant - what’s out there that you find so interesting?’

‘Just enjoying the view,’ Ffinch said, sitting down and drinking his hot chocolate. ‘We spent so much time abroad when I was growing up, staying with my Brazilian relatives on their coffee farm or on overseas postings. I don’t know much about the English coast and I’m intrigued by it.’

Charlee felt excluded from his circle of trust, but she hid it well.

‘Ditto. My father thought it was a good idea for me to practise my Spanish, Italian, Russian - whatever - in the country where it was spoken and booked our summer holidays accordingly. Mum didn’t mind where we stayed as long as it involved sun, a five-star hotel with a pool and somewhere to stack her suntan lotion next to a pile of books. Thank God for the invention of e-readers, she always went over the luggage limit on books alone and father would go ape.’ She knew she was gabbling but couldn’t stop herself. ‘The annoying thing is, as soon as the locals found out I was British, they wanted to practise their English on me.

‘How is your Russian these days?’ he asked, conversationally. ‘Can you read and write it?’

‘
Ya xorosho govoru po rysski
.’

‘Which means?’

‘My Russian is very good.’ She sent him a calculating look.
‘
No mne interesno pochemy eto tak vajno vam.
’

‘That doesn’t sound complimentary. What does it mean, Montague?’ he asked, clearly taking her shrewd look on board.

‘But I can’t help wondering why it’s so important to you.’

‘So you’ll be able to understand what Anastasia says to her bridesmaids and report back to Sam,’ he said, as though explaining the rules of a board game to a child. ‘What?’ he asked as she jumped to her feet and stood in front of him, deliberately blocking the view of the marsh he appeared to find so engaging.

‘Look, Ffinch. I don’t know what’s going on here but it’s certainly more than photographing some anorexic models and reporting their banal conversations about how many calories are in a breadstick. Or spoiling
Mirror, Mirror
’s story, for that matter.’

 Unfazed by her outburst, he put his binoculars down on the bench next to the hot chocolate and chose his next words carefully.

‘Montague, that brain of yours is in permanent hyperdrive and it’s quite exhausting if you must know. This story is Sam’s way of easing me in gently after dengue fever; after - after everything that’s happened, to - to me.’ His voice faltered and Charlee felt guilty for voicing her suspicions, but only for a few brief moments. ‘This is my therapeutic return to work, as recommended by the guys in HR - supervising a rookie, taking a few snaps …’

‘Pouf,’ Charlee exclaimed dismissively. Ffinch hardly looked like someone who gave a stuff about what HR thought. However, there was a ring of truth in his explanation, but it wasn’t the whole truth or anything approaching it, of that Charlee was sure. Turning away from him, she looked back at the wind turbines on the distant shoreline turning against the pale-blue winter sky.

‘Charlee, this is Sam’s last hurrah. If we get the scoop it’ll not only steal the march on
Mirror, Mirror
, it’ll put
What’cha!
in a strong position when he does come to sell.’

‘I totally get that, but why is my being able to read Russian so important?’

‘In case.’

‘In case of what? Don’t treat me like an idiot,’ she said fiercely. She’d had a lifetime of her brothers denigrating and undermining her for their amusement and wasn’t about to allow Ffinch to do the same. But he was already throwing the dregs of his hot chocolate onto the grass and screwing the cup back onto the flask.

‘Look, Charlee,’ he said wearily, getting to his feet and threading his arms through his rucksack. ‘Your mission is to get photos of Markova. Concentrate on that. If, by listening to her conversation you should glean some information about -’ he hesitated, her persistent lobbying apparently wearing down his resistance.

‘About?’

‘Her fiancé and his business dealings, then report straight back to me. No matter how inconsequential the details may seem. Only, keep it between us - don’t even tell Sam; if you do well then doubtless you will be given something more deserving of your talents next time.’

‘As your partner?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Possibly not. I - well, I’ve got unfinished business in Colombia which I must attend to.’ She didn’t like the way he said it, or how his expression darkened. Fear clutched at her heart and she forgot her anger and imagined him back on the trail of The Aguilas Negra - the Black Eagles. And never coming home …

‘No, you mustn’t,’ she declared with sudden passion, grabbing his arm and shaking it in an attempt to make him see sense.

‘I didn’t know you cared, Montague.’ Although he made light of her concern, he didn’t shake her off - instead, he placed his gloved hand on top of hers and looked directly into her eyes. Walking in the cold wind had brought colour to his cheeks and Charlee caught a glimpse of the old Ffinch. How he must have looked before he’d set off on his research trip to Darien.

‘I do care,’ she said softly. ‘As a friend and partner, I care what happens to you.’ She gave him a fierce, ‘don’t try to push me away’ look.

‘Charlee, don’t,’ he said almost regretfully. ‘I can’t - it wouldn’t be fair.’ Removing his glove, he raised his hand and cupped her cheek. Charlee pushed her face closer into his palm and her eyes widened in response to his intense study of her face and eyes. A spark of sexual awareness arced between them which rocked Charlee to her foundations.

Perhaps, here on the salt marsh, where the wind sighed through the reeds and stirred the dried pods of the alexanders, they could be honest with one another. Confront those feelings which had been simmering beneath the surface since the book launch. Playing his pretend fiancée wasn’t easy; the pretence was beginning to feel more real than the life Charlee had left behind. She was beginning to fall for Rafa Ffinch - for all his faults, irascibility and secretiveness. At the end of the assignment, when their partnership was dissolved, she knew that walking away from him would be the hardest thing she’d ever done.

It was time to redraw the line in the sand and use his blunt economy with the facts to armour herself against him. To hide her reaction to his touch, to him, she glanced down at the muddy earth at their feet and pushed a stone around with the toe of her spotty wellingtons.

‘Back in Sam’s office you told me not to go all mushy on you,’ she reminded him. ‘And I won’t.’ She pushed away from him although every instinct she possessed was telling her to throw her arms around him and keep him safe.

‘For God’s sake, Montague. That day I hardly knew you - apart from the fact you appeared just right for this post - ballsy, opinionated and capable of thinking on your feet. You came recommended by Poppy and Sam - but that meant nothing to me. I had to sound you out. I had to be sure, for both our sakes. Do you have to keep dredging it up at every opportunity? I get it, believe me; I know your feelings towards me. You said on that occasion you weren’t looking for a life partner - and if you were, I was the last man on earth you’d choose.’

‘Now who’s dredging up the past?’ she asked, moving over to the margin of the marsh.

‘I think we know that I’m not your type,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Though God knows who is. I have great sympathy for the poor schmuck who eventually takes you on; he won’t know what time of day it is. Or what you’re thinking from one moment to the next. And if I had wanted to start something,’ he pulled a face at the expression, ‘it would have happened back at the mews. But having my toes shish kebabbed by your killer heels and being left to starve because your post-feminist principles wouldn’t allow you to make my dinner and keep it warm in the oven - made pretty clear your opinion of me.’

‘Ha. See … I knew you hadn’t got over that.’ Charlee turned back to him in triumph as she trumped his ace. This was less dangerous ground. This she could do. ‘You should have come home at a reasonable time, not left me wondering if you’d come off your motorbike and was lying in A&E. I’m not one of your legion of girlfriends who would doubtless be only too happy to play house with you. And you’re right - you’re not my type,’ she lied.

 ‘Jesus, Charlee, don’t spare my feelings will you?’

‘I won’t as, quite obviously, you haven’t considered mine,’ she said and then frowned. ‘I can’t remember what this argument is about any more, so let’s move on.’ She hoicked her rucksack higher on her slight shoulders.

‘It was about us being partners; mates,’ he ended the argument.

‘Let’s leave it there. If you want to risk your life in piranha-infested waters - that’s up to you.’

‘It certainly is.’

‘Good.’ Charlee went stomping off up the path, putting up a pair of wading birds whose long legs trailed behind them in flight. She heard her name called. ‘Wot?’ she rounded on him, glaring.

‘Wrong way again Montague. Follow me.’

Ffinch coolly assumed the role of man-in-charge-of-an-ordnance-survey-map while Charlee fitted her smaller footsteps into the tracks he left in the mud and followed in his wake.