Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  ‘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 Trushev’s boat had been replaced by a larger vessel and dark-skinned men wearing crossed bandoliers on their chests and smoking thin cheroots were laughing at her struggles.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.

  ‘Were they red bellies, golden, or black piranhas?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It does, it’s one way of ensuring …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That one of us keeps a lid on this.’ He nodded towards her and then his face broke into a teasing grin to show that he was ragging her. ‘Looks like it won’t be you.’

  ‘I can be strong-willed, I’ll have you know,’ she sniffed, pretending affront.

  ‘So if I was to do this,’ getting to his knees he straddled her and rolled up her pyjama top as if it were a field dressing. The gentle swell of her breasts was revealed and so, too, was her hectic breathing as her rib cage rose and fell. Her heart hammered so loudly she felt he must hear it banging against her ribs. ‘You could resist?’

  ‘Easy-peasy,’ Charlee retorted. Although her voice was cracked and her throat dry she refused to close her eyes - or give into the craving to wriggle seductively beneath him, inciting him to make love to her. Instead, she looked him boldly in the face, meeting his challenge without giving an inch.

  ‘How about …’

  Lowering his head, but keeping his body weight off her, he pushed her pyjama top aside. Then he bent his head and kissed a trail from her taut stomach to her right breast before taking its erect nipple in his mouth and sucking gently.

  ‘Not a p-problem,’ Charlee said in strangled tones, her womb contracting in response to the gentle teasing and her whole body rigid in anticipation of the pleasure that was to come. Ffinch raised his head and looked down at her, his eyes drowsy with desire, his skin flushed.

  ‘But, say - for the sake of argument - I did this,’ he pulled her top over her head and threw it onto the floor. Then, with her breasts fully exposed, he spreadeagled her hands above her head and curled her fingers round the framework of the lover’s knot. Now that she was completely at his mercy, he lowered himself once more and kissed her with mounting passion, exploring the soft contours of her palate and mouth with his tongue. Charlee released her grip on the rail and wrapped her arms around him. Ffinch stopped his kisses and looked into her face. ‘I don’t call that resisting, do you?’ He returned her hands to the headboard.

  Rolling off, he knelt by her side, slid her pyjama bottoms down until the waist band was level with her pubic bone and preserving her modesty - just. Then, keeping his eyes on her face, he slid his hand below the rolled down pyjamas and his fingers found where she was warm and eager for his touch. Charlee arched her back as his finger entered her vagina and he began rhythmically stroking the sensitive flesh in a way that was almost too pleasurable. Then, slipping his other hand beneath her, he pulled her closer and kissed her with a mastery that took away the remains of her self-control.

  Charlee was desperate to let go of the headboard, but every time she removed her hands, he replaced them. ‘Ffinch, stop teasing,’ she begged. ‘You’re killing me.’ But he was unrelenting and shook his head.

  ‘Montague, you can dish it out but you can’t take it back. You’ve teased me from the instant I set eyes on you and you’ve held me in thrall ever since.’

  ‘I have?’ she asked, sending him a dazed look, wondering why he was wasting time talking. And why - Mother of God - he had stopped the delicious, rhythmic stroking of her clitoris.

  ‘You have,’ he said decisively, then went on. ‘You’ve made me suffer - three weeks, or more, of foreplay - leading up to this moment.’ She gave a moue of protest when he withdrew his hand and sa
t back on his heels enjoying the sight of her naked and in his bed. ‘Tossing your head, blue eyes sparking fire, unleashing an arsenal of sarcastic remarks, like little darts. Do you deny it?’ His words were harsh but his voice was gentle and there was an almost bemused light in his smoky eyes. As if he found the idea of them finally becoming lovers surreal, yet completely beguiling.

  ‘I don’t deny it. Do your worst,’ she challenged, wriggling beneath him and inflicting a torture of her own. Ffinch groaned and his penis pressed against her abdomen. That was all the signal Charlee needed. She exchanged places - her straddling him. ‘I won’t insist that you hold onto the headboard,’ she said turning over his wrists and looking at the livid scars there. ‘But, let me kiss away the pain, remove the bad memories.’ Dipping her head, she kissed along each scar, trying to imagine what he’d gone through in Colombia. Tears filled her eyes and her heart squeezed in compassion - maybe it was best that she never found out.

  ‘This torment is much worse,’ Ffinch said. ‘I think I should …’ He pushed her gently to one side, reached into the bedside drawer and ripped open the foil packet of a condom with deft fingers.

  ‘What happened to just holding each other and sleeping?’ Charlee demanded. As Ffinch unrolled the condom over his penis, she tried to block out how many women he’d made love to in this vintage bed.

  That way madness lies …

  ‘I think we’ve gone past the point of no return, don’t you, Carlotta?’ Ffinch paused, as if needing to be sure this was what she wanted. Charlee nodded, pushed him back onto the bed and helped him wriggle out of his pyjama shorts and threw them on the floor with her clothes. Suddenly shy, she reached over and put out the bedside light so that her blushes were hidden by the friendly darkness. She ran her hand along the length of his inner thigh and upwards to his groin, felt where the hair grew coarse and springy round the shaft of his penis. ‘No more talking,’ she said.

  ‘Not even about fish?’ he teased, his voice gruff.

  ‘Especially not about fish,’ she said, and then it was her turn to kiss him. ‘Although I never did get a chance to speak Russian, at the boot camp I mean.’ Then she whispered the words she didn’t have the courage to say to him in English. Not yet. ‘Ya lublu tebya.’ I love you. ‘Ya xochy tebya.’ I want you. ‘Ti nyjna mne.’ I need you. In the dim light issuing from the en suite bathroom she could read his puzzlement as he struggled to understand what she’d said. ‘Although …’