Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  ‘Yes?’ he asked, his hands reaching out for her, seemingly tired of prolonging the moment.

  ‘There was one fish you forgot to mention. In A Fish Called Wanda, John Cleese speaks Russian and - Ffinch! Mmwph.’ He flipped her over onto her back, placed his hands beneath her buttocks and tilted her pelvis upwards. Then he gently but insistently pushed inside her. For a moment they lay perfectly still, revelling in the intensity of the feeling. When their hearts stuttered back to life, Ffinch began moving rhythmically, surely; banishing all thoughts of fish, fictional or otherwise, from her mind.

  ‘Ffinch, oh my God, don’t …’

  ‘Don’t what?’ he asked, all innocence. As if he didn’t know.

  ‘St-st-stop,’ she stammered.

  Instinctively, she pulled up her knees, wrapped her legs around him and drew him deeper inside her, her muscles gripping and releasing his penis in time to the slow rise and fall of his body. Ffinch reached for the bedrail, grasping it so that he could control the rhythm and then, taking one last look at her flushed face, bent his head and teased her nipples with his mouth and tongue until Charlee could take no more.

  Behind her closed eyes there was only darkness. However, as Ffinch released his hold on the bedrail and placed his hands underneath her to intensify her pleasure, the shadows were replaced with a golden light that seemed to emanate from inside her head.

  ‘R-Rafa’ she murmured as his questing fingers sought for and then found the swollen mound of her clitoris and began stroking it - faster; ever faster.

  ‘Yes, Carlotta?’ he whispered. ‘Now?’

  A voice which Charlee barely recognised as her own shouted: ‘Now - now - now.’ In response, Ffinch quickened his pace, found her lips and kissed her with an ardour that left the physical world behind.

  ‘Rafa … I … don’t stop, don’t - don’t stop.’

  Charlee lost her grip on reality as wave after wave of golden pleasure rippled through her. She held onto her breath until she felt Ffinch’s answering pulse deep inside her and then she released it on a long sigh.

  ‘Carlotta,’ Ffinch gasped, lying spent on top of her. After a moment or two, he withdrew and flopped onto his back. He pulled her into his side and kissed her neck. ‘That was -’ but words failed him. ‘Carlotta, speak; are you okay?’

  ‘More than okay,’ Charlee acknowledged, snuggling into his side. ‘I would say that okay is an understatement,’ she began, suddenly beset by the urge to talk. ‘It was …’

  ‘Montague?’ Ffinch whispered, lover-like, in her ear.

  ‘Yes, Ffinch?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Yes Ffinch,’ she gurgled, threw her free arm across his chest and held onto him as if she would never let him go.

  Later, Charlee heard the loo flush. She propped herself up on her elbows and saw Ffinch leave the en suite and pad across the carpet to the window. He opened the top half of the plantation shutters and looked down into the cobbled yard below. He glanced over his shoulder, saw she was awake and beckoned her over.

  ‘Charlee, come and look.’

  She dragged the coverlet off the bed, wrapped it round her and joined him at the window. Removing the coverlet from her shoulders, Ffinch positioned her so she was standing closest to the window and he was behind her. Crossing his arms over her breasts, he pulled the coverlet round them like a cloak and rested his chin on her head.

  ‘It’s snowing,’ she exclaimed, watching as the flakes danced this way and that under the light streaming from a heritage Victorian street lamp. Then she began to chant under her breath. ‘White bird featherless flew from paradise, onto the castle wall. Along came Lord Landless, took it up handless, rode away horseless to the king’s white hall.’

  ‘What was that?’ he asked.

  ‘An old riddle my grandfather taught me to sing when it snowed. This is perfect,’ she declared as they watched the snow settle on the winter pansies and tiny cyclamen in the window boxes across from them.

  ‘No - you’re perfect,’ Ffinch whispered. He kissed the line from her shoulder to her ear, cupping her breasts in his warm hands and teasing the nipples with his thumbs.

  Charlee revelled in his touch and leaned back against his chest, her legs seemingly unable to take her slight weight. ‘I’m not perfect. Far from it,’ she admitted, turning round to send him a loving look. His face was pale in the false light and, in that moment, Charlee knew for certain it was the face of the man she loved. The man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. She wished with all her heart that the snow would maroon them in the mews and they’d be forced to stay in bed to keep warm. Making love until they had no strength …

  Then reality kicked in.

  They lived in central London, fat chance of that happening.

  ‘They do say,’ Ffinch observed, as though he’d awoken from a pleasant daydream, ‘that practice makes perfect. Let’s put it to the test, Carlotta?’ Dropping the coverlet on the floor, he scooped her up and laid her down on the old-fashioned brass bed which encompassed their world, and did just that.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Kettle and Pot

  Charlee stretched luxuriously and then winced. She ached in places she hadn’t even realised were places until now. She blushed to think what she and Ffinch had done to warrant those aches. She spread her limbs starfish-fashion in the wide bed and wished that Ffinch would hurry out of the shower so they could begin all over again. She’d never experienced the level of skilled lovemaking they’d shared last night nor given such an unfettered response to any man. Ffinch had whispered encouragement in her ear and urged her to take the lead and she’d responded wholeheartedly, delighting in making him gasp with pleasure at her touch.

  It was all quite different to the quick fumbling in narrow college beds with the few undergrads she’d slept with. Boys who couldn’t hold themselves in check and came in a rush, whereas Ffinch - in the words of the song - had a slow hand and knew how to delay gratification until she felt scorched by their lovemaking.

  She glanced at the clock; it was almost noon and she was ravenously hungry. She would shower and then, as planned, she and Ffinch would grab some lunch before heading to What’cha! to bring Sam up to speed. She twisted Granny’s ring round on her finger and then kissed it; didn’t look like she’d be making her excuses at What’cha! for breaking off their engagement, after all. She was filled with sudden joy, knowing for the first time the feeling of being wanted, of belonging to someone who cared for her.

  ‘Come on, sleepy head,’ Ffinch said as he walked back into the bedroom towelling his hair. ‘Your turn.’ Charlee’s insides liquefied at the sight of him with a bath towel wound round his slim hips. She sat up in bed and sent him a smouldering look, making it clear what was on her mind. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Carlotta, it’s more than a man can bear and we have things to do this morning.’

  ‘Better things?’ She revelled in her power to make Ffinch temporarily forget their mission to bring Trushev to justice. Just as she was reaching out for her pyjamas, the phone rang. Ffinch answered it, tutting at the interruption.

  ‘Ffinch.’ He listened intently as someone on the other end rattled on. ‘How the fuck did that happen? Don’t give me that -’ Grim-faced, he flopped down on the edge of the bed. Hurriedly slipping on her PJs, Charlee tried to make sense of the snatches of conversation she overheard. ‘Someone fucked up, and it wasn’t me. Do you have any idea how long this took to set up? The risks that some people have taken?’ He glanced over at Charlee and sent her a worried look.

  She sat cross-legged, leaning against the headboard, and waited for the phone call to end. Eventually he hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed in disgust. Getting to her knees, Charlee shuffled forward and knelt up behind him, massaging his taut shoulders.

  ‘What’s happened?’ She raked her fingers through his wet hair and kissed the nape of his neck. Last night she’d learned - among other things - that Ffinch liked being touched, which suited her just fine
because she loved touching and caressing him.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Ffinch repeated. ‘I’ll tell you.’ Kissing the back of her hand he walked over to the wardrobe and started rooting out clothes and underwear. Absorbed, Charlee watched as he dropped the towel and stepped out of it, unaware of the strong response to seeing him naked evoked in her. Shaking her head free of errant thoughts, she focused instead on what Ffinch was saying.

  ‘When they raided the boot camp, Trushev wasn’t there - and the staff are prepared to swear under oath that he hadn’t been there over the weekend. None of the guests interviewed could attest to seeing a man answering his description. Looks like he’d been tipped off and had left hurriedly with his girlfriend.’

  Ffinch sent her a steady look which implied she’d been taken in by Anastasia Markova. Charlee went very quiet and thought carefully what to say next. Something precious was slipping out of her grasp and she wanted this resolved quickly so they could get to What’cha!, give Sam the story and get on with their lives.

  ‘Ffinch,’ she said slowly, not sure where she was going with this and considering every word. ‘I don’t understand - I saw Trushev and Natasha underneath my window supervising the loading of the vans.’

  ‘Are you sure? What time was this?’ His tone was urgent and his attention swung back to her.

  ‘It was about quarter past one, I think. What I don’t understand, if the police were at the end of the drive waiting to raid the vans, how come they didn’t see Trushev leave?’ She paused and the tumblers all slotted into place. ‘He left via the marshes, didn’t he?’

  ‘That would explain it. I told the police that Trushev was a wily bastard and they’d need to post men everywhere. But I got the impression they’d had enough of an interfering journo and wanted to do their own thing, and get the kudos for netting Trushev. “Leave it to us now, lad,” were their exact words as I recall. Like an old episode of The Bill.’

  Charlee walked into her bedroom to collect her toiletries and when she returned, Ffinch was pulling on his leather flying jacket, biker boots and shoving his phone and wallet into his messenger bag.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked and then felt like kicking herself. She didn’t want to come across like a clingy girlfriend who needed to know where her man was every second of the day. Ffinch looked out of the window, barely seeming to register her question.

  ‘I have to see what I can salvage of this … fiasco.’

  ‘Ffinch - haven’t you - we, done enough?’

  ‘Enough?’

  ‘They’ve got their haul of drugs and …’

  ‘Charlee.’ He came over and gripped her by the shoulders. ‘You don’t understand -’

  ‘I think I do,’ she said, shrugging free, ‘but enlighten me, anyway.’

  Clearly missing the edge to her voice, Ffinch dutifully explained. ‘Trushev is Mr Big. He’ll live to fight another day, set up a different distribution centre. I - we’ve - achieved zilch. Simply made his supply chain stutter to a temporary halt; nothing more.’

  When did we suddenly morph into I, Charlee wondered?

  ‘Are you crazy? We’ve foiled an attempt to transport heroin to a factory where it would’ve been cut and sent onto the streets. The haul must be worth at least thirty million. What more can we do?’

  ‘I can - I don’t know … go back to Colombia, gather more evidence?’ Charlee’s heart and spirits plummeted; surely they didn’t have to go over this again?

  ‘Not a good idea. Look, I understand you’re doing this for Elena and Allesandro, but don’t you think survivor guilt is clouding your judgment.’

  ‘Survivor guilt?’

  ‘Last night, you accused me of having Stockholm syndrome, only in reverse. It’s the same difference.’ That didn’t come out right. Shaking her head, she sought how to rephrase the sentence, but Ffinch, eager to be gone, was already picking his bike helmet and gauntlets off the floor.

  ‘I haven’t got time to discuss it right now. We’ll talk this through when I get back.’

  ‘Will we, indeed?’ For the second time that morning, Ffinch failed to register her clipped tone. He wandered over to the window and manoeuvred the louvres on the shutters so that they admitted more light. Snow was still falling in fat, heavy flakes, muffling the sound of London traffic and the sky was the same bruised grey as his troubled eyes.

  ‘The snow’s lying; London will have ground to a halt so I’m taking the bike. There are some people I need to see …’ His voice trailed off. ‘I want you to stay put, start writing up your copy. Use my laptop; we’ve both got a story to tell. When I return, I’ll know what can be salvaged from this disaster and then head over to What’cha!’

  He seemed to have forgotten she was there; he looked as if he was planning to go off-piste without consulting her. Charlee shot him a furious look. She wasn’t prepared to play the part of the tame girlfriend who did as she was told by the alpha male, no matter how gorgeous. This was her mission, too, and it was time she reminded him of the fact.

  Then, in a flash, a solution suggested itself to her, one which would save the day and their embryonic relationship. Eager to share it with him and to have him acknowledge that she was still part of the team, she put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Ffinch, we can contact the police and tell them I saw Trushev and the manageress supervising the loading of the vans. Gather evidence - testify against him in the witness box; send him down for thirty years.’

  Warming to her theme, Charlee saw headlines in 30 point Times New Roman:

  ROOKIE REPORTER PUTS RUSSIAN BEHIND BARS.

  Ffinch grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her none too gently in an attempt to dislodge the foolish idea from her mind. ‘Charlee. Promise me, whatever happens, you won’t do that. No, don’t give me that look; I know exactly what’s going through your mind. No one - I repeat, no one - called to testify against Trushev has ever made it to the witness box.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fear clutched at her heart but she took a deep breath and presented a brave face. She wasn’t about to give up on her idea, no matter what he said. That’s who she was, wasn’t it? Stubborn, block-headed Charlotte Montague. It would take more than a night of earthmoving sex to alter that.

  ‘They’ve all met with “unfortunate accidents” of one sort or another.’ The headline in Charlee’s head was replaced with a new one, accompanied this time by a grainy photograph of a body bag being taken away in an ambulance.

  ROOKIE REPORTER VICITIM OF HIT AND RUN - Police say there were no witnesses to the incident which occurred in Chelsea during the early hours of Saturday morning.

  ‘The police will protect me …’ Charlee said. Even to her ears, her words didn’t ring true. She wished now that she hadn’t made such an impetuous offer but didn’t feel that she could back down. Not if the alternative was Ffinch returning to Colombia to gather fresh evidence to nail the Russian. During his last trip he’d been lucky to escape with his life; next time he might not be so fortunate.

  She tried to imagine life without Ffinch but the thought was so unbearable that she pushed it to the back of her mind. She had to convince him that her plan would work.

  ‘You think the police could protect you? And what would happen after the trial, always supposing that he was convicted? I’ll tell you. You’d have to disappear into a witness protection programme, assume a new identity - drop off the radar, forever. You’d never see your family and friends again. You’d never see me again - we could have no future together.’ He delivered the last sentence quietly and without emotion, but his eyes pleaded with her to show sense.

  Charlee didn’t know which would be worse. Never seeing him again because he was dead; or never seeing him again because it would put her life in danger. But what would her life be worth, in any case, if she couldn’t spend the rest of it with him?

  Then Ffinch delivered the coup de grâce. ‘Trushev has a long reach. Even from prison he’d be able to organise people to find you, to kill y
ou. He wouldn’t rest until you were dead.’

  ‘Ffinch,’ Charlee laughed to show she thought he was exaggerating.

  ‘Charlee, I mean it.’ He folded her in his arms like she was the most precious thing in the world. ‘Please, for me; just once in your life, do as you’re told - asked,’ he amended, finally sensing the resistance in her. Holding her at arms’ length, he tilted her chin and looked down into her face. ‘You aren’t a rebel without a clue any longer, Charlotte Montague, you’re a fully fledged journo. Act like one; start on that copy and wait for my return. And don’t answer the door to anyone, I’ll let myself in.’

  Then he kissed her roughly, passionately, as though they’d never see each other again in this world. After that he put her from him, gathered his gear together and left without another word. Taking the stairs two at a time, he slammed the front door behind him and double-locked it. A few minutes later the sound of his motorbike revving and sliding over the snow-covered yard reached Charlee. She ran to the window to look for him but he had gone, leaving tyre tracks behind him in the virgin snow.

  Rebel without a clue?

  That stung - even if he’d sugared the pill by adding she was now a fully fledged journo. Fully fledged … didn’t that mean she was ready to fly the coop and go it alone? She’d spent years breaking free of the shackles of her family interference; she didn’t need someone else telling her what she could, or could not, do.

  Especially someone she was trying to save from himself.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Partners … in Crime

  Charlee dragged her holdall over the snow-covered cobbles to where a taxi was waiting to take her back to her grotty bedsit. Bedsit - the very word made her shudder; her lodgings had been virtually unoccupied since just after Christmas and would be freezing cold. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if a light came on the instant she opened the door. Grimacing at the cheesy joke, she made her way over to the taxi where the driver helped her with her cases. She was so preoccupied with the idea of testifying against Trushev and stopping Ffinch from returning to Colombia that she hardly noticed the winter wonderland they travelled through.