Free Boot Camp Bride by Lizzie Lamb

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