Free Boot Camp Bride by Lizzie Lamb Page B

man existed other than in her dreams: artistic, brave, funny, and as hungry for the exclusive - the scoop - as she was.
    ‘I thought double espressos, in the circumstances.’ Poppy plonked two small cups of extremely strong coffee in front of them and a couple of cheese and ham toasties. She pushed her thick black French plait over her shoulder and looked at Charlee expectantly with eyes as bright and darting as a robin’s. ‘Okay, give. What happened in Pa’s office?’
    ‘Don’t you ever stop eating?’ Charlee asked, already knowing the answer.
    Poppy ate like a man but was stick thin because she spent half her life riding horses and the other half mucking them out. Charlee guessed that Poppy’d been up before it was light, helping with the tack and feeding routine at her mother’s riding school. When she got home this evening, she would exercise her mother’s hunters in the indoor ménage and practise her dressage. And on Boxing Day, Poppy would be out with the local hunt while Charlee stayed in bed and nursed a hangover. ‘Okay, Popps; Fonseca-Ffinch. Give.’
    ‘Rafa,’ Poppy began, biting into her sandwich with straight white teeth. She gets to call him Rafa, Charlee thought, but held her peace until Poppy finished chewing. ‘Rafa is an old friend of the family. I’ve had a massive crush on him for years, all the girls have - he’s totally gorgeous … but regards me as the younger sister he never had, or even worse - a cute pet, like a Labrador.’
    They pulled a face at that and then laughed because their expressions exactly mirrored one another.
    ‘Go on,’ Charlee commanded.
    ‘Chief gave him his first break when no one could see past his name and his family connections. His family are diplomats and their present posting is Paris; I’ve been over there to stay with them loads of times. Okay, don’t give me that look - I’m waffling, I know. Back to Ffinch; everyone thought he was just another posh boy playing at photo journalism, cashing in on his connections until something new or more exciting took his fancy.’
    ‘He’s told me that, already,’ Charlee put in, sipping her strong coffee and toying with the corner of her toastie. Last night, the same thoughts had gone through her mind.
    ‘He was writing the last chapter of his book: The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet .’
     ‘And?’ Charlee was anxious for Poppy to cut to the chase. Her explanations were notoriously long-winded and the copy she presented nearly always ended up being ‘spiked’ by the subs as unusable. But Sam Walker insisted that she come into work every day because, as he rightly suspected, she’d fritter her time away at that ‘bloody money-draining riding school,’ and never forge a career for herself.
    Poppy paused and then asked severely: ‘Are you writing any of this down, Montague?’
    ‘Filing it away,’ Charlee grinned and tapped her temple with a forefinger. ‘In my bank vault. Carry on -’ An aptitude for language had given Charlee the ability to remember what was said, who said it and when. On top of that, she had a phenomenal recall of faces, facts and figures; she guessed that’s what had gained her a double first when she’d graduated last summer.
    ‘His last trip was to Darien, Colombia, where he and his team of local guides, plus two young research assistants from the University of Colombia were kidnapped by a guerrilla group and held to ransom.’ Charlee moved to the edge of her seat - this was more like it! ‘The guerrillas - or whatever they are - got wind of how rich Ffinch’s family is and saw dollar signs. Ker-ching,’ she made a noise like an old-fashioned cash register.
    ‘So how come -’
    ‘He lived to tell the tale and write this book?’ For once, Poppy stayed focused. ‘I don’t know all the ins and outs, and I don’t ask. He’s very touchy on the subject but who can blame him?’ She rifled in her pocket, brought out a piece of folded A4 lined paper