Boot Camp Bride by Lizzie Lamb

was no point going into the meeting spoiling for a fight. It was her stubborn, combative streak that had got her into trouble in the first place. No. She’d have to take full responsibility for acting unprofessionally and offending his lordship - no matter how much it stuck in her craw. Sam Walker’s punishment, when it came, would be swift and harsh.
    But maybe - if she swallowed her pride and grovelled low enough - she’d get away with a verbal warning. Momentarily, hope fluttered in her chest and then reality kicked in. Who was she kidding? Fonseca-Ffinch was man of the moment; she was an intern. No amount of slick talking was going to get her out of this one.
    Of course - now it was too late, she remembered everything about him. His reputation as the photographer who captured the zeitgeist: the politician with the rent boy, the celebrity snorting coke at his daughter’s wedding, and the stand-off between police and G8 protestors last summer.
    Through his connections - she’d read somewhere that his parents were career diplomats - he had an access to the rich and famous that other journos could only dream of and weep over. While they had to settle for pushing telephoto lenses through the bars of remote controlled gates and the second best shot, he commanded the front page and earned colossal syndication rights.
    Now there was this book: The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet , which had received glowing reviews in most of the Sundays. The book she’d refused to spend her hard-earned cash on was being hailed as ‘one man’s mission to bring hope to the hopeless’.
    Because of his experiences in the Amazon, he’d chosen to devote himself to improving the lot of the people there. The very tribe, as Charlee had learned from yesterday’s article, who’d found him unconscious on the bank of a piranha-infested stretch of the Amazon, carried him to their village and brought him back from the brink of death. She burned with shame as she recalled how she’d derided them with a smart-arsed remark: ‘Now that’s what I call an extreme makeover.’
    Using his advance, he’d established a fund to provide a hospital boat to ply the long stretch of the Amazon and bring much needed medical aid to the people who lived there. The journalist who’d written the piece in the colour supplement had added to Charlee’s wretchedness with every well-chosen word. "Fonseca-Ffinch is an antidote for all that is cynical and self-serving in the world; a template for those who give so freely of their time and money to help those less fortunate. He has travelled the road to Damascus and the scales have fallen from his eyes".
    How had she put it?
    Oh yes: ‘I’d be astounded that anyone would part with thirty quid for a book like this.’
    She deserved to be fired - instead of planning her defence, she should write her resignation and leave it on Sam Walker’s office desk. Jump before she was pushed. Charlee groaned as her mood swung between belligerence and despair. Fonseca-Ffinch was in danger of becoming a living saint, whereas she …
     The hands of the office clock made a large clunk as they reached the top of the hour and Poppy Walker strolled into the office wearing a shearling coat and a pair of to-die-for boots, looking just like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday , one of their favourite films. She was carrying two coffees in a cardboard holder and almond croissants wrapped in a napkin. She gave Charlee a worried look and then put the drink in front of her.
    ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.
    ‘I don’t think I can,’ Charlee said unconvincingly. The aroma of coffee wafted over to her and the croissant shed its delicious flakes on her desk, making her stomach rumble.
    ‘’Course you can. You’re the condemned prisoner the original hearty breakfast was created for. Get that down you, girl. You don’t want to face Chief on an empty stomach, do you?’
    They pulled a face, both well aware of Sam Walker’s volatility