Across Enemy Lines

Monica lay motionless on her belly, breathing the scent of the heather. Clumps of long grass obscured her vision and she shifted slightly, straining to see through the trees. She clutched her weapon tight and shivered. "I can see it," she said, her low voice carried away by the bitter wind, which pinched at her exposed skin.

Fran wriggled forward so her elbows met Monica's. "Can you see any of the enemy? I haven't got my glasses on."

Monica gritted her teeth and scanned the area. There was a clearing ahead where a red flag flapped and beckoned. There was no sign of life around. "I think we're the only ones left alive."

"Oh goody," said Fran. "Shall we just go over and get it then? I'm starving. When did they say dinner was?"

It was the last thing Monica would have dreamed of doing at the weekend, crawling around in the dirt playing soldiers with a lot of middle aged business people, exclusive retreat or not. It was a weekend she had earmarked for her latest assignment, sacrificed in the interests of corporate bonding and networking. Even James Grant, her own boss, had wriggled out of it claiming allergies to everything in the countryside, and giving her the responsibility of being his "eyes and ears." Still, they had been flown up in Mr Scott's private jet, which in itself was worth coming for. "So this is how the other half live," Fran had remarked, sipping champagne and looking down on the thick blanket of clouds. Monica nodded. I will have this one day. She thought of Mr Scott, multi-millionaire and owner of the company, lounging in his own bedroom just meters away. That was first class on this plane, the ultimate luxury.

She was about to reply when there was a loud roar and two men burst out of a clump of thorny bushes to the left. "Go for it Ken!" the younger one shouted. "I've got you covered!"

The older man was red faced and sweating as he limped ahead. The barrel of his rifle was trailing along the ground. "I've ripped my trousers!" His fingers tugged at the material and he looked about helplessly.

The younger man's eyes widened. "Just get the flag!"

As he stepped forward, two hidden defenders leapt out, firing indiscriminately and roaring. Ken was splattered with red. His younger companion began blasting blue bolts all around. All four were soon covered in paint, and arguing over who had "died" first. Monica nudged Fran, who smiled and nodded. Keeping low, they crept around the clearing, keeping an eye on the group of men.

"Well, we're all dead then." One of the defenders capitulated. He shivered and pulled up his hood. " Let's go on back, I'm freezing."

They walked off, slinging their weapons over their shoulders. Monica saw her chance and darted forward to seize the flag. She held it for a second, looking all around. When she saw Fran give the thumbs up, she broke into a grin. "Let's go then!" Humming, they made their way back to base without incident. Fran picked some grass out of her hair. "That was fun," she said. "Wish I'd had the chance to shoot someone though."

Their team's base hut came into view and Monica felt a surge of anticipation. Soon she would be luxuriating in a hot, scented bath back at the hotel. There would be a buffet dinner, some drinks. Then she could get on with what she came for- meeting people, building up her contacts. The stuff of corporate life.

"Ouch!" Fran exclaimed suddenly. Her fingers groped at her shoulder, and when she looked at them, they were dripping red. "I've been shot!"

Monica turned and started running for the hut. It was only about thirty meters away. She ducked and weaved, hoping the shooter would have to move too, to keep up. She hated to lose. But so close to victory, she felt the thud of a pellet between her shoulder blades and let out a cry, sinking to her knees in frustration.

"I'll have that flag, please." The man's voice was husky and yet strangely familiar. Pushing her goggles back, she looked up, and her mouth fell open with shock as she held out the tattered piece of cloth in a shaking hand.

He was tall, broad shouldered. Clear, olive skin, hidden under the streaks of paint all over his face. The wind parted his brown hair, blew it forward, parted it again. As he pushed back his own goggles, her eyes met a bright blue gaze. A dimple appeared in his left cheek as he grinned, pulling the flag from her grasp.

"Charles?" she gasped at last, her jaw slack with disbelief.

His eyes left her face and traveled up and down her body. She felt the touch of his gaze like a whisper on her skin. His eyes were like the ocean, just as she remembered.

"Monica Stewart," he said. His expression was unreadable. "I think you've lost." He pulled a blue flag from his pocket and waved it at her. The dimple appeared again. "If you want to win, I'm open to negotiations...over dinner, of course."

She could hardly speak as she stood up, running her sweaty palms against her trousers. "I already have plans for dinner, thank you." Her voice was cold as she strained to be polite in front of Fran, who had caught her up and was eyeing him up unashamedly. "Let's go, Fran."

As she walked away, Fran's eager questions faded to background noise as she remembered the man who had walked away from her without ever looking back, shattering her heart like a mirror. Sometimes she could still feel the pieces, sharp memories, fighting inside her.

=====

The hotel bath was just as she imagined; an old-fashioned enamel tub as the centerpiece of the bathroom, golden taps gleaming. Monica dimmed the lights as she slipped off her dressing gown. She had already scrubbed the day off her skin, and was looking forward to some pure relaxation. She poured some scented oil into the hot water, closing her eyes and breathing in the steam, trailing her fingers into the water as she slipped back into the past.

She had been going home to visit her parents, he had been on his way to his best friend's stag night. He had gazed at her over the top of his newspaper until she flushed. When he spoke, he had the air of a man who was used to being obeyed, and it both attracted and repelled her with equal force. The dimple she remembered was more pronounced, the face thinner. As the train approached her stop, he leaned close to her, and his fingers drummed on her knee as she lost herself in those blue eyes. "I don't think I'm quite ready to let you go, little bird," he said, grinning. "Come with me to the stag night. The chaps won't mind at all, I'm sure."

"A stag night? I don't think so." She laughed and stood up as the train slowed, dropping her bag, the contents spilling over the floor. Her gloves fell out of her pocket as she scrabbled everything back in, blushing. Holding her breath, she handed him one of the personal business cards she kept, with her number scrawled across the back. "You can call me though," she said, drinking in the image of his face before scurrying outside onto the platform.

Her hopes of his phoning weren't high; it just doubled the pleasure when he did. The Sunday night before returning to London, they went for a walk in the park at sunset. He had bought her an ice cream and kissed her breath away on the steps of her parents' house.

When she returned to London, he didn't call for a couple of weeks and she fought off the disappointment with tubs of ice cream and lots of late nights at the office. Then one night, he was on her doorstep with a bunch of red roses. He'd been in Australia visiting some friends. "Didn't I tell you about it?" he said, stepping up, brazenly sliding his hand around her waist. "I missed you every day."

She could manage nothing more than a moan as his lips descended on hers. His kiss was rough and stubbly, his lips soft, and when his tongue slid into her mouth, she was lost. He scooped her into his arms, and she trailed her fingers against the hard muscles in his chest as he kicked the door shut behind them and headed upstairs. Their lovemaking had been swift and furious. His body was hard and hot under her grasping fingers and when she came, it was like her body blew apart in ecstatic shards, reformed only in his eyes.

Six months later, she had met his parents. That was the day she found out who the real Charles Halpern was. His father, Charles Henry Halpern. When she saw the family home, her breath had caught in her throat. A huge, Georgian mansion, nestling in the countryside outside Canterbury. She felt foolish for wondering in the car if she should call his father Charles or Mr. Halpern. The sour-faced butler who took her coat at the door referred to him as "his Excellency." Charles hugged her and told her to call him "dad." But when she saw the wintry old man, she could barely speak with sudden nerves. She felt his eyes roam over her cheap dress, her too-blonde hair, her pink fingernails, and she started feeling out of her depth. The food was served on china plates and she ate with antique silverware.

Charles's parents hadn't liked her a lot. They didn't want him to "marry down", as his mother put it once. The friction had increased and it soon became clear that his parents were trying to edge the gold-digger out of their son's life. Monica was furious at the assumption. Her career was everything; she would make her own way in life, not rely on some man to keep her. But much to her dismay, Charles started to crumble. Gradually, he stopped taking her to dinner at the family home. He broke dates to attend family functions. He became distracted and moody. One day, she couldn't stand it any more. They'd been at the park when the argument broke like rain through humid air.

"I won't discuss my family matters with you!" he'd shouted, striding off towards the car park.

She went after him, trotting to keep up with his long strides. "Well I'm tired of being treated like some sort of blight! You can talk to them or you can find yourself another girlfriend. The choice is all yours."

That seemed to shock him for a minute. "You wouldn't dare," he said, pulling open the car door. "Get in, I'll take you home. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

But tomorrow never came. She never heard from him again. His choice had been clear, and final.

Dragging herself back to the present, she slipped into the hot water and sighed, feeling her muscles relax and tingle. She cursed her luck. Of all the people she could have met that weekend, why did it have to be Charles? He had even asked her to dinner with an ease that was breathtaking in its effrontery. Damn him! She slid her head under the water, totally submerging herself and hearing nothing but the hum of the heating and the beating of her own heart.

She got out of the bath just as it started growing tepid, and dried off, helping herself to the coconut oil supplied by the hotel. As she rubbed it into her skin, she eyed her clothes for the dinner. Her black dress was simple and elegant. The shoes, classic and low-heeled for comfort. Both from well respected designers, and expensive at that. She had come a long way since the day Charles's father had looked upon her clothes with contempt.

Winding her wet hair up in the towel, she applied mascara to her lashes and dabbed on some lip gloss. Then she shook her golden hair loose, and dried it gently, taking advantage of its natural curl. The dress slid over her head, clinging to her breasts and hips. She stood back and eyed herself critically, wondering if Charles Senior really would approve, or if it was the person inside the clothes who he had really considered cheap. She was surprised at how bitter she felt against the old man, even after so long.

Lifting her handbag, she pulled a black shawl around her slender shoulders and cast one last look in the mirror before she faced the world. She looked calm, poised, professional. Her purse bulged with business cards. She was going to sip a glass of red wine and mingle, making contacts. As for Charles...well, he was no longer important in her life. And he'd made it abundantly clear he felt the same about her.

Just as she was descending the stairs, her way was barred. Her heart sank as she looked up into his face. The blue gaze was cool. "Monica," he said. His voice was soft, and his eyes slid down to her cleavage. Her cheeks burned as she felt her body react. "Charles," she said, pressing her lips together and nodding an acknowledgement. He brushed a finger down her cheek, studying her, saying nothing. Her skin remembered his touch like a burn. She could not meet his eyes. "Let me past," she said, gritting her teeth.

"I want to talk to you," he said. "Will you sit with me at dinner?"

She forced herself to remember the days that turned into weeks and months with no word from him. The withering of hope. The rages, the despair. And finally, acceptance.

"I think the time for talking is past, don't you?" she said, and pushed past him on wobbly legs, hoping she could make it to Fran's group without stumbling. When she finally found the courage to look at him again, she was shocked. He was standing on the edge of a group, making perfunctory comments, his eyes rarely leaving her. The look of anger on his face was unmistakable and hit her like a whip. As she forced her attention to what Fran was saying, she felt sweat prickle between her shoulder blades. Why on earth would he be angry? And what right did he have to be angry with her, after what he had done?

=====

The buffet was delicious, adorned with foods Monica had never tasted before. There was roasted pigeon, grouse and venison, vegetables steaming in silver serving dishes, arranged so beautifully it was almost a shame to mess up the display by eating them. Her appetite had deserted her, and she picked at her food, listening to her colleagues chattering, grateful that Charles had been seated out of sight.

"I've heard that DIS is in some trouble," Nick said, leaning on his elbows and raising his eyebrows at Monica. "Mr Scott might be interested in that information."

Monica looked at her enthusiastic young assistant. "Where did you hear that from?" Mr Scott would indeed be interested. She looked around the room for her boss, frustrated. Why did he come to these events, if he was going to spend his time in his room? She listened to Nick closely as he told her what he had learned that afternoon while shivering in a clump of bushes. DIS had only three shops nationwide but did a substantial share of its business online, which was an area Mr Scott wanted to investigate further.

As they made their way into the lounge, Fran nudged her. "So you haven't told us how you know Charles Halpern? Whatever the story is, I'm sure it has nothing to do with business."

Monica flushed. "It was a few years ago now, we were ...together for a while, but he dumped me and I never heard from him again." It was painful to put such a huge experience into such small words. She sipped at her wine, barely tasting it.

Fran's eyes softened and she gave Monica's hand a squeeze. "Well," she said, "You'd better tighten up a bit, because he's heading this way."

Gulping the last of her wine, she ducked past Fran and Nick. "Time to powder my nose, I'd say."

The bathroom was plush and fragrant and Monica closed her eyes as she locked herself into a cubicle, welcoming the safety. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her thumping heart. This was getting ridiculous. She would have to tighten up, as Fran said. Here she was, the consummate professional, hiding in a toilet because her ex- boyfriend was outside. She shook her head. She wouldn't give in to the lure of his eyes, the way his designer clothes clung to his lean body. Gripping her shawl as if it was a suit of armor, she steeled herself to go outside.

Then she heard the doors swinging open to a draught of laughter and chatter. "You know, Lydia, I've just been talking to the most insufferable man!"

Monica heard a chuckle coming from the second woman, and the clatter of make up being dumped out onto a hard surface. "I assume you're talking about Charles Halpern?"

Her heart skipped a beat and she stood, frozen, listening hard.

"I've known the man since he was in nappies. And there they are, buying up all the shares in our company, as if I don't know what that means. Then to top it off, he didn't even remember who I was! And that other one who's always hanging around said it must be because the years haven't been kind to me! Have you ever heard such...!"

There was an intake of breath. "That's below the belt indeed. That snake at his shoulder is Rupert Cross, the slimy bastard. You'd better watch how you tread if he's sniffing around. He loves a hostile takeover. He's made them millions doing that."

Rupert Cross! He was the one whose stag night Charles had been going to, on the day they met. Monica remembered little of him, except that he had often been at Charles's home, and seemed exceptionally friendly with Charles senior, if such a thing were possible.

Back outside, she helped herself to another glass of wine and spotted the men whose "deaths" she had witnessed at the red flag earlier that afternoon. Soon they were deep in conversation, and their cards were in her purse. Interesting people, but not the real decision makers of the company. She was about to wind it up and move on when she heard a voice at her shoulder. A strong hand gripped her elbow and turned her away from the group. "I'm afraid Miss Stewart and I have some unfinished business to deal with," he said, smiling politely. Her mouth worked wordlessly as she allowed herself to be escorted through the room, past Fran and Nick who pretended not to notice.

"You can't run from me, Monica, " he hissed, pulling her up the stairs and into a darkened doorway. His strong hands pinned her wrists above her head and he pushed his body against hers. "Remember earlier? I shot you down, and I'll do it again."

What was his game? There was no mistaking the passion darkening his eyes. So why had he abandoned her? "Charles I don't understand..." she began, but his free hand brushed against her cheek and her breath caught in her throat as one long finger traced the outline of her lips, dipping into her mouth, playing catch with her tongue for a second before resuming its travels south. Past her chin, brushing her collarbones, pausing to dip in to the hollow at the base of her neck. She felt as if the oxygen was being sucked out of the air as his fingers dropped lower still, dipping into the slack fronted dress. Roughly pushing the material aside, exposing her breast. Looking down, licking his lips as her nipple hardened under his gaze.

"Tell me you don't want me," he murmured, releasing her wrists and bending down, kissing all around the darkened peak then taking it into his soft, wet mouth, His tongue was dancing, laving, bathing the hot little nub and she sighed with pleasure, her hand settling on his head. As she stroked the soft hair, it felt as if the years had never passed. The pleasure from her nipple was burning through her body, melting her insides. But then he released her, pulled the material back over her breast. His face was flushed and his eyes looked almost black in the dim light of the hallway. "Tell me!" he whispered.

She stared at him, mute, the memory of his tongue echoing through her long-untouched body. Of course she wanted him. She had always wanted him. She could only nod, and it was enough for him. Hoisting her into his arms, he carried her through the door and into his bedroom, just as he had carried her the first time. The memory twisted at her heart, but his lips soothed it away. His tongue filled her mouth, his scent making her dizzy as he pushed her legs apart. His thumbs teased at her nipples and he ground his erection against her until she almost lost her mind.

"Oh please!" she gasped, no longer caring what he thought or said, almost drunk with pleasure as he pulled up her dress, tore at her tights. With one thrust he was deep inside her and she cried out, blind, her fingers running over the muscled back, re-discovering a beloved landscape. He pounded her until she screamed and bit into his neck, her body turning to jelly as waves of sensation shot from her groin to her brain. Then he let out a groan and collapsed on top of her, shaking. She felt his heart pounding in time to her own, his breathing harsh and hot in her ear.