Paradise Nights: Taken by the Bad Boy

‘There’s this woman.’

Dead silence at that. Fraught silence. Not a lot of inner stillness in that silence at all. And then, ‘Why me?’ said Jake, his voice long-suffering. ‘I live a frugal life. I keep to myself. I pay my taxes. Why?’

‘Is this a bad time to call?’ he said. ‘Because I can call back later. When you’re making more sense.’

‘Is she terminally ill?’

‘No.’

‘Are you terminally ill?’

‘No.’

‘Is she married to a Mafia Don who wants to cut off your balls?’

‘She’s not married at all.’

‘So there’s no bodily danger to you at this particular point in time?’

‘No.’ It was his soul he was worried about. ‘My body thinks it’s found heaven.’

‘Colour me envious,’ said Jake, ‘but what the hell is your problem?’

‘She doesn’t want to be tied down.’

‘So? Neither do you. The minute a woman starts getting serious, you’re gone.’

‘This one’s kind of interesting.’

Silence.

‘You’ve fallen for her,’ said Jake finally.

‘I have not!’ he said indignantly. ‘I did not say that. I was just wondering what the next step up from a strictly casual relationship might be. You know … casual yet slightly meaningful. Comes before commitment. But I can’t remember what it’s called.’

‘Self-delusion,’ said Jake dryly. ‘Run.’

‘That’s your advice? Run?’

‘Yep.’

‘Any other advice?’

‘Nope.’

‘You are no help whatsoever.’

‘Not in this,’ said Jake with grim humour. ‘Call Tris,’ he said, and hung up.

No way, thought Pete as he shoved the phone back in his bag. No way was he calling anyone else in his family tonight. One delusional phone call an evening was enough. He towelled his hair, found a fresh pair of boxers in his carryall and looked at the bed.

He was nowhere near ready for bed.

He found a book, tossed it on the bed as incentive.

Still not ready for bed. The image of a dark-eyed goddess in an ivory-coloured sundress flashed through his mind, closely followed by an image of her lying in his bed with no ivory-coloured sundress on at all.

Now he’d never get to sleep.

So she wanted nothing more than a light hearted romp. Was this a bad thing? No. Light hearted romps were his speciality.

So he’d wondered, briefly, about a relationship that involved a little bit … more. Clearly not a good idea. He’d get over it. Was over it. A short-term relationship was fine. Just fine.

Fidelity he could do.

As for discretion. Pete thought back to the kisses they’d shared and chuckled as he stripped the towel from his body and ran it over his hair.

Heaven help them both.

* * *

Breakfast the following morning was a revelation. Serena had rapped on the bedsit door at seven and told him that breakfast was available in the kitchen if he wanted it. Ten minutes later he made his way over there, showered, shaved and ready for whatever lay ahead as far as light hearted, short-term, discreetly exclusive relationships were concerned.

And then he stepped through the kitchen doorway and she stopped grinding fresh coffee beans and smiled at him and every rational thought he’d had about her left his head.

She wore modest shorts and a bright pink T-shirt— Pete recognised it as her Vespa hire attire—and had pulled her hair back into a pony-tail. Nothing overtly seductive about any of it—no slinky sleepwear or artfully tousled hair, and still her innate sensuality punched into him like a fist.

‘What would you like for breakfast?’ she asked as she loaded up the breakfast bench with far more food than he could possibly eat.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ he said as he relieved her of the orange juice and gestured towards the bench. ‘I can get my own cereal.’

‘All part of the service.’ She stifled a yawn and padded over to the kitchen sink, leaning over to open the window above it. ‘You want anything cooked? Sausages? Bacon and eggs?’

What he wanted was to drag her back to bed and make love to her until the sleepiness left her eyes and satisfaction took its place. What he wanted was to ask her what she had planned for the day and then rearrange his own schedule to fit in around hers so he could see her again later. What he said was, ‘No, thanks. This is fine.’

‘So … ‘she poured herself a cup of coffee and cradled it in her hands as she leaned back against the kitchen counter and studied him ‘… what do you usually talk about at breakfast?’

‘Usually I’m by myself.’

‘When you’re not,’ she said dryly.

He tried to think. Couldn’t. Not when she strolled over and settled into the chair opposite him and her scent wrapped around him like a promise. ‘Work. We talk about work. What that person is doing with their day. That sort of thing. ‘

‘Oh,’ she said. And with another one of those lazy, loaded smiles, ‘What are you doing with your day, Pete Bennett?’

‘Well …’ He wished his mind would return from wherever he’d dropped it. It was probably somewhere over by the door. ‘First up is Corfu to drop passengers, then Cyprus to pick up some cargo, then back to mainland Greece. I’ll overnight in Athens.’

‘Skite,’ she muttered. ‘I’m going to the Vespa shed. I’ll be there until five.’