Paradise Nights: Taken by the Bad Boy

‘True,’ he said with a sigh, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring dejectedly at the bike for good measure. ‘There’s no arguing with that.’

Serena rolled her eyes at the pitiful image of male self sacrifice before her. ‘Or we could go past the shed and get another Vespa. Then we could both be in the driver’s seat.’

‘A marginally better idea,’ he said. ‘If you discount the wasted fuel.’

They stared at the bike some more.

‘You could always give me directions,’ he said.

‘Can you take directions?’ she asked sceptically.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘There doesn’t need to be a reason.’ Clearly he’d never been in the car with her parents.

‘Not only can I take directions, I also have an equal opportunity plan of attack for this particular dilemma,’ he said. ‘Me being a thoroughly modern man and all.’

Serena snorted. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’ He wasn’t quite as traditional in his thinking as her father and brothers when it came to womenfolk and their place in the world. But he wasn’t that far off it.

‘I’ll drive us to the beach, you can drive us to the church,’ he said with a grin. ‘We’ll start tossing coins after that.’

‘My hero.’ Wonders would never cease.

He handed her his carry bag and straddled the bike. She slung the bag over her shoulder, next to her own, and slipped onto the bike, her hands at his waist and her sundress riding high on her thighs so that when she settled into place behind him her bare thighs nudged the lightweight cotton material of his trousers and the tightly muscled buttocks beneath. Maybe there was something to be said for not being in the driver’s seat after all. This was very nice. Very … liberating. Perfect, in fact.

But wait. She’d wrinkled his shirt and she couldn’t have that. So she let her hands roam all over that wide muscled back; a wrinkle smoothed here, a wrinkle made there. Really, there was just no getting rid of them.

‘Serena—’ His voice was husky, more than a little strained.

‘Hmm?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Ironing.’

‘Well, can you do it later?’ he muttered. ‘I’m trying to concentrate here.’

‘Oh.’ She slid her hands beneath his shirt and set them to his waist, set her feet to the footpegs, her knees tucking in behind his and bringing her thighs into even closer contact with the back of his. ‘Sorry. Ready when you are.’

‘Serena—’ He sounded long suffering, his voice a deep delicious rumble that started in his chest and carried all the way to the tips of her fingers as well as her ears. There was just no end to the sensory delights to be found on the back of this bike. ‘The directions—’

‘Oh. Right.’ Serena grinned as he started the bike. ‘Turn left and drive. The road follows the coastline. I’ll tell you when we’re there.’

‘That’s it?’ he said. ‘Those are the directions?’

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ she said and settled back to enjoy the ride.

Serena took him to a secluded cove with white sand, clear blue water and a swimming cave she knew damn well he’d want to explore. Sure enough his eyes lit up when he saw it and he wasted no time stripping down to his board shorts. He wore clothes well, no denying it. But he wore next to no clothes better. He was all lean and sculpted muscle, not an ounce of fat on him. Sheer perfection, but for a thin, wicked-looking scar that started high on his back and headed up and over his left shoulder.

She stepped closer and traced its path with gentle fingers. ‘What’s this?’

‘A reminder,’ he said gruffly. ‘And you’re under-dressed.’

She took care of that, stripping down to her bikini before rummaging through her shoulder bag for some sunscreen. She smoothed it over her shoulders and down her arms, noting with some satisfaction that she’d managed to divert his attention from the cave. She slid her hand behind her hair and lifted it forward, over her shoulder, and handed him the sunscreen before presenting her all but bare back to him. ‘Do you mind?’ she murmured. She wanted his hands on her. She wanted her hands on him. She’d been dreaming of it.

Pete stood back and surveyed the vision splendid in front of him with the appreciative eye of a true connoisseur. So many curves, all of them lethal. And they were his for the coating. Pete tried to remember when life had last been this good.

Nope. Nothing.

Life had never been this good.

‘Nice day for a swim,’ said a voice beside him, and he turned his head to find an elderly Greek woman standing beside him wearing a scary black one-piece swim suit. Sturdy body. Thighs. And a white bathing cap covered in plastic yellow flowers. ‘Marianne Papadopoulos,’ she said briskly. ‘I run the local bakery. We haven’t met.’

Serena tilted her head, one hand still holding the bulk of her hair. ‘Hello Mrs Papadopoulos.’ Serena sounded amused. Resigned. ‘This is Pete Bennett. He’s filling in for Tomas. But you probably already know that.’

‘Of course,’ said Marianne, deftly removing the sunscreen from Pete’s grasp and squirting a generous amount into her palm before sending the bottle of sunscreen over Serena’s shoulder and tapping her none too gently with it.

‘Thanks.’ Serena’s voice was dry, very dry, as she reached up to take it back.

‘You can’t be too careful about sun damage these days,’ said Marianne, rubbing her hands together before slapping them down onto Serena’s back and moving them about with vigour. White streaks began to form; a criss-cross of streaks on a canvas of glorious golden skin. Picasso would have been impressed. Pete wasn’t so much impressed as resigned. They really did need to get off this island and onto another one.

Tahiti sounded nice.

‘Will you be staying overnight?’ asked Marianne.

‘No, ma’am,’ he told her politely. ‘I’m only here for a couple of hours.’

‘Just enough time for a swim and maybe a trip up into the hills before we head back to Sathi,’ said Serena, turning round and squaring up to Marianne Papadopoulos with admirable aplomb.

But Marianne was undeterred. ‘I noticed you only brought one bike,’ she said.

‘Pete’s very fuel-conscious,’ countered Serena. ‘For a pilot.’

‘You should take two bikes next time. Your grandfather would not mind.’ She looked meaningfully towards him and Pete stifled the urge to reach for his clothes and start pulling them on. ‘Your grandfather would prefer it.’

‘I might just … swim,’ he said, seeking escape, finding a likely avenue in the crystal-clear water of the cove.

‘Good idea,’ said Marianne. ‘Swim. Cool off. I’ll come too. It’s not good to swim alone.’ And she headed majestically towards the water.

‘Another one of your grandfather’s pinochle partners?’ he muttered.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Frightening.’

‘You have no idea.’

‘Maybe I’ll just swim on over to the cave and you can swim with Marianne.’ Sharks he could handle. White bathing caps with plastic yellow flowers were way beyond his sphere of experience.