Paradise Nights: Taken by the Bad Boy

‘Maybe. Did you miss me?’

‘Of course. How many goddesses of buckets and sensuality do you think I know?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Never mind. I tried to get back here earlier,’ he murmured. ‘Unfortunately, not many people know about this place. It’s a hard sell. Maybe you should hurry up with those postcards.’

‘Maybe I will.’ She eyed his carryall speculatively, wondering how Sam had found him so fast, wondering exactly how long he was staying this time. ‘Are you staying overnight?’

He nodded. ‘What time do you finish up here?’

‘The last of the bikes should be back by five, give or take half an hour,’ she told him. ‘Why? What did you have in mind?’

‘I’m thinking of taking a stroll up the hill.’

‘What hill?’ She followed his gaze to the mountain looming behind them. ‘Oh. That hill.’ She’d climbed it before. It wasn’t easy. ‘That’s a big hill.’

‘Sam says there’s a path to the top.’

‘Well, yes. There is. If you’re a goat.’

‘And that you can see the entire island when you get to the top.’

There was that.

‘Bring your camera. You might catch the sunset.’

She’d been here for five months, four days, and counting. She’d photographed everything more times than she cared to remember, including the sunset. ‘I’ll need more incentive than that.’

‘It’s good exercise.’

‘Boy, do you have a lot to learn about women and incentive.’

‘C’mon, Rena. Haven’t you ever wanted to touch the sky?’

He had the soul of a poet. The smile of a devil. Serena couldn’t resist either. ‘All right. I give in. We’ll walk to the top and touch the sky.’

His smile promised more, much, much more, and she knew for a fact he could deliver. ‘You won’t regret it,’ he murmured.

‘I never do.’

* * *

It was half past five before the last of the bikes were locked away for the night and Serena had shooed Sam home. Closer to six by the time they’d taken her cooler and the cashbox down to the cottage. There was enough daylight left for getting up the hill. Not nearly enough daylight for getting back down. Serena picked up a small canvas bag and went in search of a torch and a couple of bottles of water before slinging it over her shoulder. ‘Ready?’

With a gesture that came as automatically to him as breathing, Pete removed the bag from her shoulder and slung it over his. ‘Lead on.’

She led him behind the cottage and across the bitumen road to where the goat track began. If there was one thing she’d become used to on Varanissi, it was walking up hills. Her body had grown quite fond of it; her legs no longer gave protest. She was healthy. Fit. And still she had the feeling that if necessary, Pete Bennett with his lazy stride and easy breathing could have taken the slope at a dead run. She picked up the pace, figuring that if she had to exercise she might as well make it worthwhile.

Half an hour later they reached their destination, a desolate plateau dropping away sharply on three of its four sides, but what the rocky, barren plateau lacked in visual appeal it more than made up for with its panoramic view of the village and harbour below.

The island had charm; she’d give it that. And the people on it were as good as you’d find anywhere. Maybe better.

But the world was bigger than this, and so were Serena’s dreams. Pete Bennett knew how to dream big too. She could see it in the way he looked to the sky, sense the restlessness in him, a burning need to keep moving, keep going … to run, and to fly. ‘You love it, don’t you? Being up here.’

‘Yeah,’ he said simply, looking skyward. ‘It’s the next best thing to being up there.’

‘Why helicopters?’ she asked. ‘Why didn’t you choose to fly planes?’

‘I’ve flown both,’ he said. ‘But helicopters are more sensitive, more tactile machines than planes. Planes are all about power. Helicopters are about finesse.’

‘You fly planes too?’

He flashed her a grin. ‘Serena, I fly everything.’

‘Have you always wanted to fly?’

‘Ever since I was old enough to sit on my sainted mother’s knee at Richmond RAAF base and watch the pilots practise their touch and gos.’

‘I’ll take that as an always. What’s a touch and go?’

‘You bring the plane in, touch down, and then take off again, all in the same run. What about you?’ He gestured towards the camera around her neck. ‘Has it always been photography for you?’

‘Not always. I’ve done lots of things. Managed restaurants, designed their interiors, done the branding work for the family seafood outlets, written articles for magazines. But I keep coming back to my camera and the stories a picture can tell.’ She took a mouthful of water. Watched as Pete did the same, slaking his thirst the same way he’d climbed the hill: effortlessly and with every appearance of enjoyment. ‘So you spent a goodly portion of your childhood hanging over the fence of the local RAAF base. What then? How did you become a pilot?’

‘I was all set to join the Air Force but somewhere along the way I got to stand on a deck full of Navy Seahawks and that was it for me. Nothing else would do.’

‘You joined the Navy?’ It didn’t seem to fit with his carefree bad-boy image. ‘What about the discipline? All those rules and regulations? Dedication to duty?’

‘What about them?’ He shot her a quizzical glance.

She figured she might as well give it to him straight. ‘You don’t seem the type.’

‘Look harder,’ he offered, his voice noticeably cooler.

Good idea. Excellent idea. She slipped the cap from her camera and studied him through the lens. ‘Okay, I’m seeing it now.’ But only because he was letting her see. This was a part of himself that playboy Pete Bennett preferred to keep hidden. She took the shot, and then another. ‘So how long were you in the Navy?’

‘Regular squadron? Seven years.’

‘And then?’

‘Then I transferred to air-sea search and rescue helicopters for a while.’

‘For how long?’ There was something about his expression that didn’t invite questions.

‘Eight years.’

He looked away, all shut down, but not before she’d caught with her camera a hint of pain that ran deep. She wondered at it, wondered why a man who’d spent fifteen years in service to others was currently flying tourists around these islands and contemplating hauling cargo around PNG. A man didn’t walk away from the kind of work he’d been doing for no reason. Did he? ‘Do you miss it?’