LITMIR.BIZ

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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?’

      ‘Miss what?’

      ‘The howling winds and heaving seas. The adrenalin rush that’d come with battling the elements and saving lives. It’s pretty heroic stuff.’

      ‘I’m not a hero, Serena. Far from it. Paint me as one and you’ll be in for disappointment,’ he said quietly.

      ‘Thanks for the warning,’ she countered dryly. ‘You know, my father is a fourth-generation fisherman. My brothers are fishermen. My cousins are fishermen. I know who they look to for miracles when the sea turns ugly and a vessel goes down. I know what you used to do.’

      ‘I don’t do it any more.’ The reckless charmer had disappeared, and in his place stood a complex warrior. The rogue had been irresistible enough. The warrior was downright breathtaking. ‘Take your photos,’ he said, but she already had and they wouldn’t be appearing on any picture postcard.

      ‘C’mere,’ she said softly and he looked towards her, wary and wounded for reasons she couldn’t fathom, his dark glare daring her to probe and prod for answers he didn’t want to give only she was done with questions for now. First rule of interviewing was to read your mark and when you’d pushed them as far as they’d go, pull back and come at them later from a different direction.

      He stepped up in front of her, big and brooding, his hands in his pockets and his expression guarded. ‘Closer,’ she said, and set her hand to his chest and lightly bussed his lips. ‘That’s for stepping up to protect your country—even if you were seduced into it by a bunch of Navy helicopters.’ She set her lips to his again and let them linger a fraction longer, watching as his eyes darkened. ‘And that’s for putting your life on the line to save others, day in, day out, for eight years.’ She slid her hand to his shoulder and this time her kiss was more than a whisper. She felt his response, saw with satisfaction the heat of the kiss chase the shadows from his eyes.

      ‘What was that for?’ he muttered.

      ‘Dinner,’ she said, sauntering away towards the southern edge of the plateau. ‘You are taking me to dinner, aren’t you?’

      He took her to dinner. To the little restaurant high in the hills where the fish stew was reputed to taste like ambrosia and the air was thin enough to have him breathing deep whenever Serena looked at him. She wore a cream-coloured dress, low cut, square necked, with delicate shoulder straps. It had little buttons all the way down the front, buttons that drove a man to distraction whenever he looked at them, and she knew it, her smile told him so and her eyes dared him to call her on it. ‘That’s quite a first-date dress.’ His lips brushed her hair as he saw her seated. ‘But it’s not blue.’

      ‘You were expecting the blue?’ she said and her eyes were laughing.

      ‘I was looking forward to it,’ he said. ‘With a great deal of anticipation, I might add.’

      ‘Sorry to disappoint.’

      ‘You haven’t. I’ll continue to look forward to it.’

      ‘I’m saving it,’ she said.

      ‘For what?’

      ‘The Trevi Fountain.’

      Good call. He knew this game of seduction well. He loved the playing of it, the hunt and the chase. Loved it when his quarry provided a challenge. And heaven help him the woman sitting opposite knew exactly how to do just that.

      ‘Unfortunately my chances of venturing that far afield are somewhat limited at the moment,’ she added with a sigh. ‘And I suspect you’re tied to Tomas’s charter operation as well. Fortunately for you I’ve had another idea.’ She leaned back in her chair and smiled. ‘It involves no fountain and no blue dress whatsoever, but it does involve water.’ He was all ears. And damned if she didn’t smile and change the subject. ‘Tell me about your family.’

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