The Bonk Squad (34 page)

“
She’s quite a piece of
work. Not that I’m complaining. She got me out of a rut, that’s for
sure. And into trouble,” he added with a wry grin.

Meg leaned back with her coffee, and
they drank in companionable silence. Occasional bees zoomed past,
breaking the ever present shrieking of the summer cicadas. A
distant lawnmower droned in the background. The jasmine’s cloying
fragrance sat heavy in the warm air.

Ben and Michael had hitchhiked north
to Auckland for the New Year’s Eve celebrations. Bobbie had gone
camping with Jamie and some of his friends. Al had faded out of the
picture somewhat. Meg presumed he was away on holiday somewhere.
Although she relished her extra writing time, it was nice having a
man for company again—even if it was only Ian.

“
Do you want me to have a
go at the front border before I get stuck into the bathroom?” he
asked.

“
You’ll be turning the
water off for that?”

“
Not for a while. I’ve got
the pipes capped.”

“
I might get a load of
washing on, then. I’ll weed the border, Ian. You do the
demolition.”

“
The
rest
of the demolition.”

“
You made a pretty
spectacular start on it...”

“
Let’s hope the finished
result is what you want. I’ve got the new pedestal basin in the
van, by the way. And those tile samples you wanted another look
at.”

They fell into easy silence again and
finished their drinks. He tipped his head back for a few minutes
and soaked up the sun. “Right,” he said, stretching, standing, and
reaching for Meg’s mug. He set both on her kitchen counter as he
made his way through to the scene of the crime. “Can you give me a
lift out with the old vanity when I whistle?” he called back over
his shoulder.

Al had no idea why he’d agreed to
it.

He’d suggested Fiji or Hawaii. Surely
two weeks alone in a tropical paradise would be time enough to
break through her defenses?

Liz had counter offered with a
hands-off fortnight on the Gold Coast of Australia—accompanied by
her children.

“
Great. Excellent. A real
family holiday,” he heard himself say, as astonishment and
frustration prickled through him.

She shot him a wicked smile,
accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a quiet “Yeah, right. I’ll make
the bookings then.”

His role seemed to be as their
rental-car chauffeur. He ferried Liz and Brett and Rosie to the
Dreamworld fun park and hung on grimly as various machines flung
them around and threatened to steal their breakfast. He thanked his
lucky stars Brett was too small to be allowed onto the huge
rollercoaster, and then wished the boy was a bit older when he was
dragged through the bouncy colorful kingdom of Wiggles
World.

He was captivated by the big cats at
Tiger Island, though, and couldn’t help comparing Liz to the
prowling beasts. Was it her graceful walk, or her tawny streaky
chestnut hair, or the fact that she was just plain
dangerous?

He drove them all to The Big Pineapple
and the ginger factory for tours of exotic fruit plantations and
gift shops full of sugary treats.

Feigned patience in huge shopping
malls while Liz bought Rosie an extraordinary number of sparkly
pink T-shirts, and Brett drooled over violent toys.

Enjoyed himself rather more on the
wildlife safari.

And sighed with relief when he was
allowed to stretch out on any of the spectacular
beaches.

He bought more ice-cream in a week
than he had in the last five years; mopped up a howling Rosie when
she spilled orange juice all over herself; supervised Brett’s
visits to assorted gentlemen’s public toilets, and paid and paid
and paid. And always Liz was near —in skimpy shorts, inadequate
skirts, strappy tops, a brief black bikini, and a separate
out-of-bounds bedroom.

Everywhere they went, he watched the
eyes following her. Men ate her up, and he bristled with
indignation and pride. Women cast admiring and envious glances; he
imagined they speculated she might be a fashion model on leave from
the catwalks of Paris or Milan. He adored accompanying her, and
burned as she continued to hold him at arm’s length. But nothing
would have dragged him away.

On the eighth evening she said, “Okay
kids, you’re off to Auntie Helen’s tomorrow.”

Al gave silent thanks for the respite
from endless theme park visits—and Liz patted him on the butt and
murmured the glorious words “And you and I are off to Heron
Island.”

“
What? How?” he asked,
caught unprepared.

“
We fly up to Gladstone and
go out by helicopter. I’ve booked us a beachside suite for four
nights. You’ve taken all the crap I’ve thrown at you, and now you
get the payoff.”

Stunned, grateful, disbelieving, he
didn’t notice they had burgers yet again for dinner.

“
So tell me a bit more
about this place.” They sat side by side at the small airfield by
their equally small bags. Liz had done a rigorous re-pack, and the
excess had been deposited at Auntie Helen’s, along with Brett and
Rosie.

“
It’s part of the Capricorn
group, out on the Great Barrier Reef. Really small. Been a marine
research station for years. Very unspoiled. No buildings higher
than the trees. No day-trippers. Just reef walking and swimming and
snorkeling. Nothing to distract us.”

“
Food?” he asked, very
distracted indeed by the turmoil in his trousers.

“
Everything’s included. We
entertain ourselves,” she added, placing her right hand on his left
thigh and giving a gentle squeeze.

Al still reeled with shock. Finally
Liz’s enticing body seemed within reach. But however desperate he
was to grab her and strip her naked and bang her brains out against
the waiting room wall, he had no intention of jeopardizing the
fortunate position he now found himself in. He ran his forefinger
over the back of her hand in a soft circular caress and then lifted
his finger away, pretending interest in the approaching
helicopter.

Liz squeezed a little
harder.

He smiled, rose, and approached the
window to watch their craft land.

Behind his back, Liz smirked. This was
going to be fun.

The clattering machine lifted,
lurched, and then rose into the sky. Soon, sea the color of Liz’s
eyes stretched to the horizon. Pieces of the huge reef embroidered
the sea floor in fantastic haphazard scrolls through aquamarine
water as clear as diamonds. Tiny bird-inhabited islets slipped by.
And finally Heron Island hove into sight—a lush green teardrop in
all the blue.

“
Magic flight,” Al said,
once they’d alighted and it was quiet enough to talk.

“
Magic few days, with any
luck,” Liz suggested, sending him a hot glance he refused to
acknowledge. He knew playing hard to get was juvenile, but it was
time she got a bit of her own treatment back, gorgeous little witch
that she was.

He raised his camera and snapped her
against the drooping rotor blades, not noticing that it made her
look as though there were chopsticks embedded in her
head.

They unpacked in edgy
silence.

“
I bought this for
tonight.” She held up a tiny filmy black nightgown.

He glared at the see-through garment.
“You’ve got some nerve, Lizzie. I haven’t been allowed to kiss you
yet and now you’re assuming I’ll sleep with you.”

“
I
know
you’ll sleep with me, Al,” she
murmured. “You’ve been sending out sex-waves from the moment we
met. I’ve been looking forward to it like you wouldn’t
believe.”

Something twanged inside him. So she’d
wanted him too, and was finally willing to admit it? Should he
concede defeat right now?

“
You could have had me any
time you wanted,” he rasped, clinging to his final shred of self
respect. “Why the long wait? Why the big untouchable
act?”

She gave him a long considering look.
“You needed to see the baggage that comes with me. I’m not just a
blind date over a dinner table. I’m a mother, Al. I’m a family. The
children are part of me. There’s not only me. I had to show you
that.” She stared him out.

“
There’s not only me
either,” he countered. “I’ve got Michael.”

“
So that helps to even
things up.”

She took a step closer and stood
gazing up into his dangerous eyes.

Unable to resist, he reached across
the small fizzing space between them and cupped her face in his
hands. Her skin felt as warm and velvety as he’d fantasized...her
hair silky soft against his fingertips. He ran the pad of his thumb
over the bow of her top lip; slowly around the curve of her lush
lower one and then pressed it possessively against her mouth,
stamping his ownership upon her.

“
This is like one of those
sci-fi programs on TV,” Liz said, her lips tickling his thumb as
she spoke. “You have to identify yourself with your thumb print to
see if the door opens and you can come in.”

The tip of her wet pink tongue flicked
out and ran over his thumb. “You can. You’re cleared for entry,
Captain.”

“
So you think the color’s
okay?”

Ian, distracted by a dribble of pale
aqua wall paint making its slow way down over Meg’s chest, ripped
his eyes back up to hers. “Yeah. I like it. Fresh and clean,
and...”

His eyes slid back to her breasts the
moment she glanced away. Would the paint make it that far before it
dried? And how much longer could he keep his hands off
her?

It was stifling hot in the small room.
Days ago, Ian had foregone his jeans for a pair of old gray shorts
as he ripped out wallboard and re-plumbed pipes. His T-shirt came
off soon after he started work each day.

“
I’ll get us a cold drink
once I’ve finished this bit,” Meg said, re-dipping her paint
brush.

Ian had almost finished grouting the
tile strip above the new basin so she could paint the rest of that
wall later. They were both lightly coated with plaster dust from
her final sanding-down earlier that morning. Outside, it was high
summer. The air hung still and hazy. Heat rose off every sun soaked
surface and went nowhere. The small bathroom window provided no
ventilation at all.

Meg had tied her hair up in an untidy
ponytail to leave her neck and shoulders bare. She’d swapped her
usual shirt for a thin-strapped cotton knit top, which was driving
Ian insane. Each time she leaned over to re-dip that brush, her
breasts moved under the soft black fabric. He imagined slipping one
of his hands down into the damp heat there, or better still just
pushing the straps off her shoulders and ripping the damn top down
so he could see her properly.

Every time he turned away, Meg admired
his long tanned back. Beads of perspiration tracked down through
the fine coating of dust on his skin. She wanted to lick him...to
taste the salty, musky fragrance wafting across to her.

Her current wall was almost finished.
She squatted; then finally sat as she worked close to the new tile
floor.

“
It’s much cooler down
here.”

Ian glanced over his shoulder and got
not just an eyeful of her breasts, but a fairly good view down one
leg of her denim shorts to some lacy red panties.

Meg in red lace! She’d occupied a
larger slice of his imagination each day, and picturing her
underwear had become part of his pleasure.

Red lace over creamy skin… Warm flesh
that would welcome his hands… Her soft hair spread over his chest
as she cuddled close to him… Why hadn’t he seen Meg like this for
the whole time he’d known her?

He tidied up the final portion of
grouting as she completed her painting. The thudding as she pounded
her fist down on the paint can to secure the lid was right in time
with his hectic heartbeat. He sank to the floor beside
her.

“
Paint,” he said hoarsely,
touching the aqua trail still just shy of her black top.

Meg glanced down at herself, squinting
to focus.

“
Wipe it off for me,” she
suggested, handing him her damp cleanup rag.

Ian dabbed at the wayward runnel. He
managed to remove some, but the drying edge still adhered to her
skin. He began to scrape with the nail of his index finger, hoping
to loosen it. The temperature rose to new heights, even with the
cool tile floor beneath them.

A stray waft of wind rattled the stiff
leaves on the clump of flax outside the small window, stirring the
warm air in the little room so it moved across their bodies like a
breeze over the burning desert.

“
We’re in Cairo, in your
book,” Meg murmured. “I’m Anouska the belly-dancer and you’re
Curtis the spy. We’re trapped on the floor in that locked outhouse
with one high window and the palm fronds clacking together outside.
The flax leaves sound about right.”

“
I’m trying to undo the
rope around your wrists, am I?” Ian asked, sliding one of his hands
around Meg’s breast to hold it still while he scraped at the
turquoise paint.