Legally Addicted - By Lena Dowling Page 0,40

and thankfully a filmy, tunic-like black silk top Miriam had insisted she buy on one of their shopping trips. She looked good enough for an outing to the mall or for an actual café, but not for formal evening dining. Her mind darted for a solution. If she kept her coat on until she reached the table, and if she sat down quickly enough, she just might avoid anyone noticing that she had worn jeans and boots after five to one of the city’s best restaurants.

‘Excuse me. Excuse me, madam.’

A waiter was at her side asking to take her coat. Georgia backed away, and then sucked in her breath, galvanising herself for the walk among Sydney’s well heeled.

She felt quizzical eyes follow her across the restaurant, and heard conversations stall then turn to murmurs as she reached Brad Spencer’s table. Her throat tightened, tears forming behind a dam of determination that she hoped would hold. She had been in this situation many times before, although she had sworn it would never happen to her once she had her own life and her own money. She had always been the kid in the inappropriate, second-hand clothes, years before vintage became chic, and here she was again surrounded by whispers and nudges.

The clinking of glass on glass, cutlery on plates and the buzz of genuine conversation resumed as soon as Brad Spencer stood up to meet her, pulling her to him and kissing her.

Clearly, any woman out with Brad Spencer could wear what she liked, or more to the point, what he liked. Spencer approval was obviously Sydney approval. She should have felt grateful for the rescue, but it rankled. Her annoyance, however, was not enough to stop her body responding as it pressed against him, her mind recalling his contours as if she now had an internal map of him, or the kiss that he gave her, barely appropriate for such a public setting, searing her lips like an outback branding iron.

‘You look stunning — bold. I like it,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

She searched his face. Was he serious? Or was he exhibiting the good manners that should have been typical of the upper echelons of Sydney society, but in her experience almost never was?

She wanted to take him to task for failing to mention that Café Macquarie was a topnotch restaurant, but she said nothing. If she hadn’t been so rushed and had read more off the internet instead of simply looking up the address, this would never have happened. Let him think what he liked about what she was wearing. At least she would get a decent dinner out of it, even if pride did mean she was going to have to insist on paying half.

Brad signalled for a waiter to fill her glass with wine from a stand beside their table.

‘So if you grew up in Dockton, how did you…?’

‘Become a partner in one of the city’s most respected law firms at the ripe old age of twenty-nine?’

She was about to elaborate when a woman rushed up to their table, wine glass in hand, breathless in a fitted, deep blue satin dress; a dress that, at that moment, Georgia would have wrestled her to the ground for, if she thought she could have gotten away with it. The V-neckline of the dress framed the largest polished opal, suspended as a pendant, that Georgia had ever seen. Combined with matching opal and diamond earrings and a bracelet which caught the light, refracting it painfully into Georgia’s eyes, the whole effect was seriously OTT.

Reminded of the inadequacy of her own clothing, Georgia shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

‘Brad, Brad Spencer isn’t it? Sorry to interrupt.’ The woman was apologising with her back to Georgia, in a move that appeared deliberate. ‘I’m Paris Walsh. Thank you so much for what you’ve done for my mother. Without you, Dad would have screwed her out of everything. No wonder you have a reputation for being the best.’

Brad tipped his glass in Georgia’s direction.

‘Actually, I can’t take the credit I’m afraid. It was Georgia here who established that your mother had a case.’

Paris turned, and rocked back on her heels taking in Georgia’s outfit, her expression briefly transforming into one of recognition, before twisting into a crooked smile that suggested pity.

‘Oh my God, it’s you isn’t it? It’s Grubby George from high school. I should have recognised you before, when the waiter had to chase you down for your coat, but you look so different now.’

It had