Legally Addicted - By Lena Dowling Page 0,44
pack before ferrying her to Sydney Airport, her view of where their ‘relationship’ was headed cemented further to a foregone conclusion. She had allowed herself to get carried away but now she had to be realistic. She would never mesh with Brad’s glitzy lifestyle. This situation could only ever be temporary; a pleasant distraction until her mission to get the addiction centre off the ground had been accomplished.
Once she arrived at the airport, Brad was waiting for her onboard the Spencer corporate jet with a glass of champagne. She hadn’t expected him to be out of business wear, and in jeans and a white t-shirt that clung to his sculpted chest; he looked hotter than ever. But as the jet sped down the runway and pitched into the air, Georgia felt an exhilarating sense of being freed from the shackles of her conflicted reactions to Brad. At least now she had a legitimate reason for being with him that had nothing to do with her crazy messed up feelings, and she was sticking to it.
The cabin light glowed green indicating that the pilot had completed take-off, and Brad unclipped his seatbelt, dragging a briefcase out from beneath his seat.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got a stack of paperwork.’
She drained the last of her glass. Bubbles jiggled over her tongue, releasing a delicious sweetness of fragrant apricots and peaches.
‘What is this? It’s delicious. What? Oh yes — paperwork, that’s fine.’
‘You seem to be something of a fan of Dom Perignon,’ he said, taking her empty glass.
No wonder the restaurant bill had been so high. Brad’s taste in wine clearly ran to the exorbitant. Her unease at the wastefulness of spending so much on a bottle of wine, however, was stifled as he returned with a refill. She didn’t need to feel guilty. She was on a mission after all. A fierce jolt of turbulence swayed him on his feet, forcing him to steady himself with a hand on her shoulder. His touch sparked through her every nerve ending, sending her thoughts tumbling forwards in anticipation to finally being alone with Brad at the resort. It was a dirty job, this schmoozing for the good of the shelter, but someone had to do it.
‘I have some work to do as well,’ she said, grateful for the diversion.
But she only managed to review a handful of documents before the combination of two late nights in a row and the sedating effect of the champagne caused her eyes to grow heavy, and her head to sink deep into the soft quilted headrest.
‘We’ll be landing soon,’ he whispered, gently stroking her hair.
Drowsy, she opened heavy lidded eyes, but Brad was already at the front of the cabin leaning into the cockpit, speaking with the pilot.
She closed her eyes again, almost ready to re-surrender to slumber, when excitement intervened, jolting her awake.
Apart from a trip to New Zealand the previous year for a family law conference, she had never travelled, making this only her second trip overseas and her first to the Pacific Islands. She pulled herself upright and had barely finished gathering her papers together when they made a smooth landing. Moments after the plane was stationary, the pilot opened the door, motioning for them to alight.
Leaving the airplane, the hot blast from the jet engines merged with the thick tropical heat, and she was grateful to see that Brad had a car waiting for them on the tarmac. The Samoan driver greeted them, shaking Brad’s hand, and slapping his upper arm.
‘Mr Spencer. Welcome back. Everyone is very pleased to have you staying with us again so soon.’
The driver’s comment was a sharp reminder that for Brad, jetting out to a tropical island for the weekend was a regular occurrence, and not the once in a life time experience that it was for her.
By the time they arrived at the resort darkness had fallen, keeping the landscape of Upolu, Independent Samoa’s largest island, a tantalising secret. The Spencer’s private beach fale was on the outer reaches of the resort, beyond the main accommodation and down a reflective seashell pathway, past a swimming pool lit up in lights.
The traditional style Samoan beach house surprised her in its modesty. Fitted out with the minimum of fuss: a framed tapa cloth hung on the wall, with only cane furniture completing the sitting area. In the bedroom, a large square styled hardwood bed dominated the room. She rested her suitcase on top.
Brad cradled her from behind, kissing