Legally Addicted - By Lena Dowling Page 0,45

the base of her neck, sending a pulse of energy down through her body. Desire flooded back up in response and she reached for her bag, bracing herself against it, as his hands travelled downwards to hike up her skirt.

‘Leave that, Georgia,’ he whispered, misunderstanding why she had grasped her suitcase, ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’

In the morning, Georgia woke brimming with curiosity to see the island in daylight. Brad still slept soundly, his face a picture of innocence and at complete odds with his actions of the night before. She sat up hoping Brad would wake up as well, but despite the movement, he slept on. Even a stretch and a vocal yawn did nothing to shake him from his slumber.

She got out of bed and began to dress, not taking any particular pains to muffle the noise as she rummaged through her suitcase, but nothing seemed to rouse him. It had been the same that first morning she had snuck out of his apartment.

Resigned to taking her initial look at the island solo, she slipped on a cotton shirt and a short skirt over the top of her bikini and let herself out of the beach house. She followed the path back out towards the resort. The air hung thick and damp, heavy with the scent of frangipani. The shot of cool air as she walked through the air conditioned reception area was a welcome contrast. On the street outside the resort, she turned towards a cluster of open sided houses in the distance. Curious, she walked towards them. Closer up, the houses consisted of nothing more than a few poles supporting corrugated roofing iron, haphazardly clad in a variety of flimsy materials.

‘Lady, you want coconut? Two dollar — fresh coconut.’

A small boy ran from one of the houses and tugged at her skirt. He was soon joined by a throng of children clambering over one another, jostling to be the one to sell her the coconut.

‘I’ve just arrived on the island and I don’t have any change,’ she said, sorry that she couldn’t give the children something.

‘Notes are good — we share.’ The little boy who still had hold of her skirt said, the other children giving solemn nods of agreement. She looked in her purse.

‘Don’t give them anything, Georgia; it only encourages them. Clear off, the lot of you!’

Brad’s gruff voice sent the children scattering like a flock of frightened birds.

‘They weren’t doing any harm.’

‘Wait until that happens every time you try to leave the resort, and see how you feel about it then. The guests hate it.’

‘They’re just children.’

‘They’re nothing but pests, and it’s bad for business.’

With Brad’s features transformed and his dark eyes hardening to the colour of pitch, there was no point arguing with him, so she changed the subject.

‘Does the housing worry you?’

She pointed to the shack-like buildings.

‘Why would it? It’s a tropical island.’

‘I thought you were asleep?’

‘How could anyone sleep with all that racket you were making? Come on, breakfast is waiting.’

Conversation over, he turned and strode back into the resort in the direction of the fale.

Georgia made a mental note. Brad wasn’t a morning person, which perhaps explained the personal wake-up his butler gave him.

A breakfast table had been set for them on the rustic deck outside the fale, affording a spectacular view down over the resort and out across the white sand beach and azure water of the bay. A waiter wearing a crisp short-sleeved white shirt, black bow tie and lava-lava approached the table. He handed them each a menu. Brad put his to one side while Georgia scanned the options.

‘Coffee and a croissant, thank you.’

‘And for you, sir?’

‘I’ll have my usual, thanks.’

Georgia’s breakfast, however, when it arrived, consisted of two slices of raisin bread, and not the croissant she had ordered.

‘Where’s Ms Murray’s croissant?’ The waiter flinched at Brad’s tone, spilling the coffee he was pouring into the saucer.

‘Don’t worry, this is fine,’ she said, trying to deflect his concern. The bread looked fresh and she was sure that once it was slathered in butter and jam it would be every bit as delicious as a croissant.

‘But it’s not what you asked for.’ Brad’s face was locked in a position that intimated more than idle determination.

‘Take that away, and bring Ms Murray back a croissant.’

Brad Spencer might have been generally easy going, but when it came to anything to do with her safety or comfort it seemed he was not to be trifled with.