Legally Addicted - By Lena Dowling Page 0,47
as he gestured down to the vehicle and she grasped his meaning. They were within line of sight of the driver. Taking her hand he led her, breathless, back out of the grotto and on to the path.
When they reached the bottom of the track the driver laid out a blanket for them. There was a well-stocked picnic hamper, almost a mini-deli and, she noticed with some discomfort, a bottle of Dom Perignon. What would have been excessive by most people’s standards seemed par for the course to Brad, who handed her a plate and encouraged her to eat whatever she liked. She picked at her food until, no doubt judging that she wouldn’t eat any more, Brad motioned to the driver to pack the picnic away.
‘I think I’ll swim,’ she said, pulling off her skirt and shirt to expose the bikini that she had on underneath.
‘You’ve just eaten.’ He sounded concerned.
‘Not really.’
‘True, you seemed to push your food around the plate. Is something wrong?’
‘Nothing — just the heat. A swim will do me good.’
She waded into the clear waters of the pool, relieved that since he had eaten a decent sized meal he couldn’t follow. She needed a moment alone, out of the heat, and beyond the reach of Brad’s aura that, in these incessant muggy temperatures, threatened to drug her. She forced herself to remember why she was here. She couldn’t afford to get carried away. This wasn’t her world. She was here for the addiction centre and that was it. In the pool she tried to watch him from a distance, clutching for some kind of perspective, but his eyes never left her, forcing her under the water and out of his burning gaze.
When she emerged from the pool he was waiting for her with her clothes and a bath sheet. He wrapped her in it cocoon like at first, before unfurling it again to hold it out matador style, creating a modesty screen from their driver while she dressed.
Brad looked away, conscious that if he caught sight of Georgia’s steaming naked body, not even the presence of the driver would stop him pulling her back out of sight and taking her there and then. Instead, he looked back over his shoulder until Georgia took the towel from him and wound it around her hair. Even with her hair wet and lank she was spectacular; her damp shirt clung to her breasts and her short linen skirt showed off her lithe, perfectly proportioned legs. Reluctantly he returned to lean against the vehicle, giving an idle kick to the rear tyre, waiting to help her back up into the SUV when she finished drying her hair.
The return trip was every bit as rough as the journey in to the waterfall and Brad seemed on edge. He had been relaxed down by the water but by the time Georgia had returned to the SUV his face was set hard and he said little. He sat close to the gap in the two front seats watching the road and the driver’s every movement. Each time the vehicle lurched he said something in the Samoan language to the driver that Georgia couldn’t understand, but its meaning was clear. Brad was very unhappy about something.
‘Really, it’s okay. I’m used to it now,’ she said, sure that it was just her nervousness that was causing him to be so short with the driver. Nothing she said, however, seemed to placate him, and when they arrived at the resort he sent her ahead back on up to the fale alone. She was halfway back through the resort before the noise of Brad’s continued angry shouts at the driver gave way to the crash of the surf.
Brad strode back to the beach house, still furious.
It wasn’t until he had kicked that tyre that he had realised why the crossing had been so difficult. The tyres were inadequately inflated and on closer inspection he saw that they were almost bald. There was no excuse for it. The vehicle belonged to Spencer Corp, and all its vehicles were serviced at the company’s cost. His and, more importantly, Georgia’s safety had been compromised by sheer laziness.
He found Georgia sitting on the deck, her face flushed and her eyes ablaze, and his body, which had been bound tight with need since they visited the waterfall, hardened in response.
‘How dare you speak to the driver that way, and for that matter, the waiter at breakfast, and before that, those poor