Legally Addicted (15 page)

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 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. Georgia’s heart skipped a beat. She had always looked after herself, she didn’t need his help or anyone else’s, but there was something oddly powerful in the feeling of being cared for.

If she could harness that powerful focus to help her, she was sure that the addiction centre was almost a foregone conclusion. But how long could she supress her disgust at the way the Spencers exploited the villagers to line their own pockets, flaunted their wealth in the presence of poverty, and created excess carbon jetting across the Pacific? She swallowed hard, trying to calm her thinking, which lurched around like a three point juggling act between desire, abhorrence and determination.

‘I’ve arranged for us to take a tour of the island.’

‘Okay,’ Georgia said evenly, trying to keep her irritation in check. She was eager to see more, but it would have been nice to have been consulted.

‘You finish your breakfast,’ he said, draining his coffee and motioning towards the waiter who had reappeared with a croissant. ‘I’ll just change into something more suitable.’

In light jeans and a shirt she couldn’t see what was wrong with what he already had on, but his attire when he re-emerged from the fale had her in fits of laughter. Dressed in a singlet and a patterned lava-lava, Brad’s solid hairy legs emerged like vine entangled tree trunks from beneath the sarong. She couldn’t contain herself.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ he said, putting on a fake-serious expression, but nevertheless clearly enjoying her amusement.

‘When in Rome, I suppose.’

‘I’ll have you know that this is an extremely important garment in the tropics, with certain advantages, which, Ms Murray, if you play your cards right you might just get to experience later on,’ he said, with a suggestive tug at the fabric.

She giggled again, her earlier misgivings evaporating into the background.

She loved that about him — the way he could always make her laugh when things got tense.

Loved? The word leapt out at her like a ghoulish apparition.

Liked.

She liked that about him.

Brad had organised for them to be taken by air conditioned SUV to some of the local highlights. The only downside was being stopped every few miles by someone who recognised Brad and wanted to talk. He seemed to know every other person who lived on the island.

By the time they turned down the barest of dirt tracks cut into the lush tropical foliage and began heading inland, Georgia’s stomach was telling her it was almost lunchtime. The SUV rocked from side to side, and more than once she was afraid the vehicle would topple over. She grabbed Brad’s arm for support.

‘Sorry about the track. It’s very rough, but it’s worth it. Any moment now, you’ll see.’

Brad wasn’t exaggerating. As they rounded a final bend, she caught sight of a waterfall surging down over rocks twenty feet high into a natural swimming pool. Mist from the waterfall refracted the spectrum into a stunning dewy rainbow.

‘Paradise.’ The word escaped from her lips as she stepped down from the SUV, the only word that could properly do the scene justice.

‘This way,’ Brad said, guiding her towards a walking track that zigzagged up the hill to the source of the waterfall. Out of the relative cool of the SUV the heavy moist air slowed her steps and closed in on her senses so that she couldn’t be sure which was making her feel more fuggy headed; the humidity, or Brad’s touch each time she attempted to negotiate a difficult piece of track.

The walkway ended where the stream that idled through the foliage cascaded over the huge rock forming the spine of the waterfall, thundering down to the pool below.

As they descended the path, the same way that they had come, he steered her back into a natural grotto formed by the rock and pulled her to him. He stiffened under the thin layers of fabric that lay between them and then he said something that over the roar of the waterfall she couldn’t catch. Before she could respond he leaned in to kiss her. The effect of him as he held her, vice-like, against the rock, enlivened all her senses. He rolled his palm over her breast catching her nipple, bringing it taut, and eliciting a tremor that sent a white water charge to rival the waterfall behind them cascading through her body. He kissed her again, taking possession of her. She surrendered, clinging to him, expecting him to do more, but he pulled away. She caught the word ‘later’ 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 little kids? Who the hell do you think you are?’