by Lena Dowling
‘You always could tell when I was up to no good, Jeffrey.’
‘And are you?’
Brad smirked.
‘Possibly, if I get extremely lucky.’
The idea of the strategy meeting had come to him immediately after he had told the white lie to get Caro off his back. The potential to create a situation where, if Georgia was of a mind to throw professional caution to the wind, he might get lucky again was a bonus. The only downside was that if she didn’t respond in the way he hoped, he would be torturing himself all weekend in addition to a week of suffering the distracting effects of Georgia’s presence at the office.
‘Nevertheless, sir, I think it would be best if I were on hand to help.’
‘Sorry, that’s a no-can-do, Jeffrey. The presence of a butler would undermine the casual impression I’m aiming for.’
Brad would have preferred to have Jeffrey on hand to assist. Cooking a few steaks and pouring the drinks didn’t seem like rocket science, but with the other partners’ wives there, it was going to be a reasonable sized group. While he doubted there would be much capable of intimidating Georgia, he guessed, based on her previous spiky reactions to the spoils of financial success, the presence of an overly proper and obsequious butler would probably do it.
‘What about a caterer come kitchen hand, in a t-shirt, sir?’
‘Ah, now you’re catching on, Jeffrey. In that case, you’d be most welcome. But you’ll have to drop this ‘sir’ business for the weekend.’
‘I’ll do my best, Bradley, or would you prefer Mr Spencer?’
‘Brad will be fine.’
‘But just for the weekend, Brad, sir.’
Brad sighed.
Baby steps.
He held up the glass of his favourite red to the light and swirled the ruby liquid, determined to savour it. At over five thousand dollars a case, this was one little beauty that would be firmly off the strategy weekend menu.
Chapter Six
Over the next week, things settled down to an easier routine in the office. Georgia surprised herself by how quickly she got used to working out in the open office again, and Brad surprised her by often dropping past her desk to ask her professional opinion on various legal issues. His visits made it clear to everyone that he regarded her as an equal and she was to be treated with the same deference as the other partners.
She still reacted physically whenever he was close, but it was only a matter of time, she decided, before the weak knees, swirling stomach and hot flushes subsided. Seeing Brad with someone else at the strategy weekend would help with that. It would be hard but she would only have to face the awkwardness of that once and then it would be over. It also helped that the Walsh matter was giving her the run-around and therefore plenty to think about that didn’t involve Brad.
With Brad unable to help her, she had almost done enough research into Douglas Walsh’s affairs to qualify for a private investigator’s badge. When searches of property and company registers turned up nothing, she had resorted to web searches and trawling social media sites, but the man was either a complete technophobe or seriously publicity shy. If she didn’t find something soon, she was going to have to consider the possibility that she might have to hire a PI for real.
‘Urggh.’
‘Black file?’
Georgia almost fell out of her chair as a hand rested on her shoulder. She knew that touch, irrevocably impressed into her memory. A frisson of something pleasantly electric shot across her shoulder blade and straight down her spine.
‘Anything I can help with?’
‘Not with this one I’m afraid, Brad. I’m still stuck on the Walsh file, trying to track Douglas’s assets.’
She swivelled around in her seat, forcing Brad to remove his hand. She looked up to find his face twisted in a genuinely apologetic expression. He leaned back against a large filing cabinet, crossing one arm over the other, prevented from crossing both by a rolled up magazine he held in his other hand.
‘I really wish there was some way I could help without compromising solicitor-client privilege, but I know you’ll crack it in the end. Douglas can be a prick. I had to act on his instructions, but I always thought Ruby deserved something.’
Brad’s admission shifted something inside her, as the information that he cared what happened to Ruby sank in.
‘I’m sorry you lost your client, by the way.’
She steeled herself for some form of rebuke or remonstration for her interference, but it never came. Instead, Brad raised his free palm in the air.
‘C’est la vie. It was a blow to the bottom line, unfortunately. But we’ll bounce back.’
She nodded. It was good to confirm that there really were no hard feelings over the Walsh matter. She hadn’t been brave enough to raise it before, but she was beginning to realise that Brad really was a fairly sanguine character. It took quite a lot to wind him up.
Outside the bedroom.
Georgia, cut it out.
She dragged her attention back to the present. The sooner she saw Brad with someone else the better.
‘I’m at the stage where I might have to hire a professional investigator.’
‘Not a bad idea to call in the professionals in a case like this, actually. I’ve had to do that sometimes. I can give you some names if you like.’
‘Thanks.’
Brad unrolled the magazine he was holding and handed it to her.
‘Snapped by the Paps?’
She quirked an eyebrow.
‘I know, I know, but I don’t read this rag for personal entertainment. With my client list, it pays to stay ahead of the game. Most of it is overblown of course, but over the years I’ve found that where there is smoke, there may not be fire but usually there is something at least smouldering.’
Smouldering.
His eyes gleamed a little brighter as he said the word. Was that meant as a double entendre? It wasn’t the first time he had passed by her desk to talk shop only to end up making some innocent and yet simultaneously suggestive remark.
‘And what is smouldering at the moment, do you think?’ she said, staring him straight in the eye, squarely meeting his cheek with a good dose of her own.
‘Apart from the usual?’
There it was again.
His eyes flashed at her.
It was bad enough having him around, without his flirting, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. If she brought it up, he would probably only deny it, making out she was the one who still had a bit of a thing for him.
Which, to a certain extent, she did.
Damn it.
‘Check out page forty-two.’
Grateful to have a reason to look away, she flicked through the pages until she found the image Brad was referring to.
She read the caption below the photo, ‘“Buckland snapped out with mystery woman”.’
‘This could be it, Georgia. If I were a betting man I’d say we’ll see Cherie soon. Until now, Buckland’s philandering has never made the media, but Cherie isn’t going to like this.’
‘I’ll make sure I’m up to speed with the file.’
‘Good. So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow up the coast then.’
‘Up the coast?’
‘At the strategy meeting.’
The idea of the overnight strategy meeting had filled Georgia with dread ever since Brad had mentioned it. She had tried to forget about it, throwing herself into her work, and with the Walsh file soaking up every free minute out of court, she had been reasonably successful. Watching Brad with someone else would be bad enough, but having to do it in some lavish mansion, which Brad insisted on calling his ‘shack’ in some perverse rich person’s ironic humour, set her stomach revolving in a ball of nerves.
‘Sure. See you then,’ she said coolly, ensuring nothing of her inner turmoil showed on her face.
The next day, Georgia briefly considered faking some forty-eight hour flu bug to avoid driving up to Brad’s
so-called shack. But if she did that, she risked major decisions being made by the three other partners without her. She hadn’t come this far just to be sidelined and treated liked the junior partner, or worse, some kind of feminine mascot.
Georgia reduced her speed, turned down the radio, and pulled her sunglasses on to the top of her head as she drove along the dress circle of houses that flanked Caston Bay. Caston was a coastal town a couple of hours from the CBD where the rich came to play. She expected to be completely out of her element at Brad’s holiday house, just as she had felt in his penthouse, and she wasn’t looking forward to making small talk with Dayton and Llewellyn’s wives either.
Although she had never met them before, she had seen them coming and going from their respective husbands’ offices enough times to have them pegged as ageing trophy wives plucked from the wealthy Eastern Suburbs. Then there was Brad’s ‘plus one’ who would likely be some society bimbo whose only difference from the likes of Caro Marsden and Ruby Walsh would be the years on the clock, and the number of facelifts.
Suck it up, Georgia.
This was what was expected of a partner in a successful law firm, and if she wanted the contacts and client base that went with it, she would just have to grin and bear it.
And there was still the issue of the addiction centre proposal. Now that she knew Brad was on the board, she might not be up to what Caro had alleged, but she needed to make sure she maintained a positive relationship with him.
So play nicely, Georgia.
The trouble was she couldn’t remember the last time she had played nicely. She only knew how to play one way, and that was to survive and, if at all possible, to win.
Brad’s beach house was number forty-six. Thirty-eight through forty-four were huge modern architectural statements, bordered by six foot high security fences; the sort of houses Georgia had been expecting. Stopping outside number forty-six, however, she fumbled in the glove compartment to recheck the address that Miriam had written on a post-it note.
This couldn’t be it.
A single storeyed brick and plaster bungalow, it was flanked by a low picket style fence in the front, and a well-used access strip to the beach ran down the left side. Only the right hand boundary was demarcated by a high fence separating it from its neighbour, a massive faux Mediterranean style white monolith of a mansion to the right.
She checked again. Number forty-six was right. This was it.
Unsure what to wear to a Spencer ‘barbeque’, and not wanting to look shabby or be outdone by Brad’s date, she had gone for a flattering black halter neck cotton dress with a string of pearls. She might have to turn up single, but that didn’t mean she had to look pitiable into the bargain, but now, looking at the modest home, she unhooked the pearls and threw them into the glove box beside the post-it.
With its absolute beachfront position, the block of land would have been worth a six figure sum on its own, but the house was completely out of place amongst its neighbours. Walking up to the front door, which was resplendent with a patch of peeling paint, the real estate speak phrase of ‘do up or demolish’ came to mind. Georgia put down the overnight bag she had packed, took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
‘Glad you could make it, Georgia, welcome to my beach hut,’ Brad said unselfconsciously, after he had wrenched the sticking door to get it open past halfway.
He hugged her and gave her two polite air kisses. The sensation of being pressed against his hard body coaxed hers into life. Turning her head sideways to avoid taking a face plant right into his chest, she caught a whiff of his all too familiar cologne. The scent of freshly cut sapling came with a memory that almost knocked her feet out from under her, and she resisted the urge to grasp on to him for support.
Mercifully, he released her to take the overnight bag and she stepped back before her hormones fired up any more and drove her headlong into trouble.
Feminine laughter emanated from a room behind them, reminding her that they were not alone, and she shook herself out of the last of her little daydream.
He’s out of bounds, and anyway he’s with someone, remember?
Brad looked back over his shoulder.
‘The Daytons and Llewellyns are already here, but let me show you to your room first.’
In contrast to the scruffy exterior, the inside of the house had been redecorated in a modern beach house aesthetic. Bare boards and whitewashed walls started in the hallway and continued into the bedroom. The retro furniture had been stripped back to natural wood and the bed was a minimalist slat bed. Nothing about the style of the beach house meshed with what she had seen of the rich decoration in Brad’s penthouse.
‘No ensuites, I’m afraid, but there are two bathrooms.’
Brad pointed to a pile of fluffy towels at the end of the bed.
He set down her small suitcase, and she noticed the faded t-shirt, moulded to his toned abdominals, was fraying at the neck and around the sleeves. His lean powerful legs were partially covered by long board shorts, stopping just above the knee, which likewise sported a couple of small holes from wear.
Ditching the pearls had been the right move.
‘You look lovely by the way, Georgia.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, trying to will the heat that was marching up the back of her neck to pivot right back on around and down again. It wasn’t so much the compliment that was making her blush as it was the awkwardness of standing beside a bed with Brad, her mind flooding with memories of the last time they had been in a bedroom together. She looked around the room searching for something to make a neutral comment about, a picture, a lamp, anything, but before she could come up with something to say, Brad motioned for her to follow him back out into the hallway.
‘The others are in bedrooms further down, the room next to yours is mine, and the one directly across the hall is your closest bathroom,’ he called back over his shoulder, carrying on into the living room.
After the obligatory introductions to the wives, an older man who had been working in the adjoining kitchen pressed a glass of sparkling wine into her hand. She looked around for a place to sit. With two full sized sofas occupied by John Dayton and his wife Beverley, and Roger Llewellyn and his wife Vera, there appeared nowhere free.
‘Here, come and sit beside me, Georgia. I promise I won’t bite.’
Brad patted the space beside him on a smaller two-seater. Make that a one-and-half-seater, she thought as she sat down and her thigh brushed his. He didn’t flinch and with little space to move, she was trapped against him. The heat emanating from his leg travelled through her thigh, circulating outwards and causing an unexpected sensation higher up.
She looked around, but there were no other guests. It seemed as if Brad didn’t have a date for the weekend after all. Her head said it didn’t matter, while her body, stupidly happy that she didn’t have to suffer seeing him with someone new, hummed an entirely different tune.
‘So what’s the story behind this place, Brad? It’s got a stunning view, but I’m sure it wasn’t what any of us were expecting as the beach house of the son of the late king of Sydney construction.’ Llewellyn piped up, asking what Georgia, and probably everyone else, was thinking.
Brad stretched out and leaned back, so that he was pressed even more tightly against her.
‘This is where it all begun. When Dad completed his apprenticeship he started his own building company and saved up for this place and all of the land around it. Then he applied to have the zoning laws changed and when that eventually came through he was able to subdivide the block into twenty plots. He built one house to sell in order to make the money to build the next and so on. All the houses started out looking like this, but most have now either been replaced, or modified and extended so much you wouldn’t know.
His guests gave polite smiles, nevertheless confused as to why the house had not been given more of a facelift like its neighbours. Brad shrugged, stood up, and headed for a set of French doors that open
ed on to a deck facing the beach.
‘See this first mark here,’ Brad pointed to a gouge a couple of feet up off the floor on the doorframe. It was the first of several other horizontal marks. ‘That is how tall I was when Dad sold his first house.’
Imagining Brad as a toddler melted something solid in Georgia’s chest. It was hard to visualise anyone as powerful as Brad as ever having been innocent or vulnerable, but seeing him like this, in understated surroundings, it was if he had been laid bare. The pride in his voice as he talked about the oldest shabbiest house in the street caught something in Georgia’s throat, and she quickly took a gulp of her wine rather than analyse what the feelings might be about.
‘Oh, and I’m sure you would have been the most darling baby too. What do you think, Georgia?’ Beverley Dayton asked.
Georgia took another long, deliberate sip of her drink, giving her time to think. She was about to deflect Beverley’s question by saying he was probably a little devil when Vera Llewellyn answered for her.
‘Cute as a button — I’ll bet he started charming the ladies in kindergarten.’
Brad rolled his eyes and laughed the comment off.
‘Alright men, what do you say to making fire and charring some fish?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Llewellyn said, climbing to his feet first, with Dayton following after him, trailing Brad outside through the double doors to a barbeque out on the deck.
‘What about you, Georgia?’ Beverley asked as the men went outside. ‘Do you have a husband?’
‘No, I’m still single.’
‘Are you? Well, how fortuitous. Bradley would be an excellent catch,’ Vera chimed in.
‘I couldn’t. We work together.’ Georgia shook her head.
‘Work together?’ The two women exchanged a look. ‘How do you think we met our husbands?’
Georgia wanted to point out that it was different when a partnership was at stake, but that would have ruffled the women’s feathers. If they met their husbands at work, she guessed they must have been secretaries. The paralegals and legal secretaries kept the firm running, and the loss of a good executive assistant was always a blow, but it was hardly equal to the dissolution of a partnership.