Dinner at Wyatt's

by Victoria Gordon

  Justine found his grin had relaxed her, at least enough to reply after she’d gained yet another moment’s grace by slowly sipping at the cold drink. ‘It was time to leave,’ she said carefully. ‘I’d learned all I could, and since I reckoned myself ready to take on a head chefs job, your position came up at just the right time. I ... especially liked the relative isolation. I’m not much of a city girl at heart, I suppose. It was ... just time to leave the nest, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’ He leaned back against the plump cushions of the settee, his expression expecting, demanding more detail.

  Suddenly wary, Justine threw him a quick glance and then concentrated her expression on a huge painting which dominated the opposite wall. Not for anything would she reveal the true reasons for her departure, the conversation innocently overheard that had blasted her out of the complacency created by her comfortable job as assistant head chef at a smart Sydney restaurant.

  She had been checking stores in the establishment’s enormous pantry when she had quite innocently found herself the unseen listener to a conversation between her volatile French employer and one of the city’s most influential restaurant columnists.

  It was at first complimentary to hear her talents described as excellent, but what followed was less complimentary by far.

  ‘Of course she is only a woman,’ her employer had said with typical Gallic chauvinism. ‘Perhaps she has even the dedication to become a chef magnifique, but it is not likely. Still, she is ... decorative.’

  The columnist had laughed his acceptance of that remark, adding one of his own to the effect that he would far prefer Justine in the bedroom than the kitchen.

  ‘I also,’ said her employer. ‘And perhaps that too will eventuate before too long. She has remarkably little confidence in herself, perhaps because she is so tall. Mon Dieu Those legs! All the way up to here! Ah yes, soon I think I must evaluate her ... other talents. She will be compliant; she too much likes her job here to be otherwise.’

  It had been all Justine could do to keep from confronting the men right then and there, but she held her temper until they had passed beyond earshot. She slipped out of the pantry then, her face flushed with restrained rage, and later that evening had allowed her temper full rein only in the safety of her own flat.

  ‘Swine!’ she had muttered over and over, visualising all sorts of appropriate revenge upon the bustling, tubby little Frenchman. She’d steamed and raged at the nerve of the man, but was honest enough to realise that his assessment of her wasn’t totally unjustified. She did enjoy — had enjoyed — her work at the restaurant. Too much so, obviously.

  Throughout her training and the long string of jobs that followed, she had done everything possible to play down her admitted sexuality. Being five foot ten, with a more than excellent figure and wholesome blonde prettiness, she had often been required to exercise firm dealing with men both on and off the job. As a result she had become quite adept at handling the opposite sex.

  Indeed, she had no doubts about handling her employer when the time came, but after nearly a year without so much as a pass from him, the comments he had made that day indicated a remarkable patience. She was forced to doubt seriously that she could keep him at bay and hang on to the job at the same time, and frankly she wasn’t inclined to bother.

  At breakfast the next morning she studiously went through the papers, and the Wyatt’s advertisement leapt out at her with the clarity of a dream come true. She had immediately replied to it, and had found no hesitation leaving her former job when Wyatt Burns had replied favourably to her application.

  But now? Faced with a decidedly arrogant man who hadn’t wanted a woman chef in the first place, did she dare admit that she had left her former position because of man troubles? Not likely!

  ‘Yes,’ she replied without hesitation, ‘that’s all.’

  One eyebrow raised slightly and his eyes surveyed her face with unrestrained pleasure. ‘And what about your boy-friend ... or whatever? Won’t being this far from the centre of things cause you any personal problems?’

  ‘Not that I can imagine,’ she retorted, reluctant to admit that there wasn’t any boy-friend or whatever, indeed there never had been anyone who mattered to her more than her work and an inordinate requirement for personal privacy that she seemed to have inherited from her father, now dead. Despite a wealth of experience in the working world, Justine had yet to meet the man who could stir her inner self to anything beyond the most casual interest.

  ‘Hmm,’ he murmured, then shifted the tone of the conversation. ‘And what do you know about Wyatt’s, apart from what was in the advertisement?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ she replied honestly. ‘Although I do know the house is noted for the very best of old-fashioned English cooking, the sort John Bull always wanted but seldom got. And that you’ve a reputation as a rather exacting but fair employer.’

  He grinned wickedly. ‘Despite being a chauvinist who wouldn’t have a woman chef? Perhaps we’d better discuss that and see if it helps to clear the air.’

  Justine’s face darkened; they’d been getting along so well and now he had to go and spoil it, she thought. But before she could reply he had already begun,

  ‘The basic reason,’ he said with firm authority in his voice, ‘is not chauvinism; it’s accommodation.’

  Justine looked at him with obvious bewilderment on her face. What was he talking about? She became wary again, sensing a trap of some kind.

  ‘True! Most of the employees here live on the premises; I’ll show you the set-up later. I’m actually quite proud of it, since it set a milestone in employer-employee relations when I started it, and most of my people have been more than happy with the situation. But — and here I admit to some prejudice, at least — the design never considered the possibility that the head chef might be female, never mind female, young and extremely attractive. Another drink?’

  Justine hesitated, then decided that as he was having one, she might as well join him. But only one, she decided; her head felt a bit light from the last one.

  He poured the drinks and returned to seat himself beside her, lifting his glass in a silent toast before continuing. ‘Now that I think about it,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll retract that bit about prejudice. There’s a series of flats for the more significant staff, you see, including the assistant head chef, the two head waiters and our hostess, or maitresse d’hotel, if you prefer that term. They’re all in a special block which I’ll show you later, and if there was a spare flat going there, we wouldn’t have the problem we have.’

  ‘I do think you’re beating around the bush,’ Justine said at that point, her curiosity aroused and slowly being churned to fresh anger by his shilly-shallying. ‘What problem, exactly?’

  He grinned wickedly, devilish lights swimming into his dark eyes. ‘The problem of you and me sharing this house,’ he chuckled. ‘You see, the head chef’s apartment is right next to mine, on the top floor.’

  To say she was taken aback would definitely be an understatement. Justine felt as if somebody had yanked the rug from under her feet.

  ‘I ... see,’ she faltered. And then, more strongly, ‘But what kind of problem is that? Unless of course you’re suggesting …’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ he snapped. ‘And I don’t sleepwalk either, for your information.’

  ‘I certainly wasn’t suggesting any such thing,’ Justine retorted. ‘I simply, honestly, don’t see the problem; that’s all. This is the twentieth century, after all, and you did say, or at least imply, separate apartments. So what’s the problem — do you expect me to infringe on your privacy or what?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied calmly, no longer showing any trace of anger. ‘I would simply prefer to avoid any undue ... talk. Or ... complications.’

  ‘What kind of complications?’ Justine felt her anger building up again. What did he expect, that she’d be kicking down his bedroom door in a bid to compromise him?


  ‘Not from you,’ he assured her. ‘It’s just that, well, on occasion we find it necessary to ... shall we say sleep over the occasional guest who drinks too much and doesn’t dare risk the highway, and I simply wouldn’t want any of them getting the wrong idea about your presence in the guest wing.’

  ‘I think I can look after myself,’ Justine replied with what she hoped was a suitably scornful look. ‘The door to my flat will have a lock, I presume? I can assure you that I’ve managed to keep my reputation quite intact so far, and I can’t imagine having serious problems in an establishment of this quality.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied drily. ‘And I must admit, now that I recall your previous employer’s reputation, if you could keep him in line you shouldn’t have much trouble with any of our guests.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Justine-retorted. ‘And now that we’ve got that straightened out, perhaps you’d like to show me this infamous apartment. Or have you changed your mind about the whole thing?’

  ‘Certainly not! If anything I’m becoming less apprehensive,’ he replied. ‘Despite a rather prickly temper, you seem to be as professional in your attitudes as I’d have expected. More so, in fact. If your cooking is of the same standard, which I fully expect it will be, you’ll go along swimmingly here.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Justine replied, her anger deflated by his candour.

  ‘Good,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Now I suggest we do a little cook’s tour, if you’ll pardon the pun, and then you can see about getting yourself settled before we put your talents to the test.’

  ‘But ... but how can you try me out today?’ Justine asked wonderingly. ‘I mean, aren’t you closed today?’

  ‘Wyatt’s is certainly closed today, but Wyatt’s stomach doesn’t follow orders quite so easily,’ he replied. ‘And since somebody has to cook me lunch, it might as well be you ... or does the idea frighten you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Justine, lying only a little. ‘But I haven’t ... I mean ... well, I haven’t even seen the kitchen yet. I don’t know what’s on hand, or ... or anything. And it’s practically noon now.’

  ‘All the better to test you with," he replied with a malicious grin. ‘Now come and have a quick look around.’

  The restaurant, Justine found during their quick tour, was actually four facilities in one, and the house was also divided into two quite different decors. One side was quite traditionally Olde English, with its own pub style bar which featured low beams, plenty of dark wood and imposing bay windows. She liked it immediately.

  The private dining room which accompanied the bar was, in Wyatt Burns’ words, ‘really for those of our guests who pretend to the nobility — or at least have denied their convict ancestry for so long they now believe their own lies.’

  Justine looked quickly up at him then, expecting a look of wry cynicism. But he was only stating facts as he saw them, or so it appeared.

  The room was exquisitely decorated, with heavy, well-kept period furniture and furnishings that gave an immediate feeling of comfort and quality. The same applied, to a lesser degree, in the larger common room which served as a second dining room.

  When Wyatt Burns led the way through the archway in which he had first appeared to her, Justine’s lip curled in a hidden smile as she remembered the rather explosive introduction. She only just managed to compose herself as they crossed the hallway to the other side of the restaurant, where a much more modern decor prevailed. Here, gleaming chrome and the now- familiar blue-on-blue colour scheme provided a style and contemporary luxuriousness for which no expense had been spared.

  ‘The staff calls this side of the house Swinging London,’ Wyatt Burns told her with a faint smile. A jerk of his head returned her attention to the portion they had already seen as he added, ‘That part’s known as The Manor House.’

  Justine couldn’t have held back the giggle that burbled up through her long throat. ‘That’s just beautiful,’ she chortled. ‘I’m glad somebody around here has a sense of humour.’

  Her chuckle died in mid-stream as she caught his eye and suddenly realised she had just implied that he had no such sense of humour. The look he gave her was positively scathing.

  She refrained, then, from commenting that she much preferred the older, more traditional styling of The Manor House, which to her eyes held a warmth and charm that was quite lacking in the more modem sections of the establishment. When he led her through the second bar, complete with chrome and glass, mirrors, midnight blue leather and revolving chandeliers, she contented herself with a muted ‘Very interesting’ and didn’t say anything further.

  But when they reached the kitchens, an immaculate area of modern appliances, spotless cleanliness and thoroughly planned work spaces, she didn’t bother to try and conceal her true feelings.

  ‘My goodness! It’s absolutely heavenly,’ she sighed. The polished stainless steel gave back reflections of Dutch blue tiles, warm wooden chopping blocks and copper-bottomed pots and pans. A chefs delight, no question about it.

  Justine forgot about Wyatt Burns, forgot entirely her initial hassles and strong feelings towards his chauvinistic attitude. Like a dancer, she spun happily through the kitchen, touching everything, seeing everything in a haze of cheery delight. Already her mind was alight with ideas; she could hardly wait to start working her own influence into the place that was now her domain.

  ‘It’s exquisite!’ she cried, swirling around to face a pair of dark eyes that watched her as if she were a child at a candy-shop counter. She didn’t care! This kitchen cried out for appreciation, for the touch of someone who could appreciate not only its functional nature, but its inherent warmth and comfort as well.

  Silently, Wyatt Burns steered her towards the huge walk-in pantries, where condiments and assorted staples were neatly, properly stacked and arranged, then to the enormous cold room where two large freezers took up respective corners and a mighty butcher’s block dominated the central portion. They didn’t, thank goodness, stay long in the cold room; just enough so that Justine could gain a quick impression of the layout.

  The pantries were a different matter. She poked and probed through them item by item, totally oblivious to the possible boredom of her tall companion as she mentally composed lists of what was there and what wasn’t, what she’d want to order now, this very minute, for her kitchen.

  ‘I take it you approve?’ The question emerged in a dry, hardly encouraging tone, but Justine was so vividly impressed at the kitchen facilities she hardly noticed.

  ‘It’s magnificent! Absolutely tremendous,’ she cried, turning to find herself almost in Wyatt Burns’ arms, he was so close behind her.

  Strong, lean fingers reached out to grasp her upper arms and keep her from tumbling even closer, and for just an instant she saw ... gentleness? It couldn’t have been, she immediately decided ... in dark eyes that seemed to reach out and grasp at her.

  The touch of his fingers burned through the light fabric of her suit, sending tingling sensations far beyond the point of contact. She was all too conscious, then, of the strong, firm mouth only inches from her own, of the heady, masculine scent of his aftershave, the stern, smooth jaw line and muscular column of throat.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he growled, releasing her so abruptly she almost fell. ‘Come and have a peep at your flat, and then you can set about putting your talents on display by making us lunch.’

  Wyatt turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Justine to follow, and she was thankful at least for that. It was much easier to regain her composure behind his back than while facing those dark, fathomless eyes.

  A separate staircase led to a broad, carpeted hall on the third floor of the massive house, and Wyatt Burns stepped along quickly with scant regard for the girl trying to follow him in suddenly-clumsy high-heeled shoes.

  Stopping in front of a heavy, ornately-carved door, he drew a massive key from his pocket and fitted it to the cunningly disguised lock, twisting open the fit
ting with one flick of his wrist and then handing the key to Justine.

  ‘I think perhaps I should warn you,’ he said softly, ‘this is the only suite in the place that we’ve never altered from its original form. You may find it ... unusual, at first, but I assure you it’s quite comfortable.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be,’ Justine replied, not overly concerned by his warning. During her early years in the restaurant trade, especially while training in Paris, she had found herself living in some rather outlandish surroundings. She couldn’t imagine any apartment in this stylish mansion being worse than some she had encountered.

  ‘Right — in you go for a look around; I’ll just nip down and fetch up your bags from the car, if that’s all right,’ he said, and took her nod of assent without further comment.

  Justine held the huge key in one hand as she flung open the heavy door and stepped inside, only to drop the key from nerveless fingers at her first sight of the interior.

  At first glance it was ... incredible! Plush draperies flowed over wide casement windows, matched by period furniture that showed every evidence of loving care. A small settee and matching chairs, a tidy little tea table, and, in one corner, a small kitchenette. Across from her, a wide archway revealed an enormous four-poster bed, complete with canopy and fringes. And on the walls — on virtually every wall — mirrors.

  Walking as if on eggshells, Justine tiptoed through the sleeping area to peep into a large, well-appointed but old-fashioned bathroom. More mirrors, but equally interesting, a bidet.

  Turning back to the bedroom, she gingerly lowered herself on to the side of the four-poster, looked around her, and gasped with suspicion. It was confirmed when she lay back for an instant against the pillows and let her eyes search the room.