‘I don’t believe this,’ she whispered. ‘It just. . . can’t be!’
Then a whisper of noise from the hallway brought her off the bed in a flurry of nylon tights against a silken coverlet, and when Wyatt Burns stepped into the room with her two cases in his hands, she was on her feet and facing him.
‘Well, what do you reckon?’ he asked, not bothering to hide the mocking laughter in his eyes.
Justine held her temper, allowing the words to emerge under full control. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ she asked, ‘that all of your head chefs — all men, obviously, from your earlier comments — have actually lived in this suite?’
‘Well, they slept here,’ he replied, setting her bags down carefully. ‘But then I suspect none of them was quite as astute as you. Miss Ryan.’
‘Astute?’ Justine laughed bitterly. ‘But it’s obvious to anyone, surely. This ... this is a ... a ...’
‘A very nice suite? I agree entirely.’ His grin was totally wicked now, deliberately taunting.
CHAPTER TWO
‘It’s a brothel!’
Justine’s voice slipped an octave as she spat out the accusation.
‘Really? Why, Miss Ryan, I wouldn’t have thought your ... experience was of a type to provide such instant recognition,’ Wyatt replied.
‘Don’t be obscene!’ she snapped.
‘I’m not being obscene, and this is not a. brothel,’ he replied calmly. ‘Although it was, I must admit. Indeed, the whole place was ... once. One of the most posh such establishments in all of New South Wales, if my memory of history serves me. Also a sly grog shop.’
‘I don’t care what it was,’ Justine retorted. ‘It’s what it is that concerns me.’
‘It is whatever you choose to make it,’ he replied. ‘And in keeping with the reputation, the current reputation, of the house, I certainly would not expect you to take your surroundings to heart. Besides, you’re not the type.’
‘Well, thank you so much,’ she replied, eyes flashing green with rage. ‘I suppose you think that was some kind of compliment.’
‘Merely a statement of the obvious,’ he said grimly. ‘Now if you’ll tell me where to put these cases, I’ll leave you to freshen up before you start on our lunch.’
‘You can put them back in the car,’ Justine snapped.
‘My word! That was the shortest month in history,’ he drawled. ‘But … suit yourself.’
‘I ... I didn’t say I wouldn’t take the job,’ Justine stammered, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘Merely that I wouldn’t stay here in this ... this ...’
‘Brothel. I heard you the first time,’ he said. ‘But where would you live, then? I can’t have my head chef sleeping out in her car in the parking lot, and I’m afraid my own suite would be a bit crowded with both of us—’
‘Stop it! Just stop it!’ she cried. ‘You’re going out of your way just to ... to tease and humiliate me.’
‘I’m doing no such thing,’ he snapped back, anger making his dark eyes darker. Striding forward, grabbing her by the wrist as he passed, he pulled Justine with him to the small kitchenette area and started flinging open doors.
‘Look at this!’ Cunningly concealed in the period furnishings were each and every modern gadget and convenience she could have asked for, even to a small microwave oven. Fully exposed, it was perhaps the most perfect little kitchenette Justine had ever seen.
‘And this!’ Doors and drawers were opened in the heavy wall units to reveal a colour television, an expensive stereo system, even a collection of records.
‘And finally — this!’ he stormed, slamming the entry door and reaching out to shoot home a set of concealed draw bolts. Then he flipped one finger to show her the tiny spy window in the door itself.
‘Every possible convenience, Miss Ryan. Even to a security system. I don’t apologise for what this suite was, nor shall I, but by God, if you can’t manage to make a home for yourselves despite the rather colourful historical overtones, then I can only suggest you’ve got too much imagination for your own good.’
He released her wrist and stared down at her with eyes like black, river-washed pebbles. ‘So there it is: first and last chance all in one go. I am going to my office, now. Either come along and say goodbye, or come and collect me for our lunch at two o’clock.’
Before Justine could manage any sort of reply, he had re-opened the heavy door and slipped through it, closing it with delicate positiveness behind him.
‘Well!’ she gasped out loud, and then looked around her, wide-eyed in a dozen mirrored reflections. No matter where she looked, she was confronted by the figure of a tall, slim young woman with a crown of blonde hair and lips that trembled from the ferocity of the encounter.
Suddenly the humour of it all struck her and she turned to flash a wink that was returned tenfold. Then she laughed aloud, almost expecting to hear echoes from her host of reflections. But only her own voice made its muted way around the lush carpeting and furnishings.
Flinging herself full-length on the bed, she lifted her legs and bicycled, like a child at play, laughing almost hysterically now at the reflected images of herself.
Without Wyatt Burns’ stern-visaged image in the mirrors, they lost a great deal of their intimidation. And, Justine realised with startling clarity, their suggestiveness. Was it indeed his presence, rather than the mirrors themselves, that lent the aura of sensuality to the room?
‘Can’t think of that or I will be sleeping in the car,’ she muttered, hefting one suitcase up on to the bureau so that she could rummage out some kind of apron and get on with her lunch preparations. It seemed no longer under question; she had the job and she’d stay, at least for the trial month.
En route to the kitchen, she ducked out and retrieved a third case from the boot of her car, this one a solidly-made wooden case containing her personal knives and an omelette pan and sauce pan, utensils she had lovingly nurtured and cared for since her student days.
Back in the kitchen, she stood for a moment, professionally assessing the spotless work areas and their correlation to the storage, chilling and cooking arrangements. After several minutes she gave a satisfied nod and a silent accolade to whoever had designed the kitchens. Wyatt Burns? Possible, she decided. At the very least the best expert he could hire. Wyatt Burns didn’t strike her as a man to accept second best and he certainly hadn’t stinted in providing for his chef.
‘Which means I’d better not try to cut corners, either,’ she mused, picking up a leather-bound menu and seating herself at what was obviously the chefs office desk, tucked into a handy alcove next to the cool room.
The menu ran the gamut of traditional English dishes from unusual soups such as Cheshire and Ballymoney oyster, to more readily recognisable ones such as Cock-a-Leekie and Brown Windsor. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding vied for attention with baked ham, Lancashire hotpot and squab pie. Justine heaved a small sigh of relief when she realised that most of the dishes were just explanations on the menu. The basic list, according to a notice near the end of the menu, was exactly that — basic. The bulk of the menu was determined by the availability of ingredients and the seasonal varieties.
Rising, menu in hand, she moved over to peer into the vegetable storage, swiftly correlating what she saw with what might be expected from the menu.
Unsure what Wyatt Burns might really expect for lunch, a hearty meal or merely a stopgap until dinner time, she chose a middle path. Three courses would surely be enough, she thought, having spied several fresh trout in the huge refrigerator. Here was her main course, wrapped in bacon as the menu suggested. Now for dessert. Turning directly to the menu, she ran a steady finger down the list as she thought about the ingredients she’d noticed. Boodle’s orange fool — perfect. A quick and easy dessert, using the handy quick-chill section of the refrigerator and the- two fresh sponge cakes on hand.
Concentrating on those two courses first, Justine worked swiftly, thankful she’d been able to find the overal
l-style apron that would protect her suit.
As she assembled the ingredients and implements, she was forced by her time factor to dispense with her usual habit of cleaning up as she went. That would simply have to wait. Once the fool was chilling and the trout ready to be popped into the oven, she turned her attention to some kind of starter course … with less time in hand than she would have liked.
There was a tureen of soup, but she rejected it. That belonged, she presumed, to her predecessor; this lunch would be exclusively hers. Then she remembered a bucket of superb fresh mushrooms she’d noticed tucked in a corner of the cold room, and her spirits lifted. The starter she had in mind wasn’t on Wyatt Burns’ menu, but it was in keeping with the tone of his restaurant, and most important it was quick, easy and attractive.
Unwelcome thoughts were forced away as she concentrated on the required chopping and cutting and stirring. Just in time, she had everything ready, and she tossed off the apron, set out the first course on a tray, and shouldered her way through the swinging doors into the restaurant areas.
Swinging around, a pleased and happy grin on her lips, she found her way blocked by a tall, almost forbidding figure that was so unexpected she almost dropped the tray.
Long fingers reached out to steady it, and her. ‘I’ve put us in the Manor House private dining room,’ Wyatt said with a slow grin. ‘I’ll take this; you trot ahead and check that I’ve set everything out properly.’
Justine obeyed silently, smiling her pleasure as she entered the narrow archway to find a table laid with a pale blue cloth, the navy-and-white china and gleaming silver providing a complementary touch. She ran a critical eye over the place settings, finding one spoon too many and deftly removing the offending items just as Wyatt arrived.
‘Please sit down,’ she said as he gallantly held back her chair after carefully placing the tray on one comer of the table. She carefully served the mushrooms in a circle on each plate, artistically arranging the dish for maximum visual effect.
Wyatt seated her, then reached out to pluck a bottle of chilled vintage Riesling from its leather-covered cooler. ‘I didn’t know exactly what you’d planned, but I think this will go well with just about anything,’ he smiled, and at her nod of agreement he poured each of them a glass.
Justine waited until Wyatt had begun to eat before starting herself, and as she chewed unconsciously, her entire attention locked on his face, seeking a reaction to the dish.
But he said nothing, or at least nothing about the meal. Instead, he carried on a witty and urbane conversation that quickly drew in Justine’s opinions and gradually relaxed her. After his initial assistance, he made no attempt to help, but let her carry away the used dishes and return with fresh ones. He did, of course, rise each time to seat her, but from a man of his experience she would have expected no less.
It was comforting, at least, to see him thoroughly clean up his plate, even to using the remains of a bread roll to finish up the tiniest morsels of mushroom sauce. He quite obviously enjoyed the trout, too, she thought, but she wasn’t all that certain of his reaction to the fool.
When the meal was finally ended, she brought their coffee and liqueurs to the ornate coffee table sitting in front of a sofa that filled one bay window. When Wyatt offered her a cigarette, she reached out gratefully.
Justine didn’t often smoke, but her resolution had never been intended to cover situations like this. Not since the first meal she had prepared for her first tutor in Paris had she felt so totally unsure of herself, doubting what her own taste-buds had already confirmed was an excellent meal.
She dragged slowly at the cigarette, however, knowing she wasn’t honestly enjoying it, and she stubbed it out half-smoked, eventually. She took a sip of her coffee, found it tasteless, and was surprised to find the excellent port equally so. Damn it, she thought, why doesn’t he say something?
Finally she could take no more, and despite the realisation that he’d provoked her, she clicked her coffee cup down in its saucer and turned to glare directly at the tall figure that lounged against one corner of the sofa with a liqueur glass dangling insolently from his agile fingers.
"Well?’ she demanded.
‘Well ... what?’ he drawled, eyes trailing lazily across her face and his lips registering deliberate misunderstanding.
Justine flushed. He was going to make it deliberately difficult for her, but she had no choice but to continue. ‘What did you think?’ she asked.
He shrugged, broad shoulders rippling the fine cut of his dark suit jacket. ‘You know what thought did?’ he replied, eyes laughing at her.
‘What does that have to do with anything?’ she countered warily. She did not know what thought did, having grown up so long with the question but never having heard anybody even attempt to answer it. Surely, she thought, there was no answer. It was merely one of those parental lines used to manipulate children’s excuses. How often had she excused a silly action by saying ‘But I thought ...’ only to have that same question thrown at her?
‘You don’t know, do you?’
She didn’t reply immediately, but after a second was forced into the admission. Her racing mind created no answers, only a kaleidoscope of confused colours.
‘No, I don’t.’
His eyes screamed out mocking laughter. ‘I suppose what you really wanted was my opinion of the meal?’ he said then.
‘Brilliant deduction,’ she snapped, temper frayed by the mental aspects of her ordeal as much as by his careless, laughing attitude.
‘Yes, I’m quite good that way,’ he agreed. ‘You, however, need a few lessons.’
‘Lessons?’ It came out as a squeak, so shaken was she by the comment.
‘In self-confidence, not cooking,’ he replied with a flash of scowl. ‘Good heavens, Justine, you sat there and ate the same things I did, but you’re so nervous I’ll bet you never even tasted them.’
This time she couldn’t answer, though she realised her downcast glance was reply enough.
‘Oh, all right,’ he said. ‘Your cooking, Miss Ryan, is indisputably excellent. The garnishes were perfect and the main course and dessert were exactly to menu standard, although you did something extra to the trout that I can’t place.’
Justine heaved a sigh of relief, quite unconsciously. The gust of breath made the tall man beside her grin fleetingly before he continued.
‘However, I noticed the starter course was something that’s not from our usual menu,’ he said. ‘I have to ask if it’s a traditional-type dish, because I’d like very much to have you add it to the menu if it would be appropriate.’
Justine could afford to relax now. ‘It’s an old family recipe,’ she said. ‘And yes, it would fit, since my mother claimed it went back to the mid-1800s. It comes from around London in what people have referred to as the garden counties, but I don’t know the proper name. Mom always just called it Mushrooms in a Circle.’
‘That’s a quaint name,’ he mused, strong brow furrowing ever so slightly. ‘But what’s in it, really?’
Justine shrugged. ‘Well, mostly mushrooms, of c ...’ She halted abruptly, her words throttled by the thunderous look of her companion’s face. ‘Wh-what ... what’s the matter?’ she finally blurted.
The words emerged individually, only three of them and each carrying its own placard of horror and revulsion. ‘I ... hate ... mushrooms!’ Wyatt’s face was a study in barely-controlled fury and his voice a muted maelstrom that threatened Justine, the room and everything else around them.
The first thing that flashed into her mind, unbidden but vivid in memory, was the sight of Wyatt cleaning every single morsel of that starter course from his own plate and then leering suggestively, hungrily, at the bit Justine herself hadn’t eaten. She couldn’t help it; her lower lip trembled, quivered, then erupted with the bolt of laughter that shot from within her.
Even as the laughter brought tears to her face and stopped her from any form of apology, she saw his face blac
ken with increased anger. And the angrier he became, the more she had to laugh, her sense of humour stronger even, it seemed, than her sense of self-preservation.
Finally she managed a modicum of control, leaning back against the arm of the sofa with her bosom still heaving and tears streaming down her cheeks. Wyatt, by this time, had reverted to an icy, fragile control. He looked ready to draw and quarter her.
‘I didn’t think it was at all that humorous,’ he growled through snarling teeth.
Nothing could have been more calculated to rekindle the laughter that lurked just beneath the surface of Justine’s barely calm exterior. It bubbled forth again, cluttering the words as she chuckled, ‘Yes ... but then you ... you don’t like ... mushrooms, either ... except when you’re eating them.’
And she broke up again, this time with every inner fibre striving vainly for control. Part of her mind screamed at her to stop laughing her way out of her new job, but another simply gave in to the ridiculousness of it all.
Wyatt, a rigid, fiery figure that fairly radiated murderous rage, sat staring at her through eyes like wet coal until finally his will linked with hers and once again the laughter was subdued.
‘I do think,’ he said then, ‘that you go out of your way to provoke me. Miss Ryan.’
Miss Ryan it was now; but only a moment before she’d been Justine and the swine had liked her mushrooms, deny it or no. Temper swept in to scourge the laughter, and her eyes blazed green.
‘In a pig’s eye!’ she snapped. ‘It strikes me, Mr Wyatt Burns, that you don’t know what in the hell you like, and if that’s the kind of blind ignorance you use in running your restaurant, then heaven help your customers! I’m surprised you don’t feed them on fish and chips. You ate your mushrooms, and liked them. You even coveted mine, damn you. And then you have the audacity to shout at me. Oh ... oh ...!’
She halted then, sure she’d already overstepped herself but nonetheless afraid she’d say something really awful if she continued.
Dinner at Wyatt's Page 3
