Dinner at Wyatt's

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘I’m not a very vindictive person, I don’t think,’ she replied. What was he getting at now?

  He sipped slowly at his drink, only his eyes in direct communication as they roved caressingly over her face. ‘Have you come to terms with all the mirrors yet?’ he asked without any warning.

  ‘I ... er ... yes. Sort of,’ she said. It was true, in a way. She’d simply draped spare towels, clothing, whatever was handiest, over the most offensive of them. Only the huge one over the bed, impossible to disguise or cover up without a major effort, caused her any serious trauma.

  ‘I’ll bet you’ve covered most of them up,’ he said, and Justine fancied that one corner of his mouth had quirked, ever so slightly, into a tiny grin.

  ‘Either you’re a very good guesser or you’ve been spying,’ she replied. ‘Everything I’ve done is purely makeshift, though. I’ve done nothing permanent or damaging.’

  ‘I should certainly hope not,’ he replied. But she couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or a simple statement of fact. ‘And how about the menu?’ he asked in a total switch of subject, ‘Are you happy with it, or do you have big changes planned there as well?’

  The radical shifting from subject to subject made Justine feel quite ill at ease, and she hesitated before answering that.

  ‘I have a few ideas, yes,’ she finally admitted. ‘But not right now. I’d like quite a bit more time to become quite thoroughly familiar with the present menu before suggesting any changes or additions.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked down into his glass. ‘From that, I presume that I might be consulted on such matters?’

  ‘Well, of course! You hired me to cook, not to go about reorganising your entire operation.’ Justine wasn’t as indignant as she appeared, but his innuendo was distasteful.

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ he replied. ‘I just wanted to see if you still knew it. In addition to having no sense of humour, I don’t much like surprises. Not that kind, at any rate.’

  And what did he expect her to say to that? Justine simply couldn’t think of an appropriate reply from her own viewpoint, so instead of bothering, she gulped down the remainder of her drink and rose to her feet.

  ‘It’s late,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a hard day and tomorrow will be just a repeat of it, so if you don’t mind I think I’ll say goodnight.’ And then some malicious inner devil took hold of her tongue, and she added, ‘Besides, I seem to remember you have another appointment yet this evening.’

  Wyatt’s eyes flashed momentarily, then a curtain dropped over them, hiding all expression. ‘Yes,’ he said quite slowly, speculatively. ‘Yes, I have, haven’t I? Goodnight, Justine. Sleep well.’

  It was total dismissal, but as she strolled back up to her reflective suite, Justine couldn’t be totally sure about her own feelings in the matter. She was tired, or at least she had been until he had so abruptly turned off, leaving her to depart a room that seemed already empty of him despite his quite obvious physical presence.

  ‘What did you expect, for goodness’ sake, a goodnight kiss?’ she muttered angrily to herself as she fitted the elaborate key into her door. ‘You’re letting him get to you, my girl, and you’re forgetting that Wyatt Burns is a man to take full advantage of such a thing. He does it deliberately.’

  Justine undressed and flung herself face down in the huge, canopied bed, unwilling to face the reflection in the big mirror overhead. The night before, she had lain there making faces at herself until sleep took her; tonight such an exercise was ludicrous in the extreme.

  And even face down in her pillows she kept seeing images, most of them tall and lean, with sooty, hooded dark eyes that could reveal everything ... or nothing. She needed no photograph to hold Wyatt’s image; it was burned into her memory by forces she couldn’t control, and the realisation was sobering.

  Tonight there was another image as well, one that sprang to virulent life when Justine heard the door close loudly in the suite next to her own. Wyatt’s suite, the inside of which she had never seen, but in which she was sure the hard-eyed brunette was a welcome visitor. Gloria Calder had revealed a most self-assured familiarity with Wyatt.

  She recalled the way Gloria had been able to look straight through her, as if Justine simply didn’t exist in the slender woman’s world at all. ‘Which probably I don’t,’ she mused half aloud. Certainly Gloria had a suave elegance that Justine never hoped to achieve, almost an artificial brilliance, but one she couldn’t hope to outshine. She brought to mind the women of Paris, to whom style was an end in itself.

  She realised, suddenly, that she was once again guilty of making quite bold assumptions. Who said the slender brunette was Gloria Calder? They hadn’t been introduced. Justine reached back through her memory; had Wyatt given any indication of his lovely visitor’s identity? He had not.

  ‘But it was Gloria Calder, I’d stake my job on it,’ she muttered to herself only moments before sleep came.

  She was less certain by morning, especially since the lady in question never put in any sort of appearance throughout that frantic Friday or on the hectic Saturday that followed it. The kitchen crew worked flat out during those two days, with full-house bookings and several obviously important diners who hadn’t booked, but were fitted in as early departures allowed space.

  The only consolation, Justine thought, was her own growing satisfaction with the job and Armand’s continued evidence of his new allegiance to her. No longer sulky, no longer insolent in any way, he was instead the perfect second-in-command, taking and delegating authority as required and working fully as hard as she.

  On Sunday — beautiful, peaceful, non-working Sunday — Justine spent most of the day doing absolutely nothing but laze beside the swimming pool, soaking up the sun and forcing herself to relax. Monday was even better; she didn’t have to force herself, but joined happily in the pool games with the various staff members who also used the pool extensively on those days the restaurant was closed.

  It was heavenly, and she determined to take advantage of Wyatt’s offer and get in a quick swim each morning. It was, she thought, exactly what she needed to get a good start on her working days.

  Tuesday it was back to work as normal, and on that day and throughout the next few weeks, except for one single incident, Justine threw herself pleasurably into a routine that worked like a dream. Even that one incident, she decided almost as soon as it was over, was hardly anything that could take the shine off a truly splendid job.

  It had occurred on Tuesday morning, when Justine was busily planning the coming week’s menu changes. She had been sitting at her desk in the alcove, struggling with the various possibilities from the list of things Wyatt had decreed as suitable alternatives, when a slight sound behind her made her turn in surprise.

  Gloria Calder! By this time Justine knew that it was indeed she who had been in Wyatt’s office that evening, but she had hardly set eyes on the woman since, and presumed she was still on holiday.

  Justine rose, a friendly smile on her face as she made to introduce herself, but a second look at the slender, dark-haired woman’s eyes made her less enthusiastic than she might have been.

  ‘You’ll be Gloria Calder, of course,’ she began. ‘I’m—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ was the rude interjection. ‘I’d like the kitchen accounts, if you don’t mind.’

  Charming! I’m so glad you’re going to be friendly, Justine thought. Get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning? And whose bed, I wonder? Aloud, she said nothing, but knitted her eyebrows together as she began to try and figure out Gloria’s demand.

  ‘Are you deaf or something?’ The voice was viperish, a sibilant, hissing, haughty voice that immediately put Justine on edge.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ she replied calmly. ‘May I enquire just why you want my accounts?’

  ‘I do all the accounts for this house, that’s why,’ was the surly reply. ‘And I’m very busy, so would you just get me what I’ve asked for, without a whole l
ot of backchat.’

  Justine choked down the red fury that threatened to make her slash out at this hostile, disdainful and rude woman. ‘No,’ she said very softly, ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know how it’s worked in the past. Miss Calder, but my understanding is that the kitchens are my responsibility, and of course that covers the accounting as well.’

  ‘May I point out, Miss Ryan, that keeping the accounts is my job, and that I certainly don’t need any assistance from a ... a cook!’ Gloria spat out the final word as if it tasted bad. ‘The system as it is has worked admirably with every cook here before you, and it will still function when you’re gone, which I understand will be in three weeks anyway. Surely you don’t expect me to initiate a whole new system just for your temporary stay here?’

  Justine felt her stomach heave. In the pleasantness of her first week, things had gone so well that she had quite forgotten that she was still on trial. Then anger took charge, and she answered coldly but firmly. ‘I am not in the least concerned what systems you initiate. Part of my job is inventory control and I intend to do it. Unless, of course, you’d like to call Mr Burns down and we’ll get his decision here and now.’

  ‘That will hardly be necessary,’ was the terse reply.‘I shall speak to Wyatt myself. And while I’m at it, I’ll speak to him about your attitude as well!’

  Justine smiled, then widened the smile as she saw the look of apprehension on the other woman’s face. Gloria couldn’t see, as Justine could, Wyatt Burns stepping through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, I think now is as good a time as any,’ she said quietly, then waved. ‘Excuse me! Could we have a moment of your time?’

  ‘Any time,’ he drawled. ‘Morning, ladies. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Oh, it’s no problem, Wyatt,’ Gloria cooed. ‘I was just explaining to Miss Ryan that she needn’t bother with the kitchen accounts, as I do them with the others for the house.’ Her voice was silky smooth and her eyes drank in every aspect of Wyatt’s tall, lean figure as she visibly preened before him. Justine couldn’t help but feel overshadowed in her jeans and T-shirt, comparing that outfit to Gloria’s expensive and well-tailored pants-suit.

  ‘And I suppose you’d prefer to do them yourself, Justine?’ he asked in a voice that told her nothing at all.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ she replied. ‘It’s the best way to keep a running check on quality and ensure minimum wastage, and it helps me to ensure that our prices aren’t shifted out of line by seasonal demands.’

  ‘Considering the affair with that butcher, I think you’re right,’ he agreed, and Justine almost fainted at the lack of argument.

  Gloria had no such problem. ‘I’ve been meaning to mention that to you,’ she said, speaking directly to Wyatt as if Justine wasn’t even there. ‘I had a quite distressing call this morning from our butcher, and I really don’t know how such a misunderstanding could have occurred. He was most upset at the things Miss Ryan said to him, but I think I’ve managed to convince him to give us another chance. I mean, really, he’s been serving us for years and years.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Wyatt. ‘But this isn’t the place to discuss it. Come up to the office and we’ll thrash it out there.’

  Justine could only stand there with her mouth open. How could he? All the pleasure of her earlier victory spilled away, leaving her with only a bad taste in her mouth as Wyatt left the kitchen with Gloria hanging like a doll on his arm.

  All that morning she waited for a summons that would let her know what decision had been made, but it wasn’t until after the noon rush, and the regular Tuesday visit by the butcher she herself had chosen, that the summons finally came.

  It was almost three o’clock when she knocked on the door of Wyatt’s office and was admitted by his usual gruff summons. ‘Come and sit down,’ he growled. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Justine sat and watched as he quickly scratched his signature on some letters, his long, slender fingers slashing across the pages with a careless flourish.

  ‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘The butcher ...’

  ‘I ... I really thought that was settled,’ she began. ‘I’ve ... well, the butcher I’ve engaged now really is much better. And cheaper.’

  ‘And more reliable, as well, I suspect,’ he said with a stern glance that shut her mouth. ‘But that’s not the point.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘No.’ His stem attitude was unreadable. ‘The other fellow has been involved with us for a long time, as Gloria said. I want you to throw some of our business his way.’

  ‘I see,’ Justine replied. But she didn’t see, not really. Was he going to totally ignore her recommendations and decisions?

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he said then. ‘And I’m not shrugging off your personal attitude on this, either.’ Then, abruptly and quite surprisingly, he smiled at her, and Justine’s heart leaped in her breast. ‘Give him just enough to make it worth his time, but not so much that it isn’t worth the time of your new chap. Understood?’

  Justine shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘But of course I’ll do exactly as you say.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, and she felt like a dog that had just done its party trick correctly. And it hurt, somehow. She lowered her eyes, then rose quickly and headed for the door without another word, only to be halted with her fingers reaching for the doorknob.

  ‘Justine!’ The command defied ignoring. She turned and looked back at him, head raised and hoping he wouldn’t be able to see the tears forming. Wyatt’s eyes were hard and penetrating when he spoke.

  ‘Stop acting as if I’ve gone against you, because I haven’t, not at all,’ he told her. ‘Just trust me; try and have a little faith.’

  ‘If you say so.’ She couldn’t say more.

  ‘And try not to bite the bastard when he comes,’ Wyatt said with an unexpected grin. ‘You won’t have to put up with him long, only two or three weeks at best. Okay?’

  She couldn’t answer that. On the heels of Gloria’s comment it was a confirmation of a death sentence. Two or three weeks! Just long enough to serve out her trial period.

  The hurt and apprehension stayed with her throughout most of that day, but during those that followed Wyatt so often complimented her on her work, so often stepped into the kitchens only long enough for a smile, a quick word of encouragement to her or one of the apprentices, that she lost her apprehension quite quickly.

  And now there was only a single week to go. The thought struck her as she lounged beside the pool, for once alone on a sunny Monday morning. One more week and then what? Would she be staying on? she wondered. Or going off to seek a new job, one without the challenge and satisfaction of Wyatt’s ... one without Wyatt himself?

  That, Justine realised, was her real dilemma. It was no longer possible for her to deny that the prime attraction of her job was Wyatt Burns himself, not that the admission did her much good. Ever since that explosive kiss on her first meeting with him, he had been, if not a model of decorum, at least a respectable employer who kept his hands to himself. There had been no need for Justine to keep fending him off, an unpleasant aspect of some previous jobs she had held.

  If anything, his interest in her seemed too purely one of business for her taste. Of course he had Gloria Calder to cater to his romantic needs, Justine thought. The slender brunette had made her claim abundantly clear on the few occasions they had spoken since the single dispute over the accounts.

  Gloria’s all-too-obvious dislike of Justine herself wasn’t terribly upsetting. A bit puzzling, considering the fact that Wyatt had shown absolutely no sign of anything but a professional interest, but not really upsetting, Justine thought.

  She still didn’t understand his unexplained delegation of the mirrored suite to her personal use. It seemed much more logical to have installed Gloria there, instead of in her cottage unit with the other staff.

  ‘Maybe she’s already told him she can’t stand the sight of
herself,’ Justine chuckled half aloud. ‘Now that I could understand; maybe even sympathise with.’

  ‘Do you always talk to yourself?’ The unexpected voice — his voice, unmistakably — made Justine shiver, first with alarm, but then ...

  ‘Only when I want to be sure I’ll like the answers,’ she retorted, half turning and squinting into the sun as she looked up towards him.

  Wyatt, like herself, wore only a swimsuit, and she was immediately conscious of the powerful muscles on his lean but well-built figure.

  ‘That makes sense, I suppose,’ he grunted, dropping to sprawl uninvited at her side. ‘And who are you sympathising with?’

  Justine could hardly answer that one honestly, and was forced to remain silent while she tried to think up a suitable if untrue reply. Wyatt, however, gave her no real chance.

  ‘Like that, is it?’ he asked. ‘What is it this time — something Possum’s done, or your pseudo-French admirer?’

  ‘He’s not pseudo-French; he’s French-Canadian as you very well know,’ Justine replied without thinking. ‘In any event, neither supposition is correct.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re not denying he’s your admirer, not that you could, considering the way he follows you around like a puppy dog. Have you invited him up to inspect your mirrors yet?’

  Justine gasped at the sneering tone of the question, as much as at the impertinence of it. She very nearly demanded to know just who the hell Wyatt Burns thought he was, asking such personal questions, then decided against it. An outright argument would serve no useful purpose.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded through her silence.

  ‘It’s certainly a lovely day, isn’t it?’ she responded brightly. ‘But I think I’m getting too much sun; perhaps I’d best get indoors.’

  ‘Easier to put on some sunscreen cream,’ Wyatt countered. ‘Lay down and I’ll put it on for you.’

  ‘I think not,’ she hedged, only to find his hand forcing her down on to her towel.

  ‘Do as you’re told. I have things to say to you and I don’t fancy missing my sunshine in the process,’ he declared.