Dinner at Wyatt's

by Victoria Gordon

  And before Justine could further object, she felt the chill as a pool of sunscreen cream was dribbled haphazardly down her back. Then strong yet somehow delicate fingers were at work spreading the cream across her shoulder blades, into the knobbly hollow beside her spine.

  Wyatt’s fingers had a tantalising eroticism to them as they alternately caressed and massaged her. It was as if he were blind, using his fingers as eyes to reveal to him all the external secrets of her.

  She half reared up with a start when an unexpected tug released the string of her bikini, but as quickly realised she just couldn’t get up, not now. Wyatt chuckled at her discomfiture.

  When she tried to reach back and retie the strap, he casually flicked away her fingers. ‘Just lie back and enjoy it, as the old saw goes,’ he growled. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ she retorted. ‘I do wish you’d stop this.’

  ‘Stop what? This?’ And his fingers traced a tingling tune down her spine. ‘Or this?’ And they circled in a monotonous spiral in the soft hollow at the base of her spine, just above the edge of her bikini briefs. ‘Or maybe this?’ And they stroked in concentric movements that followed the thin white line of the bikini top, now so useless as the strings lay on the towel beside her. It was impossible to move as his light tracery slipped farther and farther down towards the swelling of her breasts.

  Then, miraculously, thankfully, horribly, he stopped! The fingers moved, fresh cream dribbled lower down her back, and the sexuality gave way to a skilful manipulation as he wordlessly continued spreading the cream.

  Justine’s mind sighed with relief; her body screamed in anguish at the cessation of that tantalising torment. She wanted to speak, but dared not, lest her inner voice take control and reveal her true desires.

  She shivered uncontrollably as his fingers moved lower, caressing the soft swell of her hips and then bypassing the edges of her bikini briefs to touch lightly on the backs of her thighs, the tender skin behind her knees, the narrowing at her ankles.

  This time there was no attempt to disguise his exploration; every touch was a deliberate caress and each touch produced in her a desire for more. As the cream spread, softly fanning the flame of need in her, she again had that sensation that Wyatt had closed his eyes and was using only his fingers in a tactile exploration.

  Along the inside of her leg those incredible fingers moved, leaving a trail of desire along the swelling of her calf, the curve of her knee, then upwards along the softness of her inner thigh, moving inexorably towards the very heart of her womanhood. Justine’s mind, almost a totally separate entity, could almost see the progress of his fingers, bringing her entire body alive with response.

  If he touched her ... there ... she would be lost. Already some inner demon was prodding at her muscles, urging her body to turn over, to expedite his caress, to open herself to him like a flower to the sun. She trembled, not in fear but in a mute expectancy.

  The muscles of her legs had disappeared; she was like a rag doll, totally vulnerable to his touch, to his every whim. The slightest pressure of those heavenly fingers and her legs seemed to flow farther apart, easing his access.

  He could have her now, Justine knew. Even here in the questionable seclusion of the pool surrounds, where they could be interrupted at any moment. And she wouldn’t resist him; indeed she would help, would come to him willingly, join her body to his with an eagerness that was building in her like an infant tornado.

  She felt, as if from a distance, the touch of his lips near her ear, fancied she heard him whisper her name, drawing it out in the continental fashion, softly, tenderly.

  His lips touched her again, their warmth like a hot wind stirring the fires of her own desire as they traced a line across her cheek, and she twisted her head to meet them with her own lips.

  Inside her, a tiny, isolated voice cried ‘Madness!’ against the tornado that reached out to enfold them both. Then another voice, far in the distance, intruded, and Wyatt’s lips hissed a chilling, fearful reply.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Damn! Don’t move, Justine.’ And his fingers, now swift and sure in their movements, flew to re-tie the strings of her bikini top even as she returned to a semblance of normality and her ears recognised the sound of approaching voices.

  Her first reaction was to flee, to run and hide herself with the knowledge that any intruder, now, would see in an instant what had been going on, but her body was still somnolent; she couldn’t move, not quickly enough to escape detection.

  But Wyatt could. And before Justine could realise what was happening, he did! There was a fleeting sensation of flight, a single feeling of contact as his fingers gripped her at wrist and ankle, then only the shocking chill of the water as she struck.

  She had instinctively gasped as he threw her, and luckily held her breath until her body bobbed to the surface, but in her confusion she couldn’t then swim, only gulp and gasp and try to keep herself afloat. There was the vague recollection of a second splash, and suddenly he was there beside her, an arm about her waist as he casually shifted her closer to the shallow end until she found her footing.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he muttered in her ear, and then, ‘Hello! Coming to join us, are you?’ in casual greeting to the approaching figures of Sebastian and Possum.

  ‘Only if we’re not interrupting anything,’ Possum replied archly, and Justine felt herself go cold inside. So much for subterfuge, she thought. Wyatt had certainly underestimated his sister’s instincts this time.

  ‘Of course you’re interrupting,’ he replied, to Justine’s surprise. Worse, he made no attempt at all to disguise the hoarseness of his breathing or the electric flickers of barely-subdued passion in his voice. ‘If you hadn’t interrupted I’d have seduced Justine right there on the apron of the pool.’

  She tensed against the grasp of his arm, unsure whether to hit him, try and drown him, or just ignore him. She really wanted only to disappear, vanish like smoke, but she couldn’t.

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right, then,’ Possum replied with a shrug. ‘I thought it might be something important, but if that’s all ...’ She flung aside her wrap and dived cleanly into the water, emerging squarely in front of them.

  Wyatt immediately used his free hand to splash water at her, but the arm around Justine’s waist never slackened. ‘I would have thought the seduction of Justine was damned well important,’ he retorted in mock anger.

  ‘You would, but I reckon Justine’s got too much taste to bother with you,’ was the casual reply. ‘So what were you up to?’

  ‘You don’t miss much, do you, little sister?’ he asked with wry sarcasm, and Justine stifled a giggle at his sheer audacity.

  ‘Not a lot,’ Possum replied. ‘Now are you going to tell me, or is it to remain a secret for ever?’

  ‘Actually, I’d prefer to have told Justine first,’ Wyatt said mysteriously. ‘But I suppose it doesn’t matter much. I hope not anyway.’ He turned to look down into Justine’s eyes, his own dark with a glow of hidden satisfaction. ‘What I was going to ask, before we were so rudely interrupted,’ he said, ‘was if you’d mind running the place for me while I trot off to America for three weeks on business?’

  ‘You mean, me? Me ... run Wyatt’s?’ She was understandably incredulous, and the look on the faces of Possum and Sebastian revealed their equal surprise.

  ‘That’s what I thought I said,’ Wyatt replied soberly. ‘Have you still got water in your ears or something?’

  ‘No, but, well, it just seems a bit much, considering I’m still supposed to be on trial until the end of next week,’ Justine replied lamely.

  ‘Oh, that,’ he scoffed. ‘That was over some time ago. I must have forgotten to tell you.’

  Justine stood there, meeting his eyes but unsure herself whether to laugh or cry. Forgotten! If anything, he’d quite deliberately not told her, and wouldn’t have now but for this. Still, what was she complaining about? She had the job sh
e wanted ... and very nearly a great deal more in the bargain.

  But this! She was suddenly filled with doubts, about her own ability, her rapport with the staff, the likelihood of problems with Gloria, everything.

  ‘When ... would I have to take over?’ she asked finally, only too aware of his keen scrutiny.

  ‘Tonight.’ Succinct and to the point, if nothing else.

  ‘Tonight? But tonight is my turn to be Monday chef!’ Possum squealed. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘I couldn’t think of a better reason,’ he interrupted. ‘Even the garbage they serve on aeroplanes would be better than what you’d come up with. I’ll probably come back to find half my staff down with ptomaine poisoning and the rest on strike in sympathy.’

  ‘Wyatt!’ Justine barked the rebuke without thinking, her only concern really for Possum’s feelings. She might have saved her breath; Wyatt flinched at the tone, but Possum only shrugged away his charges.

  ‘Too bad for you,’ she retorted. ‘I’m going to serve duckling a I’orange with julienne potatoes — so there!’

  ‘And mushrooms, too, I’ll bet,’ he laughed. ‘Well, you can give Justine my share; she could do with a few more pounds.’ And gentle fingers pinched lightly at the curve of Justine’s hip, unseen by the others but all too noticeable to her.

  ‘Oh, can’t you go tomorrow? What’s one day matter?’ his sister moaned in exaggerated sorrow. ‘You never let me have any fun.’

  ‘I’ve let you have too damned much; that’s the real trouble,’ he replied. ‘And this husband of yours, for all his chauvinistic, foreign ways, is just as bad. You twist both of us around your little finger.’

  ‘Oh, pooh!’

  ‘And don’t pooh me. Why can’t you try and be more like Justine ... charming and compliant and biddable—’

  ‘Like a good dog,’ Possum interjected. ‘And don’t bother giving us your old line about a good woman and a good dog both needing a sound thrashing once a week, either.’

  ‘I’ve never said any such thing,’ he replied hotly, and obviously lying.

  ‘Hah! You wouldn’t dare admit it in front of Justine anyway,’ said Possum. Then she lowered her eyes, peering up at him cunningly. ‘Three weeks, hey? Well, that should give me time to fill her in on what you’re really like.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think 1 already know, too well,’ Justine interjected, her own sense of humour coming to her rescue. ‘But you don’t have to worry. Possum. After all, a man with no taste for mushrooms ... well ...’

  ‘Enough!’ Wyatt snapped. ‘You two can rip me to shreds when I’m gone, but have the decency to treat me with due and proper respect to ray face, if you don’t mind. Anyway, I’ve got work to do. Why not drop by the office later, Justine? Whenever you’re ready; there’s no panic. But I would like to run over a few things you’ll need to know.’

  A moment later he was gone, leaving Justine with a small, hand-shaped tingling patch on her waist, where he had so casually held her throughout that incredible conversation. Were Possum and Sebastian really so blind that they had totally missed what was happening beneath their very noses? It didn’t seem possible, not with Justine’s every sense still acutely aware of Wyatt, his touch, his texture, his very being.

  She hung about, swimming with them for a few minutes, then made her own excuses and, casually, she hoped, strode away towards her own quarters.

  It was like moving in a dream. Her mind was already whirling with the implications of being left in charge of Wyatt’s, but her body wasn’t at all impressed. All that really counted to her physical senses were Wyatt’s kisses, his skilful rousing of emotions she had never before believed could be so easily aroused.

  Once in the privacy of her suite, she stripped off the wet bikini and stepped into the shower, using alternate bursts of hot and cold water to try and dispel the aching need within her. It was frightening, she thought. No man, and especially not one who was her employer, should have the ability to affect her so.

  And to face him, alone again ... that held even greater terrors, because she now realised that Wyatt had only to touch her, even to look at her the right way, whisper her name, and she’d light up again like a petrol bomb.

  Still, he’d said there was no hurry. She could leave it, then, until ... after lunch, perhaps. At least that would give her time to straighten herself out, to regain at least a semblance of control.

  Once out of the shower she sat herself down at the wide dressing table and began slowly brushing out her hair, seeking comfort and release from her tension in the familiar, monotonous motions. Even as a child, she had found the long process a means to relax, to let her mind blank out problems, but now it seemed to work less well than usual.

  The mirrors, those damnable reflections of her every movement! Handy for doing her hair, yet so equally a reminder of everything that had happened that morning. In one, she was able to see exactly the spot where Wyatt’s fingers had rubbed ecstasy into the base of her spine; another angle emphasised the long curve of her legs, where his touch had prompted instant, wanton submission.

  She closed her eyes, letting her hands continue with the brush. She didn’t need to see to brush her hair, definitely didn’t need further reminders of Wyatt’s incredible touch.

  A knock at the door, however, stopped her hand in mid-air. She leapt to her feet, flinging her towelling robe on, and rushed to answer the door with the hairbrush still in her hand.

  ‘Ah, I wondered why you were taking so long,’ said the lean, muscular figure in the doorway. And before Justine could think to object, he had walked into the suite and closed the door behind him.

  Dressed in snug-fitting casual slacks and a shirt that was open nearly to his waist, Wyatt looked even more devilish than usual, even more under control.

  ‘Here, come and sit down and I’ll give you a hand with that,’ he said, and Justine placidly obeyed his directions, moving over to sit on a footstool, meekly handing over the hairbrush without a word.

  He began to run the brush through her tresses, using long, even strokes that paused only to ensure he didn’t pull at the occasional tangle she hadn’t yet reached. Then his fingers were quick and deft in their movements, as skilled as those of any professional hairdresser.

  ‘Relaxing, isn’t it?’ he asked in that particular tone that seeks no answer. ‘I should do this more often; it’s one way to make sure you’ll sit still and listen.’

  Then he calmly began to relate the various things Justine would have to take care of during his absence, ticking them off in his mind, she felt, as if he had memorised the list long before.

  She listened, absorbed, and didn’t have a single question when he had finished talking. And still the brush moved in its metronomic regularity, now starting to crackle little bits of static as the ends of her hair began to dry under his ministrations.

  She kept her eyes closed, giving herself to the comfort she had been unable to create, but which this tall, handsome man had somehow started with his first touch on her hair.

  Strangely, his touch now was sensual but not sexual. She felt no arousal, no quickening of her passions. Only a gentle lassitude, a lightness, somehow.

  Until she opened her eyes and saw the two of them reflected from a dozen angles around her! Then, instantly, she became all too aware of the skimpiness of her robe, of how it was sagging provocatively open at the front, of her legs stretched bare and invitingly out before her.

  And of Wyatt’s deliberate evaluation of her with the aid of all those damned mirrors! Justine shied like a frightened colt, almost leaping from the footstool as she flinched from his touch. Then somehow she was on her feet, not facing him but speaking from a mouth gone dry and fluttery with alarm.

  ‘I ... I think you’d better go now,’ she stammered, not daring to face him but unable to keep from doing so; his eyes bored into hers via the mirrors no matter which way she turned.

  ‘Why, I wonder?’ he mused, leaning casually to one side long enough to lay down
the hairbrush on a side table. ‘What are you afraid of, Justine?’

  She didn’t, couldn’t answer. His lean, devilish figure loomed tall above her, his eyes alight with some emotion she didn’t dare evaluate.

  In a reflection of a reflection of a reflection she saw his hand lift, then felt its intimate touch as he slowly traced one finger down the length of her spine, a touch like living fire even through the material of the robe.

  His head dipped and she both saw and felt his lips as they slowly brushed aside the hair to linger on the lobe of her ear, then slide softly, provocatively down the length of her neck. His hands came up to take her by the shoulders, turning her towards him.

  ‘Are you really afraid of me?’ he asked in a voice so low she had to strain to hear him, ‘or of yourself?’

  Then the voice stopped as the lips moved across her cheek, caressing, tantalising as they touched the comer of her mouth, then moved away to slide like velvet over her throat, then back to meet her half-parted lips.

  ‘Please ... please don’t,’ she whispered, but it must have been a silent whisper; he gave no sign of hearing. Instead, his hands dropped to close around her waist, pulling her close to him as his lips sought her mouth and closed it with a kiss that was rough and smooth, harsh and gentle, demanding and seducing.

  Justine lifted her own arms, fitting against his chest with no force at all as the heat of his body flowed into her finger tips, running like fire up her arms, into her soft, malleable body. Her arms lifted, her fingers tracing light, tentative explorations of their own through the hair on his chest, over the hollows of his collar bones and then around his neck to gather in the thick hair there.

  Without the barrier of her hands, his chest bristled against her, the hair trickled the softness of her half- exposed breasts, tingling against her nipples, rousing them to firm peaks.

  Then his hands were there, flicking aside the ties of the robe and bringing their own magic to the fires that now threatened to consume Justine. His touch on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, seemed like fingers of living fire, lighting answering flames within her as she strained against him, feeling the heat of his body, the hardness of him as she flowed to merge their forms.