Dinner at Wyatt's

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘God, but I want you,’ his voice whispered, and even as he spoke, strong hands lifted her, gathering her into his arms and cradling her there.

  He moved only as far as was necessary, then she felt herself lowered softly on to the great canopied bed.

  His lips, his hands, were everywhere then, kissing, caressing, rousing her to a fever that brooked no opposition. When his mouth finally returned to hers, Justine met it eagerly, her fingers frantic as they moved across Wyatt’s neck and shoulders, then down across the heat of his chest to touch briefly at his belt.

  Then she opened her eyes. Why, she didn’t know; perhaps some demon of perversity, perhaps simply the last tiny remnant of common sense within her finally came into being.

  And it was enough. When her eyes met the reflection of their tangled bodies in the mirror above, seeing her own nakedness, her shameless reaction to his caresses, something inside rebelled.

  ‘No!’ she squealed, suddenly finding strength to thrust at him, wriggling and shoving and pushing with every part of her body as she struggled to free herself. Wyatt, for only a split second, looked bemused. Then, casually despite his surging breath, he lifted himself from the bed and backed away from her.

  ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘Relax, Justine ... it’s all right.’

  All right! How could anything ever be all right again? Justine’s body trembled with the intensity of her revulsion. She flung the robe around her, rolling off the bed on the side opposite Wyatt, her eyes still wide with a kind of terror.

  ‘God!’ she whispered, then huddled in against herself, arms wrapped across her breasts, head lowered. ‘Oh, my God,’ she moaned.

  ‘What in hell’s the matter?’ he demanded suddenly, starting to reach for her, then thinking better of it and instead backing away.

  The matter? Was the man totally insensitive? And how could she possibly explain to him the effect of seeing herself, seeing them ... together, beneath a brothel mirror? Justine shivered, unable to speak. There had been something, some aspect of it all, that had instantly cheapened the whole affair. She didn’t and couldn’t deny her own desires, her need of him, her wanting. But not here, not like that!

  She couldn’t look. She just couldn’t! But somehow, against every feeling inside her, she did. But not at Wyatt; her glance slid cautiously from beneath lowered brows to flick upward at the mirror.

  ‘Ah ...’ He breathed the comment so softly she wasn’t sure she’d heard it at all, but when he spoke again, she knew it. Only it didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

  ‘So it should be,’ he muttered, almost to himself, it was so quiet. ‘So it should be.’

  He turned away, stalking towards the door with a deliberate stride that to her eyes spelled anger. But when he turned to look back at her, there was no anger in his dark eyes, no sign of it on his face. Instead, his eyes were like pools of black, velvety ink, his face calm and almost serene.

  ‘You’re right, Justine,’ he said then. ‘I should have known you would be.’

  And he was gone. Not another word, not a gesture of ... anything. Just gone. Leaving her with only her conscience, her troubled mind, her trembling, unsatisfied body for company. And, she realised, the indisputable knowledge that she was falling ... had fallen ... in love with him.

  None of which was the slightest consolation as she wandered the suddenly empty room, oblivious now to the mirrors, oblivious only to what she had somehow given away ... lost ... ended. Being right, she decided, was small consolation.

  She thought about it and thought about it and thought about it, and in the end was no wiser.

  The remainder of the day dragged by on feet as leaden as her heart, and although Justine had plenty to do, especially with regard to her newly-gained responsibilities, she found it almost impossible to concentrate.

  Her accounts suddenly became no more than bewildering jumbles of meaningless figures, the small office in the alcove a claustrophobic cell which threatened to smother her. She even went so far as to try and have an afternoon nap, but her mind refused to accept the numbness of sleep and she quickly abandoned the idea.

  Wyatt left without saying goodbye, leaving Justine to wonder if it was by accident or deliberate bloody- mindedness that Gloria was selected to drive him to the airport. That, at least, had one slender consolation; the dark-haired woman’s presence was spared them during Possum’s debut as a novice chef.

  The event was, in Justine’s opinion, an unqualified success. Possum’s duckling was succulent and tender and served with classic presentation, and her sauce was sufficiently excellent to draw compliments even from Armand, who tended to be even more finicky than Justine herself where sauces were concerned.

  Only Wyatt’s presence was lacking, and as the evening progressed it seemed that only Justine cared about that. If Possum missed her brother’s approval she said nothing, and nobody else seemed to care one way or the other.

  Justine let the staff party on somewhat later than usual, justifying it in her own mind because she herself felt no great need for an early night and because they were truly enjoying themselves and obviously having a great time without the shadow of their ‘lord and master’ hovering over them.

  When she finally did go off to bed, however, she vowed to stick to a more rigid discipline in the weeks to come. It wouldn’t do at all for Wyatt to find on his return that all of his staff were taking undue advantages of his generosity.

  Morning came with a rush. Deliveries, for whatever reason, were earlier than usual and unduly complicated, two of the younger staff members exhibited all-too-obvious hangover symptoms, and Gloria Calder was even more bitchy than usual.

  ‘But Wyatt specifically said that I should take over all the accounts,’ she complained after flouncing into Justine’s office in her usual haughty manner. ‘He said you’d be far too busy with everything else to worry about things like that.’

  The implication was obvious. Wyatt didn’t think Justine was really capable, and was spreading the responsibilities around to make it easy on her. What next, Justine wondered ... do I get Armand in here telling me I’m not to cook?

  ‘Gloria, I’m sorry, but he didn’t tell me that,’ she argued, only to be immediately interrupted by yet another small crisis, this one involving the wine cellar. Five minutes later she again faced the older woman, but without the desire or strength to argue further.

  ‘Oh, all right. If that’s what he said, I guess it’s what he wants,’ she agreed grudgingly, and handed over her kitchen account books only seconds before Sebastian arrived to advise her of a major booking foul-up.

  ‘I’ll take care of everything, Justine. You won’t have to worry about a thing,’ Gloria smirked, disappearing with the books and with a self-satisfied, smarmy look on her lovely face.

  Ten minutes later another crisis erupted, this one totally unexpected and indeed quite illogical.

  ‘Excuse mc, ma’am, but are you Miss Ryan?’ asked a well-dressed, businesslike young man who looked round the corner of her alcove as if he expected something to bite him.

  ‘I am,’ Justine replied. ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘Oh, no problem, really,’ he answered. ‘It’s just that I’ve come with the drapery material and everything, but I think I need a key. The door’s locked, do you see?’

  ‘The door? I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know what you mean.’

  ‘To the suite, ma’am. On the third floor.’

  Justine shook her head wearily. Could it only be nine-fifteen in the morning?

  ‘You’d better come and show me,’ she said, rising from her chair and stretching her neck to dispel a lurking headache pain. What did the man want? Wyatt had said nothing about draperies, much less about anything for the third floor. Or had he? Justine racked her brain, but couldn’t recall anything.

  She led the man up the private staircase, fingers jingling the massive key-ring that gave her access to the various storage areas of the house, Wyatt’s personal suite, her own
suite, and the guest rooms, pool enclosure and garages.

  ‘It’s this one, according to the diagram I have,’ the man said, and Justine stood silent with disbelief. Her own suite! But it couldn’t be.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘You did get your instructions from Mr Burns, I gather?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yesterday afternoon,’ he replied, holding up a diagram in Wyatt’s unmistakable handwriting. ‘And it’s very definitely this one, see? He said there were all kinds of mirrors that he wanted covered over.’

  Justine could have fallen through the floor. Her brain reeled, but it was her heart that was most stricken by the man’s words. Mirrors covered? In her suite? The implications were only too obvious.

  ‘I think you’d best explain to me just exactly what your instructions were,’ she said as they stepped into the room.

  ‘Oh, just to arrange draperies to cover up the ... My God!’ exclaimed the man, halting to stare incredulously around the room. ‘What did they keep in here ... a harem?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Justine replied drily, then swallowed the enormous lump that had suddenly emerged in her throat. ‘It’s ... a very historic room, I’m told.’

  ‘Historic isn’t the word for it,’ commented the draper. ‘This is a real passion-pit, this is. Look at that bed, would you? Lord love us, but I can see why he wants the place curtained off; it’s enough to give a monk ideas!’

  And I’m no monk, Justine thought, suddenly seeing the suite as if for the first time. Whatever had prompted her to accept this accommodation, she wondered, and more important, what had ever prompted Wyatt to offer it?

  A quick glance assured her that her more personal, private possessions were safely put away, and whatever this decorator might find in his measuring could hardly matter.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m really very busy here today, so is it all right if I leave you now, and I’ll come and lock up again when you’re done?’

  He turned to look at her, eyes dazed with a masculine fantasy she didn’t really want to comprehend. ‘Oh ... yeah, all right,’ he muttered, already turning away. ‘I won’t be more than, say, an hour or so.’

  ‘Right! Just let me know, then,’ she said, and quickly fled before his fantasies got out of hand. Damn Wyatt Burns anyway, she thought. And damn Justine Ryan, too, for ever allowing herself to get mixed up in this mess.

  But as she returned to her myriad duties, there was a tiny, embryonic glow of pleasure inside her. Wyatt had, without question, thought enough of her feelings to make this effort. Surely, she thought, that must count for something? But what?

  Justine found out what only twenty-four hours later, when the decorator returned to once again seek the key to her suite, spent most of the day trotting back and forth with armfuls of fabric, and finally demanded her presence — as Wyatt’s deputy — for a final approval.

  The effect was magnificent! Without in any way permanently destroying the historic significance of the suite — although Justine was tempted to question that significance on general principles — the decorator had resolved the mirror problem with a truly talented display of hanging draperies that covered the mirrors if desired, but could be drawn open to return the suite to its original decadent opulence. Even the massive, betraying mirror above the bed had been covered in heavy soft fabric.

  ‘Excellent,’ she declared. ‘I’m sure Mr Burns will be really pleased.’ And she sent the little man on his way so that she could revel in the new-found luxury of her quarters.

  It was indeed thoughtful of Wyatt, she thought, although not without a twinge of concern about the obvious cost. She still hadn’t quite figured out his logic in redecorating the room; did he plan a replay of their last encounter? If so, even the draperies couldn’t obscure her instinctive fear of such a happening, and Justine vowed to have a third party present when she showed him the result of his order, and indeed vowed further never to let herself be caught alone with him in this room again, curtains or no curtains.

  But there was a certain satisfaction about allowing those invoices to go directly to Gloria. What would the attractive brunette think of them? she wondered. And immediately chastised herself for being bitchy. To let herself drop down to Gloria’s level was unthinkable, but oh, so tempting.

  The few days following were a delight, although a harassed, overworked delight, Justine found. She was literally everywhere in the building, supervising not only her kitchens but other aspects of the restaurant that had earlier been quite remote from her own work.

  Possum was a great help. The girl who showed incredible acting talent before her husband and brother was, Justine found, a person of incredible, down-to-earth practicality. Through her exposure at Wyatt’s and her husband’s Greek establishment, she had a mammoth knowledge of exactly how restaurants were operated, and she freely shared it with Justine.

  But it was on Justine’s shoulders that the major workload fell, and when Wyatt had been gone a week and a day, Justine was more than prepared to grant him an endurance she couldn’t personally match.

  One night had seen a visitation by that same, horrid restaurant columnist who had discussed her in less-than-endearing terms in the kitchen of her last place of employment, and Justine had been thankful to find him so obviously attracted to Gloria that he seemed to quite ignore her own presence.

  By the end of the first week, she had begun to find a rhythm to it all, and was genuinely revelling in the smooth operation of both kitchen and overall restaurant. Even Gloria, for whatever reason, seemed to have settled into Justine’s operational pattern.

  But Possum was bored, and made no bones about expressing her boredom when the two girls shared an impromptu lunch on the Monday after Wyatt’s departure.

  ‘Why do we have to stick to this traditional Ye Olde English tucker?’ Possum moaned. ‘I know it fits the decor and everything, but Sebastian says a growing number of customers are asking for dishes we simply don’t offer. Damn Wyatt anyway! It’s only his stubbornness that keeps us from being a really international restaurant.’

  The next day, Justine found herself in total agreement, having just lost a booking for twenty because of the restricted menu. The potential client had wanted a mixed, international menu for his group, and through Wyatt’s restrictions Justine had been forced to pass on the booking.

  ‘Not impressive,’ she muttered as she hung up the telephone. ‘Not impressive at all. I wonder ...’

  Two days later she had it under control. The smallest of the original ‘swinging London’ rooms had been transformed into an ‘international room’, with a daily- changing menu that sprawled across Europe, Asia and Indonesia, offering a different country’s menu each day.

  ‘I don’t think your brother’s going to approve at all, unless we can prove the economics of it all,’ Justine told Possum. But within three days of the changeover, it became obvious her instincts had been right after all. People flooded the new section, ordering not off the menu, but simply asking for the chefs specials of the day and obviously enjoying them.

  The economics were proved within that three-day period; bookings doubled and then tripled as the word spread that Wyatt’s was no longer bound to Ye Olde English tradition.

  ‘You’re set for life,’ Possum decreed. But Justine wasn’t all that easily convinced. True, the experiment had been a rousing success. But she had had at least one complaint from a Colonel Blimp type about a lowering of standards, and she fully expected Wyatt to follow it up.

  But how could he really object, considering the overall success? Justine couldn’t see it, yet she had a deep-seated feeling that Wyatt’s return might be even more traumatic than his departure.

  A thoroughly supportive view expressed by that restaurant columnist, who had obviously returned to check on the changeover, didn’t do a lot for Justine’s feeling that she had stepped beyond the pale. Certainly Wyatt couldn’t dispute the plaudits in the column, and yet ...

  The always imperative telephone interrupted Ju
stine’s thoughts, and she picked up the receiver to hear an unexpected yet familiar voice.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the one? And to think you never even considered the feelings of an old friend.’

  ‘Adrienne Charles! But what are you on about?’ Justine replied with a mixture of surprise and delight.

  ‘On about? Well, that perfectly ridiculous column of good old whatshisname’s yesterday, what else?’ was the caustic reply. ‘I mean, really, Justine! To give that gross, porcine fellow first dibs at the new Wyatt’s and leave my very civilised magazine out in the cold. You should have your head examined!’

  ‘Whatever are you on about?’ Justine asked again, totally confused by the notes of friendship and cold business in her old school chum’s voice.

  ‘Oh, but of course, you couldn’t know,’ Adrienne cooed. Then she simpered on about her latest job with a high-quality gourmet magazine and the fact that she just must have an interview with Justine for the next month’s issue.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Justine hedged. ‘I think you’d better wait until Wyatt ... Mr Burns ... gets back. It’s only a matter of a week and a bit . ..’

  ‘Nonsense! I have deadlines and you have the incredible fortune to know the top restaurant writer in the business,’ said Adrienne, ignoring completely the fact that Justine hadn’t even known about her job, and would have, were it as important as she let on.

  ‘I’ll be there for lunch tomorrow, photographer and all,’ Adrienne went on. ‘Nothing fancy, of course, but enough to give me adequate copy about your excellent continental cuisine. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is raving about it, so I’m sure I’ll be able to create a veritable gem of an article.’

  ‘Yes ... but ... but what about Wyatt ... Mr Burns?’ Justine asked yet again. Too late, her friend had already rung off, leaving Justine with more than a few qualms about what was to come. She knew Adrienne only too well, and having not heard one word about Adrienne’s entry into the select world of metropolitan restaurant columnists, she held immediate suspicions about what her old school friend might be trying on.