Dinner at Wyatt's

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘So take two minutes and change into a clean outfit,’ he replied evenly. ‘You do have one, I presume?’

  ‘Well, of course,’ she replied, biting back the sting in the words, but only too aware of how one dark eyebrow raised almost as a caution against further insolence.

  ‘Right, I’ll see you out there,’ he replied, and was gone, with only the most casual of glances at what the rest of the busy staff were doing.

  ‘I don’t need this,’ Justine muttered to herself as she swiftly exchanged the coverall for a shiny, whiter-than- white one. ‘I don’t need this at all.’

  But she finally went, as of course she had to, and once through the swinging doors into the restaurant proper she threw back her shoulders and advanced upon the table where Wyatt was sitting with as much dignity as she could muster.

  With him at the table were three other men, one of them quite elderly and the others in their late thirties. All four men rose politely as Justine approached. Her mind was so occupied trying to relate table number to a suddenly vanished mental bookings list that she could only nod when Wyatt smiled and took her hand.

  ‘This, gentlemen, is the genius behind Wyatt’s successful international corner,’ he said with a wide grin. ‘May I present Miss Justine Ryan, chef extraordinaire, to whom must go all credit for it. But please don’t try to hire her away, because I’ve got her on a very long-term contract.’

  He introduced the men, but their names floated away in the haze of Justine’s confusion. All she did understand was that they were involved together in a chain of quality restaurants developed in Melbourne, and that they were in the process of seeking expansion properties in Sydney.

  ‘You’ve time for a glass of wine, Justine,’ Wyatt said in tones that brooked no possible objection. He had only to nod and it was there before her, complete with a broad wink from Possum, who brought it.

  ‘I must certainly congratulate you. Miss Ryan,’ said the elder of three men. ‘Your international corner concept has been developed with the best of taste and all else that matters. The only thing that docs surprise me is that you chose to instigate the move while Wyatt was off in America.’ And the look in his eye said more than his words.

  The look in Wyatt’s eyes said even more, and Justine took a slow breath and thought very quickly indeed before answering. ‘Well, of course we’d discussed it before he left,’ she said then, struggling to keep a straight face.

  ‘Indeed? I thought it must be so,’ replied her inquisitor, only to be replaced by one of his younger companions.

  ‘I’ll bet you didn’t discuss that interview you gave Adrienne Charles,’ he chuckled. ‘Now that was a stroke of genius, not that I want to take anything away from your international concept.’

  Genius! A stroke of sheer idiocy, bad luck, bad management and outright stupidity, Justine thought. But genius? Not much!

  Obviously, however, she wasn’t expected to reply to the somewhat ludicrous compliment. The man continued without waiting for any answer.

  ‘It’s done wonders for Wyatt’s image, although I’m damned sure he won’t admit it,’ he said. ‘Just imagine a restaurateur who doesn’t like mushrooms ... the whole thing has humanised him beyond belief. Not that we could expect him to honestly say he appreciated being termed a male chauvinist pig — which he is and always has been — but he forgets that the public thrives on that sort of drivel. I’ll bet your bookings have increased noticeably since that column came out, eh, Wyatt?’

  ‘As if I’d tell you,’ was the laconic reply. ‘And I am not a male chauvinist pig ... only a piglet at best. Justine may yet pay for her part in that interview.’

  ‘Pay? You should give her a bonus,’ cut in the older of the three men. ‘And another one for what she’s done here.’ He turned to Justine with a broad smile. ‘And see that he does, my dear. If not, break your contract and come and work for me. I mean that.’ And as if in proof, he placed his business card in Justine’s hand and gave Wyatt a hard look.

  ‘Unfair ... unfair!’ Wyatt protested. ‘I haven’t even been back a full day and already you’re trying to steal my staff.’

  ‘All part of business, old friend,’ laughed the older man. ‘If you haven’t the good sense to appreciate your staff, you must expect those of us who are more experienced to take full advantage.’

  ‘If anybody’s going to take advantage of Justine, it will be me,’ Wyatt replied suggestively and his eyes locked with hers as if defying her to object. ‘I have a great deal of appreciation for Justine, and well she knows it.’

  ‘You’d have to be a fool not to,’ responded the third of the men, who up to that moment had said nothing. He was a tall, well set up young man with auburn hair and deep-set blue eyes that had already assessed Justine’s figure quite thoroughly during the conversation. Not as tall as Wyatt, he was more conventionally handsome, almost pretty.

  More significant, his interest in Justine had little to do with her cooking abilities; that was obvious both to her and to Wyatt, who shot the other man an eyebrow-raised glance and then grinned wolfishly.

  But he said nothing, and Justine claimed that moment of relative silence to make her own bid for escape.

  ‘Thank you all for the pretty compliments. And the wine, of course,’ she said. ‘But now I really must retire to my cauldrons.’

  She started to rise, but was halted by a gesture from Wyatt. ‘Five minutes won’t make any difference,’ he said. ‘Have another glass of wine and then we’ll let you go back to feeding the multitudes.’

  ‘Is that an order?’ she asked, looking at him sideways in a gesture that could have been coquettish but wasn’t really intended that way.

  ‘It is! Peter hasn’t finished admiring you, and I wouldn’t want him to leave Wyatt’s unsatisfied since he is, after all, a guest here.’

  ‘You’d better find yourself a standby cook, then,’ grinned the auburn-haired man. ‘Because with all due respect to the chef, I find Justine more than lives up to her reputation.’

  What reputation? she wondered, but couldn’t quite summon the nerve to meet Wyatt’s dark eyes as he laughed harshly at the compliment.

  Then, having ordered her so directly to stay, he turned his attentions to a distinctly business discussion with the older of the three men, leaving Justine to the mercies of Peter’s attention.

  He was, Justine decided in an instant, a womaniser of the highest order. Smooth, suave, charming ... and really very attractive. But not really her type.

  Nonetheless, when his subtle questioning revealed that she wouldn’t be working the next day, she quite agreeably accepted his invitation to go for a drive and have lunch somewhere.

  ‘I’ll let you choose where,’ he said with a smile. ‘Just so long as it isn’t anywhere I’d want to get financially involved. When I’m lunching with a beautiful woman I don’t want to be distracted by anything as vulgar as money.’

  ‘I think you flatter me far too much,’ she replied, a bit tongue in cheek, ‘but I’ll certainly see that I keep your requirements in mind.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Peter replied, and would have said more, Justine thought, except that her own attention was diverted by Possum standing off to one side making panic signals.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I must run,’ Justine apologised, and was on her way to the kitchen in seconds. The panic, thank goodness, was a relatively minor one, but she didn’t return to the international corner, and wasn’t at all surprised when there was no further demand for her presence.

  It wasn’t until everything was wrapped up for the evening and she was alone in her suite that Justine had a moment to seriously consider the implications of her accepting Peter’s invitation.

  To provoke Wyatt? No, she thought, and immediately chuckled at the blatancy of the lie.

  ‘Of course you tried to provoke Wyatt, you silly woman,’ she muttered at herself in the bathroom mirror. ‘And didn’t you just make a thorough mess of it, too? He didn’t notice. Couldn’t have
cared less, in fact, and now you’re stuck with a date you don’t really want or need.’

  Although even that, she admitted later, wasn’t totally true. Peter ... Grice, that was it ... was a pleasant and very charming man. Certainly not a man who would have difficulty finding feminine company, which made his invitation flattering if nothing else. But he wasn’t her type. Her type! He wasn’t Wyatt, that was the essence of it.

  Justine had almost talked herself into a last-minute excuse when Peter arrived the next morning, but at that same last minute she decided instead to go out with him. There had been neither sight nor sound of Wyatt, not that she should have expected any, she supposed, so she had absolutely no excuse for changing her mind.

  They drove south first, for a leisurely visit to the Royal National Park and its splendid vistas of ocean, beach and thick scrub forest. Throughout the drive in his powerful rented car, Peter kept Justine amused and usually laughing happily with his outrageous tales of restaurants he had known and the people involved in them. He was well travelled and knowledgeable, but most important, he was simply good fun to be with.

  There was, somewhat to Justine’s surprise at first, simply no sexual tension between them. Peter obviously found her attractive and he seemed to be enjoying her company as much as she enjoyed his, but there was none of the innuendo and games-playing she would have expected.

  She understood much better when they finally settled down for lunch at a place Justine had selected for its classic French cuisine. Peter, somewhat hesitantly, she thought, brought out a picture of a petite, almost delicate blonde girl — and the announcement that he was planning to ask her to marry him when he got back to Melbourne.

  ‘I would have done it before, but Sue’s a Sydney girl at heart, and I wanted to be sure of this expansion programme first,’ he explained, adding that he would be the partnership representative selected to shift bases to Sydney to oversee the operation.

  Then, as if in reply to her unspoken question about why he should have chosen to ask her out, he chuckled quite diabolically and continued.

  ‘Don’t be offended, but I really did have a kind of devilish urge last night to see if I couldn’t get old Wyatt stirred up a bit. And I did take an immediate liking to you as well.’

  He swallowed and for an instant looked quite perplexed. ‘Damn, that sounded terribly condescending, didn’t it? Maybe if I try it the other way round. I was very definitely drawn to you, although not in perhaps the most classic way, and when I saw Wyatt might be vulnerable, I ... oh-oh ... wrong again.’

  Justine could have choked herself from the laughter inside, and she took pity on him immediately.

  ‘Look, I do understand ... well, sort of,’ she replied. ‘And truly I’ve enjoyed myself quite as much today as I think you have, Peter, so stop making matters worse with these apology attempts.’

  Privately, she suspected he had had just a touch too much wine the evening before, and could find no honourable escape when faced with his assignation attempt. But she also very much believed his assertion about stirring Wyatt, since she already knew that Peter had worked for Wyatt some years before and the two were fast friends of long standing.

  She laughed, then. ‘1 think you really misjudged part of the situation, though. About stirring Wyatt, I mean. And just as well, too, since there’s nothing between us and I can’t say I’d want there to be.’

  Then it was Peter’s turn to laugh, and he did so with great gusto now that their little misunderstanding was cleared up without hard feelings.

  ‘You’d better look again, lady,’ he told her. ‘I’ve known Wyatt too long not to be able to read him just a little bit, and he’s interested all right. As for you, may I simply say that there’s an old quote about ladies protesting too much.’

  ‘Well then, I’ll protest even more,’ she retorted, hoping her sudden lift in spirit didn’t show all over her face. So Wyatt was interested? He’d a funny way of showing it, she thought, unless Peter’s definition of interested involved purely sexual implications. But how could she ask?

  She couldn’t, of course, and Peter let that aspect of their conversation drop when the first course arrived. Instead, they talked throughout the meal about his ideas for the group’s restaurant chain, and about Justine’s own ideas for the small restaurant she might some day own herself.

  ‘Sebastian and Possum have the right idea, I think,’ she said at one point. ‘They’re both working terribly hard to get the place-off the ground, but they’re succeeding. And when it’s all under control they’ll be in for a great deal of satisfaction.’

  ‘Fine, but how about money? Or isn’t that important to them?’ Peter was interested, but restaurants to him had a different significance than Justine imagined existed for Sebastian and Possum.

  ‘Oh, I think they’ll make enough,’ she said. ‘But for them I honestly think the satisfaction will be the real incentive. Possum dearly wants to be a proper chef, and despite Wyatt’s opinion I think she’ll make it.’

  Peter laughed. ‘Well, there’s no doubt that Sebastian will make it. He’s got to be the biggest ham this side of creation. In fact, why don’t we get together tonight and pay their place a visit? I’d love to see him do his Zorba routine, having already been quite taken in by the British butler act last night.’

  ‘All right,’ said Justine. ‘It’s time I paid them another visit anyway. Only tonight I’ll drive myself, if you don’t mind. It’s ludicrous for you to be travelling that sort of distances for me under the circumstances.’

  ‘Ouch! That was a low blow,’ he replied. ‘And I would do it gladly; I want you to know that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t know,’ she smiled. And then with a little grin of friendly mischief: ‘I just hope your fiancé appreciates me for my restraint, that’s all.’

  ‘Hah! Strike two for Justine,’ Peter laughed. ‘I’ll ask her when I phone this afternoon and let you know at dinner. I’ll even leave it to you to make a booking, so there!’

  When he finally dropped her back at Wyatt’s it was nearly three o’clock, so they agreed that a later dinner would be best.

  ‘I’ll meet you there at eight-thirty,’ said Justine, ‘and don’t be late, either. That’s purely a feminine prerogative and although I seldom use it, I’d like to keep it feminine just in case.’

  She herself had no intention of being late. She spent the remainder of the afternoon swimming and resting, then devoted a full hour to her hair, clothes and makeup. She already knew that while Possum would be performing that evening, there would also be ample opportunity for the patrons to dance and it would seem ludicrous not to expect Peter to become involved in that.

  During Wyatt’s American visit, Justine had devoted a portion of her income to some going-out type clothes, her favourite of which was a flowing, caftan-styled dress in a delicate mauve colour that suited her colouring perfectly.

  Wyatt, she thought idly, would probably quite like the dress. It depended for its effect more on cut and material than brazen display of what was beneath, but as she swirled before the mirror, hair piled high and pinned just sufficiently to hold it there, the dress was magnificent.

  She wanted to be a bit early at the restaurant, so it was only seven-thirty when she descended the rear staircase and strolled over to manipulate her small car from the restaurant garage. She had just backed out of the building, and was about to leave the car to close the garage doors when a shadowy figure stepped forward to hold up a commanding palm.

  ‘Don’t bother; I’ll get the doors for you,’ said Wyatt, looking his usual elegant self in a dark blue dinner jacket over a gleaming ruffled shirt and dark trousers.

  He paused beside the small car and stooped to peer in at her, his eyes lingering as they roved over what he could see of her dress and hair.

  ‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘Very impressive, I should imagine. And where are you off to, Justine, all dressed up without an escort?’

  ‘Off to meet my secret lo
ver, of course. You wouldn’t expect me to have him pick me up at work.’ The words simply hurtled from her mouth without conscious thought, and she shut her mouth immediately, more startled than even he could have been. Whatever could have possessed her to say such a thing?

  Wyatt’s eyes narrowed dangerously, or was it just a trick of the questionable light? Justine wasn’t altogether sure, but there was little doubt about the harshness in his voice.

  ‘Secret lover? Or just one who doesn’t care enough about you to pick you up at home?’ There wasn’t much emphasis on his use of home as opposed to her work, but enough!

  ‘What are you, my father or something?’ Justine replied tartly. ‘Surely you don’t think it’s part of your position as my employer to go about vetting my boyfriends?’

  ‘That isn’t very likely when you insist on running off to meet them in secret like … He broke it off there, but the implication was obvious. Justine’s temper flared.

  ‘Like what?’ she demanded. ‘Like some kind of tart, perhaps? Or did you have a better, more descriptive word?’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t have any word at all,’ he returned blithely. ‘Perhaps I was merely going to say, like this.’

  ‘And perhaps I’m the Queen of England,’ she snapped. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me ...’

  ‘But of course,’ he replied with an exaggerated but none the less graceful bow. ‘I’m sure your secret lover will appreciate your devotedness. Do I take it you’ll be back for tomorrow’s apprentices’ dinner?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Justine replied angrily. ‘Not that it’s any of your business anyway. Besides, Armand will be here.’ ‘

  ‘And so, I’d suggest, will you,’ Wyatt replied. And his voice was grimly prophetic.

  ‘I will if it damned well suits me, and not otherwise!’ she cried, then jammed her foot on the accelerator and nearly ran over his foot in her haste to get away.

  Hateful, arrogant man! How dared he suggest such things, she thought? Well, it would serve him right if she did stay out all night. Maybe she would! She could certainly find a hotel room; on Wyatt’s wages she could even afford to, but it would be a horrifically expensive gesture.