She didn’t fully understand what the mechanic was telling her, except that it was something serious enough that he couldn’t fix it on the spot. It would have to be towed to the workshop he said, and she might be lucky enough to have it back by noon the next day.
He couldn’t, unfortunately, leave his own district to give her a ride all the way south to Wyatt’s, but at least he could offer a lift to where she could get a taxi or arrange accommodation.
Justine rode with him back to his service depot, suddenly conscious of her flimsy dress and the man’s appreciative glances. Once there, she dealt with the required paperwork and waited what seemed like forever for a taxi.
The taxi driver quoted her a price that made her reel with shock; she had forgotten just how far south of the city proper Wyatt’s really was. She was tempted to tell him she only wanted to rent his car, not buy it, but she thought better of that instinct and decided instead to just cut her losses and book into the most convenient hotel.
It wasn’t until she was safely ensconced in a tidy, comfortable and expensive hotel room that the reaction began to set in and her earlier fears and trials gave way to relieved laughter at the immense chain of misfortune.
She remembered thinking of booking into a hotel during her drive into the city, and had to laugh at the prophecy in those thoughts.
Pouring herself a drink from the hotel room’s well-stocked mini-fridge, she sat down on the edge of the bed and reviewed the night’s events with growing amusement. Would Wyatt be waiting, she wondered, making all sorts of ridiculous assumptions about her failure to arrive?
She got a mental flash of him, sitting on the steps of his own restaurant in the middle of the night like the parent of some errant teenager. And again she laughed.
‘It would just about serve you right,’ she muttered aloud.
And it would, too. How dared he try and run her life? It was none of his business what she did, or with whom, or when she came in after a date. None of his business, yet she was curiously flattered despite her innate hostility at being ordered about.
Why should he care anyway? Clearly he had no great interest in her from any romantic viewpoint, despite Peter’s claims to the contrary. Physical interest? That she couldn’t deny; the memories of his caresses were just too strong.
But that, Justine decided, simply wasn’t enough. She didn’t need or want to be used by Wyatt or any other man as a convenience, a sex object. And how close she’d been, on that memorable occasion in her flat, to becoming just that!
She glanced at her watch. Almost one in the morning. If Wyatt actually was keeping tabs on her, he’d be going without sleep. Just as she was, but that was little consolation for being too keyed up to sleep.
‘I wonder if perhaps I should telephone,’ she mused, and then dismissed the thought. It was none of his business where she spent the night, and Justine was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of seeing his heavy-handed threats actually working.
But if she didn’t telephone, he might think she’d stayed over with Peter, Did she have the right to let her own feelings cause bad relations between friends? Not that Peter would mind, she thought; he obviously quite enjoyed stirring Wyatt up.
And yet ... Before she had time to change her mind, Justine grabbed up her handbag, looked up the private number of the telephone in Wyatt’s flat, and quickly dialled it.
One ring ... two ... and the phone was answered. Only not by Wyatt! Justine nearly dropped the telephone when Gloria’s unmistakable voice came through.
‘I’d like to speak to Wyatt, please,’ said Justine, half wishing she’d simply hung up without a word.
‘I’m sorry, but you can’t. He’s occupied right now,’ was the reply. Gloria had recognised Justine’s voice, too, no question about that.
‘I see,’ she replied. ‘Well, could you please tell him that I’ve had car trouble and I might not be back until tomorrow afternoon?’ The words came hard for her, and Justine suddenly felt herself like the errant teenager of her earlier vision. How ridiculous it all seemed!
Gloria’s reply was mumbled. Justine couldn’t quite decide if it was a yes, no, maybe, or just what. And before she could ask, the phone was hung up in her ear.
She sat there, dumbstruck by the outright rudeness and still holding the now-buzzing receiver, which she looked at as if it were something unusual.
‘Well!’ she exclaimed as she replaced the receiver. And then again ... ‘Well!’ It wasn’t until some time later, when she had undressed and sprawled beneath the coverlet on the wide double bed, that the frustration and anger came pouring in.
Clearly she didn’t have to worry about Wyatt Burns. He was quite obviously taking care of his needs without any help from her. And with Gloria! Well, it was hardly unexpected. The other woman’s hostility towards Justine had to be based on something.
The hypocrite! She shuddered at the nerve of a man who would so arrogantly dictate her behaviour while putting a quite different standard on his own. And why? Did he get some big emotional thrill from toying with her emotions? Surely he couldn’t be that brutally callous.
And yet, she realised, he might very well be. It was only her own feelings about Wyatt that made her question it, because in her heart she didn’t want to believe him that callous.
It hadn’t been her concern for Peter that had prompted the phone call. It had been her own desire for Wyatt to think well of her, to care! Because she loved him, and she could no longer deny the fact at all — not even under the harsh, painful reality that it was a love which meant nothing at all to him.
But how could she possibly love someone who cared so little? It seemed ludicrous, but it was undeniable, and when sleep took her, finally, Justine still had no proper answer.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny and warm, the perfect day for a sail on Sydney Harbour, or a walk in the park or anything but work. It was also the complete opposite of how Justine felt inside. She had slept long, but poorly, and woke with a raging headache and a bitter emptiness inside her.
The only bright spot was that her car repairs weren’t terribly expensive, although it was after noon when the repairs were finally completed and she had been forced to wait nearly two hours at the service depot, sitting on an uncomfortable chair and feeling quite ridiculous in evening wear.
As she turned back on to the highway and headed south, every instinct cried out to her to turn round, go away, anywhere ... anywhere but back to Wyatt’s where she could find only heartache.
But she had to go, and by the time she arrived Justine had reconciled herself both to facing Wyatt Burns and to the questionable pleasure of yet another apprentices’ dinner. The Monday night sessions had seemed an excellent idea when she had started, but the novelty was beginning to pall. And on this, of all days, she felt she would need every bit of intestinal fortitude she could muster.
Wyatt was standing on the front porch when she turned in at the drive. Could it be otherwise? she thought. ‘This will just make my day,’ she muttered, debating whether to slip in through the back or brave the lion at the front entry.
As she garaged the car, Justine kept looking over her shoulder, half expecting Wyatt to storm into the garage and resume his harangue. But he didn’t, and although the rear entrance to the building was overwhelmingly tempting, she steeled herself and strode round to the front, shoulders back and head held high in a mixture of defiance and pride.
She had to force herself to meet his eyes, eyes that were like wet black stones, expressionless and cold and somehow menacing.
‘Good afternoon.’ The words were friendly enough, but he spat them out as if they tasted bad, and there was no smile, no hint of true welcome.
Justine replied calmly, wondered if she ought to say anything else, then decided against it. Wyatt certainly didn’t care; he was holding open the door for her, but his manner was that of someone who didn’t want to be soiled.
Well, the same to you, she thought, sweeping through th
e open doorway with every ounce of dignity she possessed. There was a horrible, childish temptation to turn and confront him, to jeer and chant, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. So there! And I don’t care anyway.’
The words swarmed into her mind so loudly that for an instant she feared she actually had shouted them, but when she turned at the foot of the stairway it was to face only the door, now closed between them.
But the words remained, turning over and over in a repetitious litany as she climbed the staircase. I don’t care anyway ... I don’t care ... I don’t care ... I don’t care ...
Which would have been just fine, except that she did care, and couldn’t change that for anything. Instead of going straight in to change, Justine leaned at the top of the staircase, her legs suddenly heavy as lead, heavy as her heart. She stayed for a moment, looking out, gathering fresh reserves of strength, and was about to continue when the taxi arrived and she saw Peter step out, obviously waving a greeting to Wyatt.
‘If I’d known you were coming this early I could have given you a lift myself,’ she said to no one in particular, then strode away to her flat and the pleasant chore of getting changed.
She unlocked the heavy door, stepped inside, and had only just closed the door behind her when it suddenly flung open to crash against the wall.
Into the room marched the figure of her employer, and if Wyatt’s eyes had been cold down on the front porch, they were the extreme opposite now. He slammed the door shut and strode over to take Justine by the shoulders, his fingers biting through the softness of her flesh.
‘You little bitch!’ he snarled, so fiercely that she would have flinched in fear of a blow, had she been able to move at all.
One hand released her, raised in the air like a club, but he somehow gained a measure of control, for it stopped, trembling in his anger, without actually striking her.
Justine could only stand there, shocked and horrified beyond speech. Even her mind wouldn’t work.
Wyatt’s eyes, blazed in fury and she could see the muscles of his throat and jaw throbbing. When he finally spoke again, however, his voice was deathly soft, fearsome in its softness. ‘And I suppose you haven’t got a thing to say,’ he asked in a question that wasn’t. ‘My God, but you’re a cold bitch!’
Cold? Oh yes! Goodness, but she was cold! It seemed as if she’d been deep frozen. Especially her tongue, which seemed to fill her mouth but couldn’t make an intelligible sound.
Wyatt looked at her, disgust alive in his eyes. ‘I suppose you did it purely to spite me,’ he hissed. ‘Or was it just for the thrill of taking somebody else’s man?’
‘What?’ It was the only word she could utter, and even it struggled lamely around her dry and lifeless tongue.
‘What? Damn it, woman, do you take me for a fool? Why in the hell didn’t you just drive Peter back here yourself, instead of this little charade with the taxi? I’m surprised he could afford it, after paying you for your night’s ... work.’
Justine gasped. The reality of his charges struck her like an axe, but no more quickly than her free hand lashed out to bruise itself against his granite jaw.
It hurt! Not like the pain inside her, but it hurt enough to free her tongue. ‘Get out!’ she snapped, and her trembling now was anger, not fear any more. ‘You … you bastard — get out!’
As well shriek at the moon. Wyatt stood immobile, his eyes blazing down at her like those of a raging beast, his broad chest heaving as he fought for control. Never in her life had Justine ever seen anyone so angry.
‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘at least you aren’t lying and trying to deny it. I suppose that’s something.’
‘Why should I bother? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.’
‘Too right I wouldn’t! What I can’t understand is why. Why? You knew Peter was taken; I told you myself. Surely to God you’re not that hard up ...’
‘That hard up? And just how hard up does one have to be to appreciate the attentions of a decent, proper gentleman — something you never have been and never damned well will be?’
Justine was in full temper herself now. She wouldn’t have denied the charge for anything. Let him think what he wanted.
‘I think you’ve got a nerve,’ she cried. ‘You’re nothing but a chauvinist, double-standard ... bastard! It’s fine for you to spend the night with whatever female is dumb enough to accommodate you, but you’re all fired up about what I do — which happens, I remind you, to be none of your business in the first place.’
He might have replied then, but she didn’t give him a chance. ‘What’s the real reason for the complaint?’ she demanded, all reason gone now. ‘Jealous because somebody else got what you didn’t — and damned well never will get?’
Wyatt’s face darkened in a flush of fresh anger, and for a second Justine thought he really would hit her. His fingers tightened on her shoulder until she thought the bone would snap.
‘I don’t have to content myself with another man’s leavings,’ he sneered, and the teeth that flashed were those of a wolf. Justine’s throat tightened instinctively at the sight of them, but her blood was fairly up and she no longer knew or cared what she was saying.
‘Hmmph! You probably couldn’t handle it anyway,’ she sneered in return, her own look as scornful as his was angry. Let him strike her. In fact she rather wanted him to; it would perhaps distil her inner feelings for him, make her less vulnerable.
But he didn’t hit her. And when he finally spoke it was in a whisper so threatening that the words bored into her brain. ‘By God, but you’re a maddening bitch,’ he grated, ‘but now you’ve gone too far!’
And before Justine could think to stop him, he had dragged her into his arms, his mouth descending upon hers with a savagery which she couldn’t hope to oppose.
He was so quick, so strong, and so merciless. His arms pinned her own to her sides, his strong hands pulled her against him so firmly she could barely breathe and he easily countered her attempts to fight back.
When she tried to kick, he thrust his leg between hers and crushed her against him until she gasped for breath; her arms stayed pinioned as he ravaged her mouth.
Justine’s mouth softened under his assault, opening like a flower as his breath mingled with hers, as the taste of him penetrated her palate, the heady scent of him seared into her flaring nostrils. Her lips were bruised, but that could not stop her from reacting to his kisses.
And he knew! Instinctively, it seemed, he knew exactly when he could safely release her arms, giving his own hands freedom to explore her body, stroking upon tender nerves and flaring her own desires to unquenchable heights.
Her breasts hardened with arousal as his fingers touched them through the fine fabric of her gown, her tummy trembled at his touch and when his fingers moved lower, searching for and finding the core of her desire, she thought she would burst into flame.
When his lips released her mouth and began a pagan search along her throat, her own lips embarked on a search of their own across the roughness of his cheek, tasting the lobe of his ear, nuzzling into the hair on his neck. Her hands followed, holding him close to her, no longer fighting him, betraying her completely by roaming across his shoulders and into the rough texture of his hair as she held him.
He straightened slightly, forcing her arms to lift higher, and as she lifted with him, Justine felt the slither of her gown as he casually whipped it upward. There was only that split second when they didn’t touch; she was in his arms again before the gown had landed where he’d thrown it. Only now she was naked but for her tights, and his relentless searching hands were like torches on her skin, striking fires of need and desire wherever they touched. Freed of restraint, his lips moved across her shoulders, down to where her turgid nipples strained for his kisses.
When he lifted his head to bring his mouth once again to hers, Justine’s hands moved lower to pluck at the buttons of his shirt, baring his chest so that her fingers could nestle in the
short crisp hair. She was moaning unintelligibly, aware now only of her desire, her reaction to Wyatt’s caresses, her desperate, searing need of him.
He pulled her close, his hands like iron bands around her, and she could feel the heat, the hardness of his masculinity against her like a magnet of desire.
And then she was in his arms as he lifted her, carrying her to the enormous bed with his mouth trapping her own, his fingers caressing her even as he moved the few steps necessary.
The tights slipped away, it seemed, in the instant he laid her down and his lips, his hands, were everywhere, lifting her to peaks of desire she had never believed possible.
And her own hand were as busy, stripping the shirt from him, roaming down across his chest and stomach, thrilling in the touch of muscles, down ... down across the fabric of his trousers.
All thought of resistance was long vanished; Justine wanted only fulfilment, wanted only the satiation of her desires. She wanted him!
Her mind was numbed, her lips swollen with his kisses. Only her senses were alive, and as his caress became increasingly intimate, Justine rose higher and higher on a sweeping plane of desire.
It was heaven and hell rolled into one. She wanted his caresses never to cease, but she wanted even more the totality of their union, the joining of their bodies despite the barrier between their hearts and minds.
And as her desires escalated, she wanted only him, without question, without conditions, without commitment. He would take her and she would not only comply, but she would — she was already doing it — help him, encourage him, love him.
But Wyatt would not love her. He would only take her, gaining his revenge upon her in the most satisfactory and most devastating of manners. Justine didn’t care any more. Whether it was revenge or anger or simple animal need, she wanted him, needed him.
And he wanted her, no longer any question of that. His caresses had ceased to be harsh, brutal. Now they were skilled and delicate and tender ... almost loving.
Dinner at Wyatt's Page 14
