Mistress by Contract
Helen Bianchin

HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and traveled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons, then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper, and her first novel was published in 1975. And animal lover, she says her terrier and new Persian kitten consider her study to be as much theirs as hers.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE sun shone warmly, Rafael noted as he spared a glance out of the kitchen window while water poured into the glass carafe. With deft movements he turned off the tap and slid the carafe onto the coffee-maker, spooned freshly ground coffee beans into the filter, then switched it on.

The eggs were done, the toast ready, and on impulse he placed it all on a tray and carried it out onto the terrace.

He returned to the kitchen, all but drained the orange juice in a few long swallows, then he poured the coffee, collected the morning newspaper, and ventured into the early Spring sunshine.

Allowing himself time for a leisurely breakfast had long become a habit, and this morning was no different.

Best part of the day, he reflected with satisfaction as he skimmed the headlines, read what interested him, whilst enjoying the food he’d prepared.

He perused the business section, then reached the social pages, scanned the photo spread and was in the process of turning the page when his own image leapt out in a lower right corner frame.

Hmn, Sasha looked stunning. The profile was perfect, the smile just right, her stance practised to present the most attractive image.

His gaze slid to the caption, and his eyes narrowed a little.

Celebrating the recent takeover by Aguilera, Rafael Velez-Aguilera, multi-millionaire entrepreneur, and Sasha Despojoa enjoy an evening at Déjeuner restaurant.

A brooding smile barely moved his mobile mouth.

Yes, he could lay claim to wealth and business nous, he reflected with grim satisfaction. He lived in a beautiful home in one of Sydney’s prestigious harbour suburbs. He possessed an enviable investment portfolio, and owned real estate in several capital cities.

It would appear he had it all.

What the columnist didn’t touch on was his background.

The backstreet poverty in which he’d been raised, the less than salubrious place of education where the tough survived and the meek were discarded.

For as long as he could remember he’d wanted more than just an existence on the wrong side of town. More than a life having to keep an eye on the lookout for whoever walked the law enforcement beat, the necessity to always be one step ahead, glib words at the ready to slip from a practised tongue. There wasn’t a thing he hadn’t witnessed, few deals he hadn’t done.

From a young age he’d wanted out. Out of the grey world where survival was the only ambition. Being street-smart was only part of the goal. Education was the other, and he’d fought for it the only way he knew how, gaining scholarships and graduating with honours. Not for the glory or honour, not to please his parents. For himself.

He’d succeeded handsomely. At thirty-six, he was precisely where he wanted to be. He could have any woman he wanted, and frequently did, selectively.

His latest companion, however, was hinting at permanence and, while he enjoyed her in bed, out of it he had no desire to commit to a lasting relationship.

Was there any one woman for a man? The only one.

Somehow he doubted it.

The shrill peal of the mobile phone intruded, and he picked up and intoned a brusque greeting. ‘Velez-Aguilera.’

‘Buenos dias, querido.’

The feminine voice was a sultry purr, and intentionally feline. It was meant to quicken his heartbeat and stir his loins in a reminder of what he’d chosen not to accept the previous night. ‘Sasha,’ he acknowledged.

‘Am I disturbing you, darling?’

A double entendre, if ever there was one. ‘No,’ he responded truthfully.

‘I thought we might have dinner tonight.’

He appreciated a woman’s eagerness, but he preferred to do the hunting. ‘I’ll have to take a rain-check.’

‘Some other time, then?’

She’d recovered quickly, but the need for reassurance was there, and he chose to ignore it. ‘Perhaps.’ And ended the call.

He cast a brooding gaze out over the immaculate grounds, skimmed the shimmering blue waters of the swimming pool, and lingered on the tennis court, the flower beds and shrubbery before returning his attention to the newspaper.

He poured a fresh cup of coffee, checked his watch, and spread marmalade conserve on the last piece of toast. Five minutes later he re-entered the kitchen, rinsed and stacked plates into the dishwasher, then went upstairs to dress.

He owned any number of business suits, and today he chose Armani, added a buttoned waistcoat, a silk tie, slid his feet into handmade Italian shoes, shrugged on the jacket, checked his wallet, his briefcase, caught up his laptop, then retraced his steps to the ground floor.

The security system set, he gained the garage, slid in behind the wheel of a sleek top-of-the-range Mercedes, and sent the vehicle purring down the driveway.

He owned office space on a high floor in one of the city’s glass-panelled buildings, an architectural masterpiece commanding splendid views out over the city harbour.

Traffic was heavy, and he opened his laptop at a set of lights, checked his day’s scheduled appointments, and made a quick note to have his secretary make two phone calls.

Fifteen minutes later he eased the car down two floors of the basement car park and slid into his reserved space.

With deft movements, he shut off the ignition, caught up the laptop, his briefcase, opened the door and slid to his feet.

‘Rafael Velez-Aguilera.’

He stilled at the sound of the feminine voice, and turned slowly to face its owner, his body alert beneath its relaxed demeanour, ready to strike at the first sign of aggression.

Blonde, petite, slender, green eyes, attractive features. She didn’t seem a likely opponent, but then looks didn’t mean a thing. He was aware what a practised martial arts expert could do, and knew that size or gender wasn’t a consideration.

Was she concealing a weapon? His gaze narrowed, noting the way her hands held her leather bag. If she had a knife or a gun in there, he could disarm her before she moved an inch.

Dammit, these floors, the entire building was patrolled by security. How did she get in?

‘Yes.’

‘I need to talk to you.’

He slanted an eyebrow and watched her carefully, assessing her next move.

‘I’m a busy man.’ With slow deliberation he pulled back the cuff of his jacket and checked his watch.

‘Five minutes.’ She’d practised the words, timed them, and could manage it in less, if she had to.

‘Make an appointment with my secretary.’ The dismissal was clear.

‘I tried that.’ She shook her head. Nothing depicted in the media could accurately portray the essence of the man, or convey his compelling aura of power.

‘It didn’t work.’ She managed a tight smile. ‘Your security is impenetrable.’

‘You managed to access this car park.’ He’d have someone on it immediately.

‘Guile.’ A desperate plea based on truth to the security guard. She could only hope it wouldn’t mean his job.

Rafael had to hand it to her. She had guts. ‘Which you now hope to use on me?’

‘And waste more time?’

He was intrigued. ‘Two minutes,’ he stipulated. ‘Your name?’

‘Mikayla.’ The next part, she knew, would have a damning effect. ‘Joshua Petersen’s daughter.’

His expression tightened, his mouth thinned, and his voice when he uttered the single negative was lethal. ‘No.’

It was just as she’d expected, but she persisted. She had to. ‘You offered me two minutes.’

‘I could multiply it by ten, and the answer would still be no.’

‘My father is dying,’ she stated simply.

‘You want my sympathy?’

‘Leniency.’

His features hardened, and his gaze pierced hers, inflexible, dangerous. ‘You would dare ask leniency for a man who embezzled several hundred thousand dollars from me?’

She tamped down the sheer desperation. ‘My father is hospitalised with an inoperable brain tumour.’ She waited a beat. ‘If you press charges against him, he’ll spend his last weeks on earth incarcerated in prison.’

‘No.’ He activated the car alarm, pocketed the keys, and began walking towards the lift bank.

‘I’ll do anything.’ It was a desperate last-ditch attempt. Two hand-delivered letters had been ignored, and phone calls hadn’t been returned.

He paused, turned, and raked her slender frame with insulting appraisal. ‘It would take more…’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Much more than you’re capable of giving.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes,’ he drawled with certainty. ‘I do.’

If he got into the key-operated lift, she’d lose him. ‘Please.’

He heard the word, sensed the slight tremor in her voice, and kept walking. He summoned the lift, then turned.

‘You have one minute to get out of this car park, or you’ll be arrested for trespass.’

He expected anger, rage, even an attempt at attack. Or a well-acted bout of weeping.

Instead he saw pride in the tilt of that small feminine chin. Her mouth moved fractionally as she sought control, and momentarily lost as the faint shimmer of moisture dampened those sea-green eyes. A single tear escaped and ran slowly down one cheek.

An electronic beep announced the lift’s arrival, and he used his key to open the doors, then he stepped into the cubicle and inserted the key into its slot.

His expression didn’t change. ‘Thirty seconds.’ He turned the key, the doors slid closed, and he was transported swiftly to his suite of offices on a high floor.

He nodded briefly to the brunette manning the curved ultra-modern reception desk, offered a greeting to his secretary, and walked through to his office.

Electronic wizardry had earned him a fortune. Computer technology advanced at lightning speed, and the internet was his forte.

He flipped the intercom, confirmed the day’s schedule with his secretary, and went to work.

Two hours later he saved the file he’d been working on, and summoned up the Petersen file.

Not that his memory needed refreshing. He’d travelled too many roads to be disturbed or haunted by anything. But a certain blonde female’s features intruded, the image of that one solitary tear trickling down her cheek was there, a silent vulnerable entity, and he wanted it gone.

Joshua Petersen, widower, one child, Mikayla, single, twenty-five, teacher. It listed an address, telephone number, the school where she taught. Hobbies.

One eyebrow lifted. Tae-bo?

He scrolled down, printed out the information, folded the sheet and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Then he made a phone call. ‘Get me everything you can on Joshua Petersen, medically, personally.’

The man had listed gambling debts as the reason for systematic financial fiddling. At the time Rafael hadn’t delved deeper.

He had the answers an hour later. Medically, the facts Joshua Petersen’s daughter had given checked out.

Rafael hit the print button, then re-read the message on hard copy.

There was proven fact the man had used the money to fund private hospital care for his wife stricken by a car accident and on life-support in a coma for months before she died.

His eyes skimmed to the date…six months ago.

The man had almost gotten away with it. Except an audit had picked up irregular deposits…his attempt at reparation. And his foray into gambling tabled a series of isolated incidents over a period of a month. A last-ditch attempt to recoup and repay?

Rafael leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and lowered his eyelids in thoughtful contemplation.

There was a fantastic panoramic view out over Sydney’s inner harbour, a picture-book scene that temporarily escaped him.

What next?

Madre de Dios. What was he thinking? The father was a thief. Why should the daughter interest him?

Intrigue, he corrected later that afternoon. Human relationships, family loyalty. How far did hers extend?

He recalled the proud tilt of her chin, weighed it against the outward sign of emotion in that single escaping tear, and decided to find out.

Depressing the inter-office communication system, he contacted his secretary.

‘If Mikayla Petersen calls, put her through.’

It took twenty-four hours, and he felt satisfaction at knowing he’d calculated correctly.

He kept it brief. ‘Seven thirty.’ He named a restaurant. ‘Meet me there.’

Mikayla had schooled herself for another rejection, and for a brief moment she was torn between hope and despair.

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

She grimaced at the faint arrogance apparent. ‘I work nights.’

‘Call in sick.’ His voice was silk-smooth and dangerous.

Dear heaven. She couldn’t afford to lose her job. ‘I finish at eleven,’ Mikayla said steadily.

‘Teaching duties?’

‘Waiting tables.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Where?’

‘Not your stamping ground,’ she negated at once.

‘Where?’ He’d been in worse dives than she could imagine.

She told him.

‘I’ll be there.’

He was, slipping inside thirty minutes before closing time, and he sat at a table, ordered coffee, and observed the clientele, the way she handled them.

It made her nervous, as he’d intended it should. He watched the way she endeavoured to ignore him, and experienced wry amusement, only to have it change to mild irritation when a diner who’d imbibed too well ran his hand over her slenderly curved rear.

He didn’t need to hear what she said, the message was plain. Her eyes held a dangerous sparkle, and there was a tinge of pink colouring her cheeks.

Did she resent the need that made her take a second job, as much as she resented her father for an act that inadvertently put her in this position?

Perhaps not. She had shown courage and pride. Qualities he identified with and admired. Wasn’t that why he was here tonight?

At eleven Mikayla took a pile of dishes through to the kitchen, muttered a brief apology that she couldn’t stay over time, then she untied and hung up her apron, quickly repaired her make-up and smoothed a hand over her hair before re-entering the restaurant.

Rafael Velez-Aguilera, Mikayla decided fleetingly, was not a man she could afford to keep waiting. He was standing at the door, and she moved out onto the pavement, and paused as he followed.

He extended an arm towards the opposite side of the road, and it took a few minutes to find a break in traffic.

The car was large and luxurious, the leather a rich texture beneath her fingers as she slid into the front seat.

He switched on the ignition, the engine purred into life, and he swung the vehicle out into the stream of cars heading into the city.

She didn’t say a word. Coffee, he’d indicated. Where was hardly here nor there. Most certainly it wouldn’t be in this area of town.

The silence bore heavily on her nerves. She had, for whatever reason, been given a chance. She dared not blow it.

It didn’t take long to escape the less than salubrious inner city stretch where the night-life didn’t cease until dawn, and enter the fringes of elite Double Bay where the beautiful people sipped espressos and lattes at pavement cafés and discussed past, present and future social events. Or criticised so-called friends and acquaintances.

There was, of course, a parking space just where he needed one, and she felt tension mount as he skilfully moved into it, then cut the engine.

How long would it take? She had assignments to mark for tomorrow’s class. From school she’d gone straight to the hospital, then home in time to grab a bite to eat, change and present herself for work.

Dear heaven, her feet were killing her. The stiletto heels were part of the uniform; so were the sheer black hose, the short skirt, the skimpy top. She hated it almost as much as she hated the job.

She stood on the pavement, holding down the pain of aching calves, and forced herself to walk smoothly as he led her towards a trendy café.

He chose a pavement table, and they were no sooner seated than a waiter appeared to take their order.

She requested a latte, decaffeinated or she’d never sleep, and felt her stomach swirl as he added a request for gourmet sandwiches.

‘Eat,’ Rafael commanded minutes later when the food arrived. He knew the scenario well. Food on the run, if she was lucky. Probably none.

He leaned back in his chair, watching her measured movements, the even white teeth as she took delicate bites, trying hard not to hurry and feed her hunger.

Rafael waited until she’d eaten two sandwiches, and sipped a third of her coffee, then he cut to the chase.

‘I suggest you state your case,’ he instructed silkily, and saw her hand pause momentarily, then she reset her cup onto the table.

Her hands retreated to her lap, where she clenched them together, hating Rafael Velez-Aguilera almost as much as she hated herself for the words she was about to say.

Her chin lifted, and her eyes deepened to emerald. ‘I’m working two jobs, one of them seven nights a week. I also work weekends. Subtract rent, food, utilities, and it would take a lifetime to repay what my father owes you.’ Oh, dear God, how did she suggest…? How could she? Dammit, she had no choice.

‘I have only myself to offer.’ This was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do, and she hurriedly sought to clarify. ‘As your mistress. Sexually, socially, for a year.’

He had a desire to shake her, and didn’t stop to query why. ‘That’s the deal?’

His voice was dangerously quiet, and she barely suppressed a shiver of apprehension. Would he take it? Dear Lord, what if he didn’t?

‘I’m prepared to negotiate.’

He surveyed her features with damning scrutiny, until she was close to screaming. ‘On what terms?’

‘I’ll sign a pre-nuptial agreement stating I have no claim to any of your assets during our liaison, upon its conclusion or during my lifetime. In return, you waive any charges against my father.’

He took a moment to respond, and his voice assumed drawling cynicism. ‘Such loyalty is admirable. But would you be prepared for the reality?’

She was dying inside, slowly. She forced herself to look at him, really look at him.

He was a large-framed man, tall, at least three or four inches over six feet. Dark, almost black hair. Superb facial bone structure, wide cheekbones, firm jaw, strong forehead. Piercing dark eyes, and a sensually moulded mouth.

There was something in his expression that bothered her. A hard ruthlessness that had little to do with astute business acumen. It went deeper than that. Beyond the expensive clothes, the visual trappings of success. He was, she deduced intuitively, a man who had seen much and weathered more.

It made him complex, dangerous. A quality that wasn’t depicted in his biography, or apparent in any media photographs. Nor was it implicated by word, or visible in pictures among the social pages.

‘I could be the lover from hell,’ Rafael pursued silkily, and watched her expression freeze for an instant, then quickly recover.

‘Or lousy in bed.’

His smile held wry amusement at her audacity.

Skilled, undoubtedly, she reflected with a degree of apprehension. He had the look, the self-assured knowledge of a man comfortable with himself and his expertise in being able to pleasure a woman.

How would she be able to go through with it? Sanity restored a sense of rationale. The chances of him agreeing to such a way-out proposal was almost nil.

Desperation shredded her nerves, and almost tore the breath from her throat.

There was nothing else. She’d sold her apartment, kept only the most basic furniture, downgraded her car, and emptied her bank account in a bid to help her father. It hadn’t come close to covering a fraction of the debt he owed.

‘You place a high price on your services.’ He didn’t relinquish his appraisal, and wondered if she knew how easy it was for him to read her.

To take payment in human kind wasn’t new, Rafael mused. It went back centuries, and held many guises.

In today’s society, it would be deemed coercion. Except it had been her suggestion, not his. Which placed a different complexion on the deal, and gave rise to the legalities of the situation.

It had intriguing connotations. No misconceptions, no false misunderstandings. It could even prove interesting.

Male satisfaction and gratification. Not the most enviable of reasons. Yet there was a part of him that wanted to have her beneath him, to drive her to the edge of sanity and hear her beg for release. Again and again.

Sexual chemistry, he attributed wryly, and wondered if he dare pursue it.

He watched as she ate the last sandwich and finished her coffee. The pallor had disappeared from her cheeks, also the sharp brightness from her eyes.

‘More coffee?’

Mikayla pressed the paper napkin to her lips, then discarded it. She felt tired, and more than anything she wanted to go home.

‘No. Thanks,’ she added politely. Please, she silently begged. Give me an answer.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, and began thudding to a louder faster beat. Was he contemplating her offer, or merely playing a cruel game?

Did he realise how much she’d gone through in the past month, aware of her father’s folly, and waiting for the axe to fall? How she’d existed on her nerves, sleeping little, haunted by what the outcome might be?

‘I’ll drive you home.’

She heard the words, and each one sank like a stone in a pool of negativity. ‘I can get a cab to my car,’ she said stiffly, painfully aware she had just enough money for the fare in her purse.

‘I’ll take you there.’ A firm silky directive that boded ill should she dare to thwart him.

Did she utter thanks? It seemed superfluous, and she simply inclined her head as he summoned the waiter, paid the tab, then rose to his feet.

In the car she sat in silence, unable to utter a word as the vehicle slid smoothly through the streets where thinning traffic made the passage more swift.

‘Where is your car?’ Rafael queried as he reached the café where she worked nights.

‘The next street to your left, halfway down, on the right.’

Precise directions that brought him close to the aged, barely roadworthy Mini that was her sole method of transport.

Mikayla reached for the door-clasp and turned towards him. ‘I take it my offer doesn’t interest you?’

He needed to take legal advice before giving a decision. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt for her to wait. ‘I’ll be in touch within the next few days.’

It was better than a definitive no. ‘Thank you.’

She escaped, aware that he waited until she unlocked her car, fired the engine, and then he followed her onto the main road where she turned in one direction while he took the other.

CHAPTER TWO

RAFAEL picked up the draft document delivered by courier only hours before. The pre-nup. Skilfully worded, legally scripted, it contained sufficient clauses to cover every eventuality, and then some.

He idly flicked through the pages. Fifteen months. What manner of whim had seen him extend the time-frame? Hell, he might want out in far less time. He’d even had a clause drawn up to take care of it.

There was a separate document, a waiver dropping all charges against Joshua Petersen.

Yet another document that amounted to a personal agreement between Rafael Velez-Aguilera and Mikayla Petersen.

The question was…did he implement them?

He weighed the pros and cons, and went with his gut instinct. As he had with every other decision in his life.

There was an advantage to having a mistress. The boundaries were clear-cut. Little more than a legally defined business deal.

He picked up a pen and rolled it absently between two fingers. Then he tossed it down onto the blotter and reached for a file, noted the location, checked his watch, instructed his secretary he’d be out for a while, if needed urgently he could be contacted on his mobile, then he grabbed his jacket, shrugged into it and collected his keys.

Mikayla heard the bell signalling the end of class, the end of the school day, and hid a sigh of relief. Teaching English literature to sixteen-year-old students from varied multicultural backgrounds was an art form in itself. Gaining and retaining their interest was something else again. Usually, she could make it fun.

Today she felt tired, through lack of sufficient sleep, anxiety about her father’s slide in health, and acute trepidation as to whether Rafael Velez-Aguilera would make contact.

Three days had gone by since she’d shared late-night coffee with him. There had been no phone call, and the strain was beginning to tell.

‘Don’t forget, assignments are due in tomorrow,’ she reminded as there was a swift exodus towards the door.

She tidied a stack of papers, slid them into her satchel, and slung the strap over one shoulder. Then she scooped up a small pile of textbooks, balanced them against one hip, and followed the last student out into the corridor.

Thank heaven she wasn’t rostered for detention duty. It left her free to go home, set an exercise for each of tomorrow’s classes, shower, eat, then call into the hospital before going on to the restaurant.

‘Hi, Miss Petersen.’

She lifted her head and smiled at the student who’d paused to greet her. ‘Hi, Sammy.’

‘Carry your books?’

‘If you like.’ She handed some of them over, and dug a hand into her jacket pocket. It kind of evened up the load.

‘Do ya reckon Shakespeare worked for hire?’

She spared him a wry glance. ‘Perspiration, rather than inspiration?’

‘Yeah.’

They reached the long stretch of paved walk leading through the grounds. Tall trees spread their leafy branches, and the afternoon sun filtered through in a dappling effect.

‘Some of his plays were commissioned.’ And written in a burst of creative energy, born of desperation.

‘That’s what I figured.’

She parked her car in the reserved bay near the entrance gates, and she headed towards it.

‘You in trouble, miss?’

The query startled her. ‘No. Why?’

‘There’s a suit by your car.’

She glanced up, and felt the blood drain to her feet. Rafael Velez-Aguilera.

‘Want me to front him?’

The thought of Sammy standing up to Rafael Velez-Aguilera was laughable. Except she didn’t even smile.

‘It’s okay.’

Sammy looked at her, then at the man who stood indolently at ease, waiting as if he had all the time in the world.

‘Sure?’ he queried doubtfully. He recognised the look, respected it, and didn’t know if his teacher had a clue as to the man’s calibre. ‘I can go get help.’

‘I know him.’ She didn’t, really. Apart from his personal profile. Statistics, nothing that revealed the real man behind detailed facts. ‘Thank you for carrying my books.’ She held out her hand for them, and stifled a resigned sigh as Sammy walked right up to her Mini, waited as she unlocked the door, then transferred the books and her satchel onto the passenger seat.

‘Thanks, Sammy.’ It was a dismissal, and he gave her a long keen look before turning on his heel.

‘You have a stalwart defender,’ Rafael drawled as she pushed the door closed and stood looking at him.

Attempting to assess why he was here was a useless exercise. But his personal appearance had to mean something, surely?

‘Yes.’ The ball was in his court. She just had to wait for him to play it.

One eyebrow lifted. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

Her stomach clenched into a painful knot. ‘There’s a park not far from here.’

‘Your flat would be better.’

Of course he knew where she lived. He’d have made it his business to find out. ‘My landlady is against tenants entertaining in their rooms.’

He could imagine. ‘Get in the car, Mikayla. I’ll follow you.’

Five minutes later he drew up inside the kerb outside a double-storied brick complex that looked a little worse for wear. The fence needed repair, paint peeled off the stand of communal letterboxes, and the grass grew weeds.

‘Second floor.’ She opened the front door with a master key, then made for the stairs, all too aware he followed close behind.

Cooking smells permeated the papered walls, and he doubted the paintwork had seen a brush in twenty years.

Her room was just that, a room with an alcove that held a portable cook-top; beneath the counter was a bar-fridge, and there was a sink and a power-point. A door led off to what he surmised was a minuscule bathroom.

Sofa-bed, small desk with a laptop, a chair. Basic. He’d lived in much worse.

‘Would you like to sit down?’

‘I’ll stand.’

Did he realise how he dwarfed the room? He was too tall, too broad, too much.

He could sense her tension, almost feel it, and had to admire her control.

‘I need to set up an appointment for you with my lawyer.’

Her fingers curled into her palm. ‘Is that a yes, Mr Velez-Aguilera?’

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘I have set out my terms.’ His gaze was direct, inflexible. ‘It is essential you fully comprehend them.’

A conditional yes, based on his requirements. Whatever made her think it might be different?

‘The only free time I have available is between three-thirty and five.’

He withdrew his mobile, punched in a series of digits and initiated a brief conversation, then ended the call.

‘Four, tomorrow afternoon.’ He withdrew a card and penned a few lines on the back of it. ‘The name and address.’

Mikayla inclined her head. ‘Thank you. Is there anything else?’

‘Not for the moment.’

‘Then you must excuse me.’ She walked to the door, opened it, and stood waiting for him to leave, aware of the faint amusement apparent, the slight quirk at the edge of his mouth as he inclined his head and walked past her to the stairwell.

She shut the door and leaned against it for several long seconds until the hammering of her heart settled into a steady beat.

Then she crossed to her satchel, retrieved papers and selected a textbook. Tomorrow’s lessons beckoned, and with practised skill she outlined pertinent points she wanted to emphasise, then when it was done she made toast, heated a small can of baked beans, and ate the makeshift meal before heading for the shower.

Her father showed no change, and she sat with him for three-quarters of an hour before heading towards Darlinghurst.

The restaurant was busier than usual, and she stayed late in order to appease the Italian owner who seemed more than his usual temperamental self. Plates smashed, curses flew, voices rose. Even the patrons seemed more voluble and demanding than before.

It was a relief to slip out the door and walk to her car.

She was only metres away from the Mini when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned swiftly, and saw two youths crowding her, one reaching for her bag, the other held something in his hand.

The defensive stance was automatic, the kick well-placed as it connected with a satisfying crunch. Except two against one wasn’t fair odds, and she felt a stinging slash to her arm. The headlights of an on-coming car saved her from a more vicious attack, and the youths ran off, disappearing over a wall.

They’d dropped her bag in their hurry, and she picked it up, checked the catch, then moved quickly to the Mini. Once inside she locked the doors and put the car in motion.

She didn’t even stop to check her arm, she just drove until she reached the flat, and it was only in the clear light she realised the amount of blood and the deepness of the gash meant it required suturing.

Who did she call at this late hour? No one, she decided grimly as she wrapped a small towel round her arm, collected her purse, and retraced her steps to the car.

There was a public hospital not too far distant. Accident and emergency would tend to it.

They did, eventually, after a two-hour wait. There were emergencies far more urgent than hers, and there was the police statement.

It was after three when she returned to her flat, and she took the sedative the doctor advised, then pulled out the sofa-bed and crawled in beneath the covers.

Painkillers helped her get through the school day. She wore a jacket and no one suspected she had sixteen sutures in her forearm, or that it ached like hell.

Rafael Velez-Aguilera’s lawyers were housed on a high floor in one of the inner city’s glass-walled office towers, and she parked her car on the outskirts, then rode a bus into the city.

She made the four o’clock appointment with a minute to spare, and no sooner had she checked with reception and taken a seat than an elegantly clad woman emerged into the foyer and escorted her into a luxuriously appointed office where an immaculately attired man in his late thirties rose to greet her.

‘Miss Petersen. Take a seat.’ He motioned to one of four comfortable armchairs, then resumed his position behind the desk. ‘Rafael has been delayed.’ He pulled forward three documents, and opened the first. ‘However, we can begin without him.’ He handed her three copies. ‘If you examine the pre-nuptial agreement, I’ll go through it with you.’

He was thorough, Mikayla noted, following the document clause by clause as he clarified legalese. Every eventuality was covered.

She noted with consternation that she was to reside in Rafael Velez-Aguilera’s home. Surely a mistress was a part-time lover who was maintained in an apartment of her own, and made herself available on request?

Rafael Velez-Aguilera had also changed the time-span from twelve months to fifteen, thereby lengthening her sentence.

Whatever had made her think she could stipulate terms and conditions?

He also had the right to end the relationship at any time prior to the fifteen month term. She had no such right.

Should he choose to terminate the relationship prior to the agreed upon date, the months remaining would be reduced to a percentage and calculated against the total amount owed. An amount she would be deemed liable to repay over a specified time.

Effectively, she had nowhere to move, nothing to negotiate. He held her, legally and contractually, in the palm of his hand.

Rafael Velez-Aguilera walked into the office as Mikayla cast the pre-nuptial agreement to one side and examined the second document.

She directed him the briefest of glances, her gaze cool, dispassionate.

The personal agreement was personal, for it covered health issues, blood tests. There was a part of her that was offended, almost insulted. Twin flags of colour heightened her cheekbones, and she was only measurably appeased to discover Rafael Velez-Aguilera had already subjected himself to similar tests.

‘A necessary precaution,’ the lawyer said smoothly as she stiffened at the starkly listed requirements.

The waiver followed, and she read it through carefully, ensuring the lawyer’s spoken words tied in accurately with the written clauses.

‘You are, of course, free to disregard these documents.’

Free to walk from this office, and have nothing to do with Rafael Velez-Aguilera. But if she took that course, she’d inherit a half-million dollar debt, which would involve her being adjudged bankrupt. Her chances of retaining her teaching position would be slim.

Whereas fifteen months wasn’t a lifetime. At the end of it, she’d be free, and able to regain her own life.

The lawyer took her silence for granted.

‘Do you have any questions?’

She had to strive to be businesslike. ‘No.’ Inside she was breaking apart.

‘A doctor’s appointment has been arranged following this. I have also organised a concurrent consultation with an independent legal colleague to advise you on the documentation. The test results should be through within a forty-eight hour period, a copy of which will be available to you.’

It was professional efficiency at its best. So why did she feel as if she’d just stepped onto a roller coaster?

This was what she wanted, what she’d strived for. All charges against her father dropped. She wouldn’t need to wait tables every night, and she’d get to move out of her rented room.

‘Thank you.’ She rose to her feet and took the cards the lawyer pressed into her hand.

‘The doctor’s suite is on the third floor,’ he informed. ‘My legal colleague has a suite on the tenth floor.’

Convenient, effectively eliminating travelling time, and ensuring she could arrive at work on schedule.

Mikayla inclined her head in Rafael’s direction, then walked to the door as the lawyer held it open for her, and his secretary escorted her to the bank of lifts.

The lawyer closed the door and turned towards the man who was seated comfortably to his left. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘You’ve effectively ensured everything is water-tight,’ Rafael drawled, waving a hand in dismissal as his long-time friend crossed to a concealed bar and withdrew a decanter of whisky and two tumblers.

Ice, a splash of whisky followed by soda, then the lawyer turned back to face the man who’d joined him so long ago in a climb to success.

‘This time you’re dealing with a human being, not stocks, bonds, bricks and mortar.’

‘The deal intrigues me,’ Rafael inclined indolently. ‘As does the woman.’

‘You’re writing off a large sum of money.’

‘One can only hope the reward for doing so will be adequate.’

The lawyer tossed back a long swallow from the tumbler. ‘I wish you well.’

‘Gracias, amigo.’

Mikayla walked into the restaurant at six, donned an apron, the stiletto-heeled pumps, and went to work.

There was no time to reflect on the afternoon’s events, although lack of adequate sleep had her mixing up two orders and incurred the owner’s wrath. Her arm throbbed after hours of carrying plates, trays and dishes, and she vowed if she incurred one more familiar pat on her rear, she’d walk.

Tonight she’d managed, by dint of circling the block numerous times, to find a parking space on the main street, and at eleven she collected her bag, her pay packet, and walked out onto the pavement.

‘Mikayla.’

The voice startled her. The man to whom it belonged, even more.

Rafael Velez-Aguilera presented a formidable figure, his features shaded into angles and planes by the flashing multi-coloured neon sign.

‘What are you doing here?’

He slanted her a hard look. ‘Terminating your employment.’

Her mouth opened, then closed again. ‘You can’t—’

‘Watch me.’

He was gone only a matter of minutes, and when he returned his expression turned her to stone.

‘Get in your car. I’ll follow you home.’

Her chin lifted, and her eyes blazed brilliant green fire. ‘In two or three days you can tell me what to do. For now, you don’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell of ordering me around.’

‘Brave words, pequeña.’ His voice was deadly quiet. ‘Were you as brave last night when you were attacked?’

The doctor, she surmised, who’d questioned her bandaged forearm. ‘News travels fast.’

‘You checked into the hospital at midnight, and out of it at three.’

My, he was thorough. ‘Your sources of information are admirable.’

‘Next, you’ll tell me you can take care of yourself.’

‘I’ve been doing it for a while.’ She hadn’t meant to sound so cynical.

‘Get in the car, Mikayla.’

She did, and drove home, parked the car, then stood her ground on the pavement as his car slid into the kerb and he crossed to her side.

‘I’m too tired to conduct a post-mortem.’ If she didn’t get inside and sit down soon, she’d fall down.

‘Take a sedative. And call in sick tomorrow.’

‘Yes, and no.’ She began turning away from him, and offered a brief goodnight over one shoulder.

He let her go, aware there was little he could do to stop her.

He waited long enough to see the light in her room go on, then he slid in behind the wheel and fired the engine.

The weekend lay ahead. Monday, the test results would be available, and he’d ensure the documentation was signed.

Even as he cleared the street and gained the main road he had to wonder why he should be concerned about a slim slip of a thing with blonde hair and green eyes.

She meant nothing to him. He had every reason to dislike and distrust her. Dammit, his legal eagle thought he was certifiably insane to consider the deal he’d drawn up for him.

So why was he not only going ahead with it, but giving way to protective instincts he would have sworn he didn’t possess?

He drove home, garaged the car, then prowled the lower floor, made coffee, drank half of it and discarded the rest before entering his study, booting up the laptop, and working solidly until weariness forced him to bed.

Mikayla spent a restless night, waking several times as her arm continued to throb. At three she got up and took two more painkillers, then settled into a heavy sleep from which she didn’t stir until the alarm pealed at eight.

Breakfast comprised orange juice, cereal and coffee, then she wrapped her arm in plastic and did her best to keep it dry as she showered.

Dressed in jeans and a loose cotton top, she tied a purple scarf over her hair, wound a purple scarf round the bandage, added several silver bangles, then she drove to Maisie’s New Age shop at the Rocks, where her friend sold scented candles, earrings, CDs and crystals.

‘Darling, great fashion accessory,’ Maisie complimented. ‘Totally rad.’

Mikayla merely smiled and wondered if she’d started a new trend.

Her arm still ached, but not as badly, and by Sunday it felt measurably less painful. Another day at the Rocks in the New Age shop kept her busy.

Tonight there was no need to rush home and change in order to work at the café, and she joined Maisie in a salad and carrot juice at the health food counter.

There was a strong inclination to confide, but what did she say? Hey, Mais, I’m moving on and up. Out of the maisonette and into a mansion. Thing was, six months ago she’d moved from a comfortable apartment into a rented room. Not exactly riches to rags, but close. For the next fifteen months, she was reversing the process.

Better she kept silent. The deal wasn’t a deal until it was done, and she had yet to attach her signature to pertinent legal documents.

Her stomach executed a nervous somersault. How soon would Rafael Velez-Aguilera want to cement the relationship?

Tell it how it is, a small voice taunted. How soon will he want you to perform sexually? How often? Every night, Mikayla.

The thought of that large male body possessing her own stopped the breath in her throat. For the sort of money involved, he would want service. Hell, he’d want her to perform every trick in the book.

She pushed the partly eaten salad to one side, and discarded the carrot juice.

‘Not hungry?’

She looked from Maisie back to the salad, and felt ill. ‘No.’

She could still walk out. All she had to do was make a phone call.

‘Darling, listen to me. Eat; you can’t afford to lose weight.’

‘So I’ll have something later.’ She pulled a note from her purse and placed it beneath the half-empty glass. ‘I have to go.’

She drove straight to the hospital, moved through corridors, took the lift, and walked into the ward her father shared with three other patients.

And faltered as she saw Joshua Petersen had a visitor. Not a friend. None other than Rafael Velez-Aguilera.

Mikayla’s expression became fierce, protective, then changed in an instant as her father turned and caught sight of her.

Rafael watched beneath slightly hooded lids as she crossed quickly to her father’s side, caught each of his hands in hers and leaned forward to brush her lips against one cheek, then the other.

‘You’ve been helping Maisie,’ Joshua Petersen said in a slightly slurred voice. His smile was faintly crooked, and her heart tore at what illness had done to this once proud man. ‘Look who came to visit,’ he continued huskily.

She threw Rafael a glance that was intensely territorial. ‘Yes, so I see.’ If you’ve said anything to upset him… The warning was there, a palpable silent entity.

She was like a lioness defending a helpless cub, Rafael mused. Claws barely sheathed, and ready to spring.

‘I’m sure you’d prefer to be alone,’ he suggested smoothly. He inclined his head toward Joshua Petersen, then repeated the action to Mikayla as he moved to the end of the bed. ‘Goodnight.’

Then he was gone, and Mikayla was left to wonder at his motive.

She stayed for an hour, grateful that her father seemed quite bright, and visiting hours were almost at an end when she slipped from the ward.

She almost expected to see Rafael’s tall frame in the corridor or near the lift-well. But there was no sign of him, and she drove home, mixed two eggs together, added cheese and tomato, made toast, and ate while she checked the next day’s lessons.

CHAPTER THREE

MONDAY proved to be an anticlimax. Mikayla almost expected to see Rafael waiting beside her Mini when she finished school. She drove straight to the hospital, and he wasn’t a surprise visitor. That evening there was no phone call, and she spent another restless night, slept in, and was five minutes late for class.

At ten the office delivered a message for her to call Rafael Velez-Aguilera, and listed a number.

The students scrambled out the door the instant the bell rang for recess, and she collected textbooks, shoved papers into her satchel, then made her way to the pay-phone.

It was a mobile phone number, which ate coins at an alarming rate, and she must have caught him in a meeting for his tone was brief and to the point.

‘Can you make it to my lawyer’s office at four?’

‘This afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can try.’ Her coins ran out, and she replaced the receiver.

She took the bus into the city. It was cheaper than paying astronomical parking fees. It also made her almost fifteen minutes late.

Rafael was already there, and she entered the office, sank into a chair, and accepted a glass of chilled soda.

The lawyer regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You were happy with the independent legal advice?’

Happy wasn’t the right word. ‘His explanation clarified all the relevant clauses.’ A definition which hadn’t differed from his own.

‘The medical results are now available,’ the lawyer continued. ‘And clear.’

They couldn’t be anything else, and she was tempted to offer a flip response. It wasn’t the moment for facetiousness, so she merely inclined her head.

‘Are you agreeable to sign the documentation?’

The trap was closing. She felt like one of King Henry the Eighth’s wives about to face the guillotine.

Mikayla closed her mind to everything else except her father. ‘Yes.’

It was done within minutes. Her signature first, then Rafael, and witnessed by the lawyer.

She had to get out of there. To remain and exchange meaningless pleasantries was beyond her.

‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’m due at the hospital.’

‘I’ll leave with you.’ Rafael unfolded his length, extended his hand to the lawyer, then followed her out past reception.

‘Where is your car?’ Rafael queried as the lift doors closed behind them.

‘At school. I caught a bus in.’

The lift slid to a halt at ground level and she emerged into the foyer.

‘In that case, I’ll drive you to the hospital and we can collect your car afterwards,’ Rafael declared smoothly.

‘There’s no need for you to visit.’ She needed time alone to absorb the enormity of what she’d just done.

‘I’m parked across the street.’

He was so damned imperturbable, she wanted to hit him. ‘No.’

They passed through the circular revolving door onto the pavement. ‘The ink is barely dry, and you want to argue with me?’

There was steel beneath the silk, and she heeded the silent warning. ‘I’d prefer to visit my father alone. I’d also prefer to spend tonight at my flat.’ Dear heaven, tomorrow would come soon enough. ‘I need to pack, clean, notify the landlady.’ Who wouldn’t be pleased at receiving twenty-four hours’ notice, and who would undoubtedly demand rent in lieu.

Rafael regarded her thoughtfully for several long seconds.

She stood her ground. ‘I have no intention of reneging.’

‘I would hope not,’ he inclined with dangerous softness. ‘Be aware I make a ruthless enemy.’

The lights changed, the ‘walk’ sign showed green, and together they crossed the street.

In the car she sat still, and didn’t so much as offer a word during the time it took to reach the school grounds.

Mikayla barely glanced at him as she slipped out of the car. It took brief minutes to unlock the Mini and slide behind the wheel. She made to close the door, only to discover Rafael had followed her and his hand supported the door-frame.

She turned towards him with raised eyebrows. ‘What now?’

‘It might help if you have my residential address.’

She dived a hand into her satchel, retrieved pad and pen, then wrote down the street number and name.

‘I’ll expect you there tomorrow afternoon,’ he drawled, and she discarded pen and pad onto the adjoining seat.

‘After school finishes,’ Mikayla inclined. ‘When I’ve visited my father.’

‘Six,’ Rafael insisted. ‘No later.’

She twisted the key and he closed the door as the engine fired, then she reversed, gained the road and joined the stream of traffic.

It was almost dark when she reached the hospital, and she stayed a while, reluctant to leave Joshua’s bedside.

Visiting hours concluded, she bade her father goodnight and drove home. She’d had nothing to eat, and she fixed herself baked beans on toast, made hot sweet tea, then when she was done she picked up the phone and called the landlady.

She had expected the rent in lieu of notice, what she hadn’t anticipated was the verbal abuse that came with the demand.

‘Take it out of the bond security,’ Mikayla instructed smoothly, knowing too well the landlady would find fault and withhold all of it.

Next, she packed everything she’d brought into the place, then she cleaned, scrubbed and tidied until her arms ached. At midnight she took a shower and fell into bed.

Mikayla woke to heavy rain. An omen? she queried silently as she quickly dressed, and she ate breakfast on the run, aware any minute the landlady would arrive to do battle.

A mild descriptive, Mikayla reflected half an hour later. Say goodbye to the bond security and furniture, the woman had it all sewn up.

It took two trips to load her belongings into the Mini, and she walked out of the flat and didn’t look back.

The umbrella didn’t shield her from the sleeting rain, and she got damp walking from the car park to class.

Mikayla became increasingly tense as the day progressed, and when the final bell went ending class she was as wound up as a tightly coiled spring.

At the hospital she checked with the ward’s nursing station, gave details of her change of address and phone number, then went in to visit Joshua.

There was no change, and her heart bled a little for him.

All day she’d thought of a way to tell him his debt to Rafael Velez-Aguilera had been waived. He didn’t need to know the truth, but he was still an astute man. She couldn’t fool him into believing she’d won the lottery, or somehow managed to find such an amount of money.

In an agony of doubt, she weighed up the benefit of him knowing, or not knowing, and opted to go with a grain of honesty. Truth by omission, she acknowledged cynically.

‘I have some good news,’ Mikayla said gently as she pulled a chair close to his side. She took his hand in hers and soothed the slight agitated movement of his fingers against the bedcovers. ‘I’ve reason to believe Rafael Velez-Aguilera is not going to press charges against you.’

His mouth trembled. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘But the money—’

He need never know. She’d make sure of it. ‘I think it’s going to be possible to work something out.’

‘Is that why he visited me?’

Mikayla took hold of it like a drowning woman. ‘It’s most unlikely he’d have come otherwise.’

‘How?’

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘We’ll talk when I know more about it.’

A nurse came by on her rounds, and within ten minutes the dinner cart arrived.

‘I’ll go,’ Mikayla said quietly. ‘Sleep well, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

It was almost five-thirty when she edged the car out of the hospital grounds and headed towards suburban Woollahra. As she drew close she pulled over to the kerb and checked the street map, pinpointed where she needed to turn, then eased forward and picked up speed.

Her stomach twisted into a painful knot when she sighted the given street name. Old trees bordered each side, their spreading branches showing the green of seasonal spring, and she drove slowly checking numbers until she came to a wide curving driveway protected by large ornate iron gates.

They were closed. A security camera hovered on a tall pillar, and she drew the Mini to a halt, slid out and pressed the electronic button.

Almost immediately the gate mechanism began to release, and by the time she slipped back behind the wheel she was able to drive through.

Immaculate grounds, a beautiful Mediterranean double storied home, cream-plastered exterior, terra cotta and cream tiled roof, large curved windows.

It was elegant, graceful, and she slowed to a halt beneath the tiled portico less than a metre behind Rafael’s Mercedes.

This was it. Her heart began to hammer in her chest as she slid from the car. She was almost at the heavy panelled double doors when one opened and Rafael stood framed in the aperture.

What did she say? Anything would sound banal, and she simply inclined her head, then turned to retrace her steps. ‘My stuff’s in the car.’

He was there as she reached it, and he extracted both suitcases with an ease she could only admire.

‘I’ll bring the rest,’ she indicated. There was just her satchel, and two boxes of books.

Combined, they represented all her possessions.

‘Leave the boxes,’ Rafael instructed. ‘I’ll bring them.’

How did he think they got into the car in the first place? ‘I can manage.’

‘One,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll get the other.’

‘It’s okay.’

She wasn’t even inside the door, and already they were at odds.

‘I wasn’t questioning your ability,’ he drawled. ‘Merely cautioning against injuring your arm.’

The entrance foyer was large, tiled floor, mahogany cabinets placed in strategic positions against the walls. A wide curved ornate balustraded double staircase led to the upper floor and a magnificent crystal chandelier hung suspended from the ceiling. Wall friezes and sconces adorned the walls, together with works of art.

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