Mistress By Contract. HELEN BIANCHIN
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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