Mistress By Contract

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.