Mistress By Contract

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.