Mistress By Contract

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?’