Mistress By Contract. HELEN BIANCHIN
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